Darcy’s heart tightened. She had often heard their hopeful speculations of the future, each one filled with a lightness that felt at once beautiful and fragile. They spoke of belonging within society, of being received, of their brother taking a deeper interest in their lives and securing their place within his world. Darcy knew she ought to temper such expectations, to make them understand that as illegitimate daughters, they were notafforded the same dignity or regard as the earl or other ladies of quality.
Yet she could not bring herself to do it. She could not bear to see that understanding dawn in their eyes, nor the quiet heartbreak that would surely follow. Only Emelia knew the truth of their birth, and even she did not yet seem to grasp the full weight of what it meant.
Jane sighed softly. “Perhaps he is taking her home to meet his family.”
Sarah gasped softly. “Then perhaps they shall marry by the end of the week.”
Darcy smiled faintly at their fanciful imaginings, though her eyes remained upon the page. The quiet domesticity of the moment, so simple and undisturbed, wrapped about her like a gentle reprieve. Then Jane gasped, this time with far greater force than her sister.
“Darcy,” she hissed, turning sharply from the window, her eyes wide with astonishment. “Darcy, he is here. What should we do?”
Darcy’s attention snapped at once from the page. “Who is?—”
“The earl.”
The book slipped from her fingers, falling forgotten upon her lap as heat rushed unbidden to her cheeks. It was too soon. Only last evening, his lips had been upon hers, and she had been carried away by a sensation so consuming it had left her altered. How was she to stand before him now with any semblance of composure? How was she to conceal the knowledge she now possessed—so intimate, so dangerous?
“Are you certain it is Lord Raine?”
“Yes! He has just stepped from the most handsome carriage I have ever seen,” Jane said in a breathless rush. “And he is coming to the door—oh! he is coming inside!”
A flurry of motion followed. Emelia abandoned the pianoforte at once, rising so quickly she almost stumbled. Sarah darted from the window, her small hands already smoothing at her skirts as though she possessed far more composure than she felt.
Jane seized Sarah’s arm. “Come, sit… no, stand… oh, what are we to do?”
“Compose yourselves,” Darcy managed, though her own heart had begun to pound with alarming force.
They gathered upon the sofa with hurried precision, arranging themselves into what they clearly believed to be the very picture of ladylike grace. Their hands were folded neatly, their backs straight, and their expressions carefully schooled into polite serenity, though the barely contained excitement in Jane and Sarah’s eyes betrayed them entirely. Darcy found herself disconcerted by their reaction to a man who might never accept them into his life. Emelia, by contrast, appeared far more composed, and perhaps even a touch wary.
Darcy rose just as the door opened. The butler announced the earl, and then he was there. Lord Raine entered with effortless composure, his presence filling the room in a manner at once commanding and wholly disconcerting. He bowed with effortless elegance, his dark blue eyes unreadable as his gaze passed over them. Darcy resented the way her stomach tightened at the sight of him, a most disquieting warmth spreading through her and deepening the flush already upon her cheeks.
Darcy curtsied with her sisters, though it required no small effort to maintain the calm civility expected of her. She kept her gaze steady, her expression composed, refusing to allow even the smallest flicker of recognition to betray the memories that lingered so vividly in her thoughts.
“My lord,” she said. “Your visit is unexpected.”
“Is that censure I hear, Miss Whitley?” he returned, a hint of something unreadable passing through his gaze before it shifted to include the others. He inclined his head to each of her sisters in turn, his manner impeccably polite.
“No, my lord.” At a loss for what to do or say, she stared at him almost helplessly for a few beats. “We are honored by your visit,” Darcy said, folding her hands before her. “Pray be seated.”
He did not sit. Instead, he regarded them for a moment, as though measuring something unseen.
“I shall not detain you long,” he said. “The weather is most agreeable, and I have come to extend an invitation… to Vauxhall Gardens.”
“To the gardens?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Now?”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “If you are at leisure.”
Darcy glanced at her sisters, who looked as though they might expire from barely contained delight. “We would only require an hour to prepare, my lord.”
He inclined his head. “I shall await you.”
That was all the permission her sisters required. The moment propriety allowed, they swept from the room in a flurry of whispered exclamations and barely restrained excitement, their composure dissolving the instant they crossed the threshold. Without trusting herself to speak further, she inclined her head once more and followed her sisters from the room, her pulse already quickening at what the evening might hold.
Once in her chambers, she rang for a lady’s maid, still unaccustomed to having assistance in dressing, though she could not deny how much more efficiently matters now proceeded. Despite her assurance to the earl that they would be ready within an hour, nearly an hour and a half passed before they were prepared; yet when they returned downstairs, he remained composed, his manner unhurried, as though the delay held no consequence.
Her sisters wore new gowns, their stockings free of holes, their bonnets simple yet elegant. As they stepped outside, they bore a striking resemblance to the very ladies of quality they so often watched from behind the window, their expressions wistful.
A swell of emotion rose in Darcy’s throat as the earl assisted them into the carriage one by one, his attention unflagging, his courtesy effortless. When at last he turned to her and extended his hand, she hesitated only a moment before placing her gloved fingers in his.
