Chapter Two
There was a greedy gleam in the viscount’s eyes which did not improve his appearance; nor did his scraggly hair, pointy beard, and large ears do him any favors. About thirty years of age, he was fairly tall and powerfully built, giving him a menacing air.
Despite the cool night air, Elizabeth started perspiring. She cursed her horrid luck. Managing Mr. Collins would be far easier than fending off the viscount.
Viscount Harwood had taken a home in Hertfordshire several months ago.
More recently, he had developed an interest in Elizabeth.
For weeks, he hinted at his desire for a private meeting with her.
Avoiding him was one of her primary reasons for visiting London, but now he was here!
And, unwittingly, she had provided him with the perfect opportunity to see her alone.
Had he discovered her whereabouts, or was it simply a horrible coincidence?
He had a proclivity for “accidentally” touching her, particularly brushing against her breasts or legs. She folded her trembling arms in front of her chest and stepped backward.
She was apprehensive that he planned to make a marriage proposal; it would not be easy for her to say no.
What if he made her an offer now? In the garden’s relative privacy, there was nothing to prevent him.
Merciful heavens! Her heart beat an uneven rhythm, and her palms felt damp inside her gloves.
While Elizabeth had no trouble declining Mr. Collins’s proposal, the viscount was another matter.
He was well known for abusing his horses and had trouble keeping servants in his employ because of his occasional violent temper.
Under other circumstances, Elizabeth would not have hesitated to reject him.
But he held an obligation over her family, making a refusal fraught—to say the least.
“What amazingly good fortune to encounter you here!” The viscount’s smile was acquisitive.
Elizabeth mustered a semblance of a smile. “Your Lordship.” She curtsied. “I was just returning to the ballroom.”
“But you just departed from the ballroom.” He raised an eyebrow.
Elizabeth managed not to wince. What can I say to put him off? “Actually…I am waiting for someone.” He might avoid proposing if he expected witnesses.
The viscount frowned. “Who?”
Yes, who would she be awaiting? And why meet them outside? She would not arrange an assignation with her sister or Lady Sterling, and she was barely acquainted with anyone else at the ball.
Mr. Collins? Ugh.
The dark fury on the viscount’s countenance suggested he supposed her to be meeting a man—in secret.
How inappropriate. What a brilliant idea.
“My…fiancé.” The words escaped her mouth before she really considered them.
The viscount’s head jerked back. “You are engaged? Why did I not know?”
Yes. Why? Unless Elizabeth were betrothed to a footman, her mother would have trumpeted the news to the neighborhood. She looked away from him, holding herself very still. “It is…a sec-secret engagement. H-His family does not approve.”
His expression grew slightly less suspicious. The idea was plausible at least. Most wealthy families would be quite agitated if their son wed a woman with almost no dowry and little social standing.
Her behavior needed to reflect this implausible fantasy.
Well, she had always been skilled at amateur theatricals.
She covered her mouth with a gloved hand.
“Oh! I should not have told you!” She cast her eyes downward as if in shame.
“But I was so amazed to discover you here, it just burst from me! He will be angry.”
The viscount’s lips pressed together. He did not believe her ruse. “What is his name? Perhaps I know the man.”
“I cannot tell you. Please understand, Your Lordship,” She hated how her voice had taken on a shrill note.
The man closed the distance between them, sauntering in an unhurried way. Elizabeth backed up until she collided with a tree trunk.
“I must insist on knowing his name,” he said silkily. “I know all of the ton. I can tell you if his intentions are honorable, or if he is just a rakehell. Your parents would want me to have a care for you and your reputation.” He stalked closer. “Or perhaps this man does not exist.”
There were only a few inches of space between them. His breath was hot on her cheeks. Elizabeth licked dry lips and noticed he followed the movement. If he suspected her of lying to him, he might avenge himself on her family. Why proclaim such a stupid lie?
The French door behind the viscount clattered open, and the light from the house silhouetted a man’s shadow. Someone was exiting the ballroom into the garden.
She could not discern the man’s features and did not know his age. But she was desperate. He could be a scarred, elderly hunchback. Elizabeth slid from around the viscount and ran toward the silhouette. “My dear! At last, you have arrived!”
