“Fitz!”

Darcy stopped and looked back at her.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” Eliza said, raising her fingers and blowing him a kiss.

He smiled and mimed catching it, pressing it to his lips. Then he closed the door and was gone.

Pausing only long enough to drop her clothes in an untidy heap on the floor, Eliza collapsed across the rose-colored satin coverlet and closed her eyes.

But sleep would not come. Seconds later, she opened her burning eyes again and gazed across the dimly lit room to the alcove. The haunting portrait of Rose Darcy seemed to be questioning her from the shadows.

“Yes, of course I’m falling in love with him,” Eliza said defiantly. “Who in their right mind wouldn’t? And, if it makes any difference, I’d gladly fill that stupid bathtub of yours with rose petals or whipped cream or whatever else turns him on and hurl myself naked into it this second. But do you really think that would be enough to make him fall in love with me?”

As she expected, the enigmatic beauty in the portrait offered no answers to that one.

Flopping angrily onto her stomach, Eliza buried her face in the soft, soft fabric and wondered miserably what she was supposed to do now.

How was she—or anyone, for that matter—supposed to compete with Jane Austen?


Alone for the first time that day, Darcy lay on the bed staring at the vaulted ceiling of his bedroom. When he had begun the story of his meeting with Jane Austen it had been for strictly mercenary reasons: he wanted the letters. He had anticipated that it would be very painful to reveal the details of his experience; but as he lay there trying to rest he was surprised that it was actually a relief to have shared it, and luckily with someone who had not dismissed it out of hand. Eliza believed.

Eliza. He saw her face behind his closed eyelids, remembering the way her hair fell softly to her shoulders. He chuckled to himself; she made him feel good. In fact he had been having sensations since they met that he had been sure would be reserved only for Jane. Sighing, he remembered the thrill and warmth of Eliza’s kiss. It had taken a great effort not to envelop her in his arms and smother her with kisses, burying his face in her beautiful hair.

What had stopped him? Was it the feeling of betrayal, as he was trying to convince himself, or was it the fear of loss? The fear of loving and losing again had made him keep his emotions in check for most of his adult life; Jane had been the only one to unlock his heart, until now. And as with Jane he seemed to have little or no control over his roiling emotions with Eliza and it scared him.

In spite of the tumultuous state of his mind, Darcy drifted into a contented sleep with thoughts of Eliza’s sweet kiss and gentle touch.

Chapter 33

Eliza awoke beneath the satin coverlet in the huge antique bed, with the sunlit portrait of Rose Darcy gazing down at her from its alcove above the copper tub. Glancing over at the small travel clock on her bedside table she discovered that she had slept through the entire morning and well into the afternoon. “Don’t look at me like that,” she told Rose Darcy. “I bet you never got up before noon in your life.”

Drawn by the sounds of voices and hurrying footsteps from the drive below, Eliza arose and went out onto the balcony. Looking down she saw dozens of workers and volunteers, many of them already attired in period costumes, scurrying in and out of the house with armloads of flowers, baskets and chairs.

Farther out on the lawn the luncheon tables and a buffet were set up as they had been the previous day. “Well, it looks like everything’s under control,” Eliza muttered. Feeling helpless and disconnected from reality she went off to the luxuriously appointed bathroom where she deliberately took her time showering and washing her hair.

An hour later Eliza passed through the busy house unnoticed by the small army of servants and helpers making last-minute preparations for the ball. Pausing at the closed doors to the grand ballroom, she pushed them open a crack, hoping to catch a glimpse of Darcy. Instead she saw men standing on tall ladders affixing hundreds of candles to sockets in the chandeliers and wall sconces while others polished the parquet floors or draped snowy linen on dozens of small tables set around the perimeter of the room.

When similar inquisitive forays—into the kitchens and the flower-bedecked gallery where arriving guests would be welcomed upon entering the house—turned up no sign of Darcy, Eliza found the front doors and stepped out into the bright summer sunshine.

She had already crossed the lawn to the buffet table when she realized that the only other diners still at lunch were Harv and Faith Harrington. Brother and sister were sitting together at a table, eating and chatting.

“Wonderful!” she murmured, looking frantically for some other direction to take.

