Page 46 of The Difference of a Darcy
“So I see.” His gaze lingered on her cloak, her boots, her hands. “I would have thought you had found warmer company by now.”
Her pulse quickened. “Sir, I think you mistake me.”
“Oh, I do not think I do,” he said, his smile tightening. “No lady of breeding would be out here unchaperoned after dark. So tell me the truth, sweetheart—how much?”
She recoiled, heat and fury flooding her face. “You are mistaken,” she said again, more sharply. “I am not—”
His expression hardened. “Then what are you? A servant? A tradesman’s girl playing coy?” He stepped closer, his breath thick with brandy. “You would not stand out here if you do not want attention. Perhaps you are waiting for it.”
“Let me go,” she said, but her voice trembled.
He caught her wrist. “No need to pretend.”
“Unhand me!”
Her protest only made him sneer. “Hush. You will wake the neighborhood.”
He tugged at her arm, dragging her a few paces toward the darker side of the street. Panic surged up her throat. She tried to wrench free, but his grip was iron.
“I said let me go!”
He jerked her harder. “You’ll thank me once—”
She screamed.
The sound tore through the quiet street, echoing off the shuttered houses.
The man’s hand clamped over her mouth, but she bit down—hard. He swore, stumbling back, and she twisted away, gasping for air as she let out another shriek.
Then another sound—a door flung open, boot steps pounding against the stone.
“Elizabeth!”
Darcy’s voice.
Relief surged through her chest, too great to speak. She turned toward the sound, and there was Darcy: coat unfastened, hair wind-tossed, face pale with fury.
Her assailant stepped back, eyeing the approaching figure warily.
Darcy was taller, broader, his stride full of purpose. The gentleman’s narrowed gaze flicked over Darcy’s shoulders, his fists, his eyes. He scowled.
“Tch,” the man muttered, shaking out the hand she had bitten. “Keep your woman under better regulation.”
Elizabeth stiffened in outrage, but the stranger had already turned and strode away, muttering to himself as he disappeared into the shadows.
Darcy reached her side. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “No. No, I am only…” She pressed her trembling hands to her midsection. “Startled.”
He exhaled, long and uneven, and then—without waiting—he gathered her into his arms.
She gasped softly against his shoulder, but did not resist. The warmth of him pressed through her cloak and into her skin, thawing the fear that had frozen her limbs. His gloved hand cradled the back of her head as though she were something precious.
“You are safe now,” he murmured into her hair.
She shut her eyes for just a moment.
Then, lifting her face to his coat buttons, she asked, “Were you successful?”