Goodness! I sound like a heroine in a gothic novel. But Viscount Harwood probably expects women to be overwrought.
Elizabeth threw her arms around the strange man. He was tall, but she hit him with such force that he rocked back from the impact. He held his body rigidly against hers, but he did not push her away. Was that a sign of chivalry or lechery?
Standing on tiptoes, she whispered in the man’s ear, “Please help me escape the viscount!” Hopefully, he was not one of the viscount’s friends.
His posture remained rigid, but he curved one arm around her protectively. Thank heavens! Perhaps she was fortunate enough to find someone who also enjoyed amateur theatricals—or at least possessed a good sense of humor.
Or perhaps not. He frowned at her like a puzzle that needed to be solved.
The man was impeccably clothed. His coat fit like a glove and his waistcoat was embroidered in an intricate pattern with golden thread. His cravat was tied in an complex knot that Elizabeth could not name. Every piece of his wardrobe was pristine. He obviously paid his valet well.
Why would a man this high in the instep be inclined to help her? He might be protecting her out of chivalry, but such a wealthy man might fear a plot of entrapment. Yet, she had no choice but to continue the charade.
“Do not be angry with me, darling!” she said in a carrying voice. “The viscount took me quite by surprise, and I accidentally told him about our secret understanding.”
“Did you?” The man’s voice was deep and a little husky.
He turned his head so that the light from the ballroom fell upon it.
Oh. Fortune had granted her a rather handsome rescuer.
He had dark, wavy hair and regular, patrician features.
His eyes sparkled with intelligence. Not that it mattered.
She could be equally “engaged” to a man with a weak chin or protruding ears, but it did render her attachment more credible.
However, his mien would be more attractive if he did not scowl. Was it provoked by the current situation or was it his customary expression?
“I am sure he will hold our secret in confidence. Will you not, sir?” She turned toward the viscount, showing hopefulness on her face that they both knew was completely unwarranted.
The viscount stalked closer to them, glaring at the man she had embraced. “Darcy? Is what she says true?”
Elizabeth held her breath.
“It is.” The man sounded as if he could not conceive of someone doubting her. “But you understand why it must remain a secret.”
Inwardly, Elizabeth sighed in relief. At least it appeared that her rescuer was not already married.
And now she knew his name was Mr. Darcy.
Or was it Lord Darcy? What if she had importuned a duke?
Somehow, importuning nobility was even more inappropriate.
Elizabeth was suddenly lightheaded. Was this actually happening?
The viscount sneered. “Naturally. She has no connections. Your family would never accept her. Where did you first encounter her?”
Mr. Darcy’s posture somehow became even more proper, an impressive feat indeed. “That is hardly your business, Harwood.” His voice was dismissive. He must indeed be an exceedingly wealthy man or of high rank. It took some audacity to utter such words to a viscount.
Mr. Darcy glanced down at Elizabeth. “We must speak before I am missed.” When the viscount did not move, he gave him a haughty stare. “If you will excuse us.”
The viscount regarded them with a clenched jaw, but her rescuer took Elizabeth’s hand and turned toward the deeper, darker part of the garden.
But before they could take a step, the French doors opened again to expose the silhouette of an older woman.
The Pritchards’ garden was coming to resemble market day in London.
The woman’s voice carried over the garden. “Fitzwilliam!”
***
Only iron control kept Darcy from flinching at the sound of his aunt’s cry. He released his hold on the young woman’s hand and slowly faced his aunt with his coldest stare fixed on his countenance. “Madam?”
Darcy had escaped to the garden to avoid the matchmaking mamas. Apparently, his aunt had followed, assuming he had an assignation. Hah. Irony was thick in the air tonight.
Aunt Catherine drew herself up to her full height, barely leaning on her cane. Her gaze skimmed disdainfully over Darcy and the unknown woman, standing inappropriately close. His aunt’s lips pursed as if she tasted disagreeable medicine.
Then her eyes scraped over the viscount. “Viscount Harwood, I imagine you have someplace else to be.”
The man appeared to consider contradicting her ladyship and decided against it. “Indeed, my lady.” Giving her an elegant bow, Harwood strolled through the French doors into the ballroom.
Thank goodness. This farce hardly needs another witness.
The unnamed woman eased visibly after Harwood’s departure.
