Elizabeth’s eyebrows climbed. “You cannot be serious,” she muttered.
“They are,” whispered a girl nearby. “Last year, they raised seventy pounds. One of the gentlemen proposed to his companion a fortnight later.”
“Good Heavens.”
“Shh!”
The puce waistcoat man waved toward the ribbons at the table. “Each winning lady will be granted a token of favor—a ribbon, which her luncheon companion shall wear for the duration of the meal.”
Elizabeth stared. “They are going to mark them like livestock?”
Jane, mortified, tugged her sleeves down over her wrists as though that might shield her from scandal.
“Oh, come now,” Elizabeth whispered. “Tell me this is not the finest example of genteel madness you have ever seen. They are auctioning bachelors like cuts of lamb, only with more lace.”
“I wonder who they found to agree to such a scheme?” Jane murmured.
The first name was called: Mr. Bertram Leigh.
A slim young man with an unfortunate cowlick stumbled toward the dais. There was applause. The bidding began at two shillings.
“Do you suppose we ought to bid on someone?” Elizabeth asked in an innocent tone.
“No,” Jane hissed. “Lizzy!”
“I hear Mr. Leigh enjoys botany. We could discuss fungi while the world burns.”
“Lizzy.”
But Elizabeth was already scanning the crowd again. It was like watching a village pageant dressed up in satin. She scribbled a quick note in her journal—
Auction Day: Suitable suitors and portable shade. Harps extra.
She had just looked up when she sawhimagain.
The tall one. The solemn one. The one dressed like a walking tombstone.
He was speaking to someone elderly—a lady of commanding presence who appeared to be scolding him affectionately. The exchange ended with a pat to the arm and a shake of the head.
And then he turned slightly, and Elizabeth caught his face in profile.
Sharp nose. Hard mouth. Cheekbones like they were sculpted in winter.
He did not smile. He did not look pleased. He looked like he would rather be anywhere else, including perhaps under the dais with the worms.
Who are you?she wondered.And how soon can you be made to suffer this indignity?
The bell rang again. Another name. Another man paraded forward like a roast duck.
Elizabeth leaned close to Jane. “Ifheends up on that platform, I swear I shall pool our money and bid.”
“You would not dare.”
Elizabeth grinned. “Try me.”
Darcy knew something waswrong the moment the bell rang.
It was a small thing—delicate, almost absurd—but it silenced the crowd more efficiently than any butler with a name olderthan his livery. Even Fitzwilliam paused in mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing toward the dais.