Before Eliza could retreat, though, Harv spotted her and cheerfully waved her down. “Aha! Another of the undead has risen at last. Hi, Eliza.”

“Hi,” she replied, cautiously approaching the pair.

Looking like a cartoon vampire in a way-too-flouncy yellow sundress, Faith pushed her dark wraparound sunglasses up onto her pale forehead and squinted at Eliza through seriously bloodshot eyes.

“Oh, there you are, Eliza!” Faith exclaimed, managing to sound as if she’d just discovered a particularly beloved sorority sister. “Harv was telling me I threatened to murder you in your bed last night, you poor thing.”

“Well, you didn’t specify the exact place…” Letting her hunger overcome her sense of self-preservation, Eliza sidled over to the buffet table and began heaping a plate from a marvelous-looking platter of seafood salad and fresh fruit.

Faith rose stiffly from her seat and walked by, pausing to affectionately squeeze the arm of her archrival. “I don’t remember a thing about last night,” she said, smiling. “Isn’t that awful?”

Eliza made a sour face. “Positively tragic,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

“Well, I absolutely must run now,” Faith exclaimed, ignoring the caustic reply. “The caterer is having another nervous breakdown.”

“Why don’t you give him some of your Prozac?” Eliza suggested under her breath as the blonde flounced away across the lawn in a cloud of filmy petticoats.

Actually, Eliza had briefly considered yelling out the Prozac remark to the loathsome Faith. She was restrained by the ominous sight of a heavy carving knife sticking out of a plump Virginia ham on the table, and had a quick mental flash of the erratic Faith returning to slice up something besides ham.

Turning with her plate Eliza saw that Harv had gotten up and was gallantly pulling out a chair for her. She stomped over to where he stood, slammed her plate onto the table and flopped sullenly into the chair.

“Goodness, you seem a tad overwrought today, Eliza.” Harv’s big blue eyes were twinkling like a department-store Santa Claus.

“Don’t start with me today, Harv,” she warned.

“Let me get you some refreshing tea.” Harv smiled, backing slowly away from her with his hands in the air. He went over to the beverage table and returned with a tall, frosty glass of iced tea for her and a fresh Bloody Mary for himself.

“Where’s Fitz?” she asked, scanning the endless procession of people in and out of the house.

“Off running around somewhere.” Harv waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the stables and lowered himself into the chair beside hers. “I doubt if you’ll see much of him before this evening. He and his committee of helpers will be all over the place all day long, working like the proverbial pack of beavers.”

Eliza began consuming her salad, delicious chunks of cold lobster and avocado steeped in a wonderful vinaigrette dressing. “Should we be doing something to help them?” she asked, looking toward the busy workforce up at the house.

“Us?” Harv was aghast at the mere suggestion that they join in the work. “Good Lord, no! You are an honored guest and I a mere helpless bungler,” he explained. “Our job is to stay out of the way and admire the industry of the others, so they’ll all feel properly appreciated.”

“Harv, I like you.” Eliza found herself laughing in spite of her foul mood.

“Why, thank you, Eliza. I like me, too.”

At that moment a pretty young woman in a long blue gown came walking across the lawn toward them. She was carrying a matte-black high-tech portable phone in one hand.

Harv grinned at the newcomer. “Amanda, my love, you are the perfect vision of antebellum splendor,” he exclaimed. “However, I must tell you that the telephone spoils the effect entirely.”

Amanda, who had obviously weathered previous encounters with Harv, smiled tolerantly at him and addressed Eliza. “Are you Miss Knight?”

Eliza nodded and the pretty young woman handed her the phone. “You have an urgent call,” she said, “from your Aunt Ellen in New York.”

Harv and Amanda looked on with interest as Eliza frowned and put the phone to her ear, unable to imagine who might have tracked her down at Pemberley Farms. For she had deliberately left her mobile phone turned off in her luggage and, as far as she knew, nobody in New York had Darcy’s unlisted number. And she did not have an Aunt Ellen.

“Hello?”

Thelma Klein’s graveled voice rasped harshly in her ear. “Eliza, what the hell’s going on down there?” the gruff researcher demanded. “You said you were going to call me as soon as you’d talked to Darcy. What did he say?”