She was a puzzle. Her gown was lovely and fashionable, but nothing in her manner suggested a refined lady of the ton.
She did not lower her eyes demurely or regard Darcy with any coyness.
And she carried herself artlessly, without posturing to display her figure to advantage.
Now his aunt viewed her with disdain. “So, this is the chit who entangled you?”
Of course, his aunt had leapt to that conclusion.
The unknown woman’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?” She put her hands on her hips.
The woman must guess that Aunt Catherine was her superior in rank, but she was making no attempt at conciliation.
Darcy’s aunt jabbed the air with her cane. “Who are you, girl? What is your family?”
“Who are you?” the woman responded.
Darcy barely managed to stifle a laugh. His aunt was being intolerably rude—again. But it had probably been years since anyone had dared to protest.
Aunt Catherine peered down her nose. “Why would I tell you?”
The woman shrugged. “You need not, I suppose. In which case, we will remain mutually unidentified.”
Darcy could not prevent his next laugh, provoking a glare from his aunt.
Apparently, his aunt’s need to parade her title took precedence. “I am Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she announced. The woman’s eyebrows rose; she recognized the name. “And that is my nephew you have in your clutches, but you cannot marry him.” She nodded emphatically as if her declaration made it so.
The woman gave Darcy a sly grin. “My goodness, word of our engagement has traveled quickly.”
Darcy pressed his lips together against the threat of completely inappropriate guffaws. How could she joke under these circumstances?
However, fate had provided him with an opportunity that he might as well use to his advantage. He glanced down at the unknown woman. “My aunt surmised my prior attachment. I did not disclose it…darling.”
Curse it all! He needed to know the woman’s name.
“Where did you even meet this—this nobody?” his aunt demanded.
Darcy exchanged a panicked look with the woman. He knew nothing of her. How could he invent a suitable answer?
“At a-a ball,” the woman interjected. “Much like this one.”
Darcy silently commended her inventive mind. It was a plausible enough response. Should I be alarmed at how easily she lied?
“Which ball? Where? When did this betrothal take place?” Aunt Catherine pressed.
But now Darcy was prepared. “I do not know why you should be privy to that information.”
Aunt Catherine ignored him and concentrated all her attention on the woman. “I am not accustomed to being opposed.”
“Perhaps you need more practice,” the woman said sweetly.
“Now would be an excellent time to give us some privacy, Aunt Catherine.” Darcy took a step forward to loom over his shorter aunt.
She stepped back but lifted her chin. “It would be quite improper for you to be alone.”
Darcy was tempted to laugh. Events had already gone as far wrong as they could. Propriety had been abandoned long ago.
Before Darcy could respond, a woman hurried through the French doors. “There you are, Lady Catherine!”
Darcy recognized Lady Margaret Carew, a school fellow of his aunt’s. She continued. “I am quite pleased I found you! Lord Cartwright simply must know how you keep your tenants compliant. He is failing utterly.”
Darcy celebrated. His aunt never missed an opportunity to inform others of what they did wrong. She gathered herself and attempted to put her anger under good regulation. “Oh. Well…if I might be of assistance. I am quite skilled.”
“You should share your wisdom,” Darcy told her, ruthlessly throwing Lord Cartwright to the wolves. “Your methods are indeed unique.” This was true enough; she had already driven off two tenants just this year.
Lady Carew urged Aunt Catherine into the ballroom. “Let us seek him before he departs. I know he is eager to learn your secrets.”
Darcy’s unknown woman watched the two older women dubiously. No doubt she wondered who required secrets for browbeating tenants who were beholden to you for their livelihood.
“Cartwright does not know what he is about….” his aunt said as she walked through the door.
Darcy took the unknown woman’s hand and drew her deeper into the garden.
She shivered. No wonder. She had stood in the cool air in a short-sleeved gown.
Darcy stopped by a small bench and removed his jacket.
“Here, miss.” He handed it to her. She appeared briefly amazed at his consideration but then draped it over her shoulders before sitting on the bench. It was comically large on her.
Darcy rubbed his face. What does one say to a false fiancée? A false fiancée whom one has just met? The etiquette books were silent on the subject, a sorrowful oversight.
Oh no. She buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders shook. She was distraught. She was having hysterics.