“Lady Anne, I am George Darcy. My late wife was your cousin.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You—”
“I heard what he said.” His voice was quiet but resolute. “You cannot do this. I will not allow it.”
“I have no choice,” she whispered, desperation etched in every line of her face.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “You do. But we must act quickly.”
She stared at him, confused.
“You will pretend,” he said. “And I will take his place.”
“I—I do not understand—”
But the footfalls were already coming down the hall.
“Trust me—you are much safer with me than him,” he said, and placed his hat on a side table before opening the door and peeking out. Upon spying a young marquis walking their way, he said, “It is a trap, my lord. A compromise. Do not come in.”
The man gawked, then immediately turned on his heel and sped the other way. George waited until he heard footfalls coming once more, only this time it was a large group.It’s now or never, he thought.
He pulled the door closed, then crossed the room to the young lady. “My apologies for the liberty, my dear.”
Before she could respond, he leaned down and kissed her, pulling at his clothing as he did so.
A moment later, the door burst open.
Several lords spilled in, followed by Bartemius, and—bringing up the rear—the Prince Regent himself, looking flushed and excited.
And then they all stopped dead.
Anne stood in the middle of the room, disheveled and panting. George stood nearby, cravat askew, one sleeve torn.
“Mr. Darcy?” the Prince said in astonishment.
Bartemius went pale. “What—what is this?”
Anne began to cry again—real tears, this time, and not from fear.
“I—he—he—”
George stepped forward. “I will take responsibility,” he said evenly. “Lady Anne has been compromised. There is no need to question her further. I shall marry her.”
There was a stunned silence.
The Prince, red-faced and blinking furiously, looked back and forth between them. For a moment, silence stretched—until he let out a bark of laughter that echoed across the marble floor.
“Ha! Well done, Darcy!” he roared, slapping a meaty palm against his thigh. “By God, I always knew you were a man who preferred to do the compromising himself. Saves the girl the effort of pretending, eh?”
He winked broadly, then made a lewd gesture that drew bawdy laughter from the cluster of titled men nearby. One of them—Lord Pemberstone, half-soused and eager to impress—chortled, “Hear, hear! Take notes, gentlemen. Darcy has just saved the poor girl from the trouble of tearing her own gown.”
Another snorted, “At this rate, the only thing she’ll need to rip is his cravat!”
The laughter grew louder, more raucous, until the Prince himself wheezed with amusement and declared, “He may nothave my girth, but I daresay our dear George has the appetite! Come, Darcy, give us a wink if the lady's worth the scandal!”
George Darcy did not move.
He stood ramrod straight, his expression carved from stone, as though the mockery was being hurled not at him, but at a statue erected in his image. He felt the young woman beside him trembling and took half a step forward, shielding her from their view.
