Better Luck Next Time Pre-Launch

Happy Spring!

If you ask me, Spring is the absolute best time for new books. Why? Because you can hoard them like all the little flowers you want to plant in your garden, and then savor them all summer long. And what a spring it is! As I look around, I see new releases blooming everywhere, and I want to collect them all!

I hope you have room for one more, because I have a yummy one for you. I’ll start with all the checkboxes:

• Elizabeth is not a Bennet
• She’s wealthy, with dazzling connections.
• Darcy is in reduced circumstances
• Lydia does not elope
• Forced Proximity
• Protective Darcy
• Minimal Lady Catherine/Wickham/Collins (but they still cause some problems)
• Banter. Lots. Of. It.

Intrigued yet? Oh, I had SO MUCH FUN writing this one! I am afraid my husband thinks I don’t remember his  name because I got sucked into this story so much. Shame on me, right?

I’ll share a preview with you, but first, I’ll tell you how you can get this book early. It doesn’t launch on Amazon until April 30, and when it does, it WILL be in Kindle Unlimited.

But for a limited time, it is available on my store right now. The link will be pulled down by April 28, so don’t wait if you want to get it that way. I’m offering a 20% off coupon to Austen Variations readers, so you can put this in your cart and use the code: AV20

Okay, that’s the housekeeping out of the way. Now for the fun part. I’m hosting TWO giveaways for this book, since it’s a two-stage launch (goodness, that sounds almost like a NASA rocket). I’m keeping Giveaway #2 a surprise for now, so come back to the next post on April 30 for more info about that.

THIS giveaway is for a gift copy of the ebook. I’ll pull two names (or more, if we get oodles of comments), and winners will be announced by the end of the week.

Ready for the preview? Here we go!

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Preview from Chapter Five

Lady Elizabeth Montclair had never been forcibly removed from a royal residence before.

There was a first time for everything.

The moment the doors shut behind them, she yanked hard against the grip on her arm. “Unhand me!” she snapped, breathless with fury, twisting against the unforgiving hold of the man dragging her down the marble steps of Buckingham House.

He did not let go.

“Keep your voice down,” the man—Darcy, the prince had called him—hissed, barely glancing at her. He moved quickly, efficiently, his grip firm but not cruel. He was not manhandling her, exactly—but neither was he giving her a choice.

Elizabeth dug her heels into the stone. “This is madness—”

“Yes,” he bit out. “It is.”

Her head spun. She had barely had time to process the absurdity of what had just happened. She had been summoned for a second audience, ushered into a room where—instead of the Queen—she found herself face-to-face with the Prince Regent, and then tossed like a parcel into the hands of a man she did not know.

And now she was being marched into the London streets in the dead of night, while her own carriage—her own attendants—were nowhere to be seen.

“Where is my carriage?” she demanded.

“Dismissed,” he said shortly, never breaking stride.

Elizabeth stumbled in shock. “Dismissed? You cannot mean—you had no right to dismiss it!”

“I did not dismiss it,“ he ground out. “Your royal summons did. It probably left as soon as you entered the house.”

Her stomach dropped. She twisted again, trying to wrench free, but he only tightened his grip and half-led, half-dragged her past the iron gates of the palace grounds.

Elizabeth scanned the street wildly. She would find a way to set this right. Someone would mend this nonsense.

“I must speak to the Queen,” she said breathlessly. “Or the duchess—yes, the duchess will—”

Darcy suddenly stopped short, whirling toward her so fast she nearly collided with his chest. She gasped, startled, and staggered back a step.

His dark eyes burned with frustration. “The Prince Regent,” he enunciated slowly, “has issued a command.”

Elizabeth’s breath came fast and unsteady. “Then I shall appeal to my father! He will—”

“Your father,” he cut in, “can know nothing of this.”

Elizabeth’s hands curled into fists. “Then I shall tell him!”

Darcy exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Lady Elizabeth, you do not seem to comprehend the nature of what has happened.”

“I comprehend quite well,” she retorted, lifting her chin defiantly. “You are abducting me—”

“I am saving your life.”

She froze. That certainly sounded melodramatic.

Darcy did not look like a man prone to histrionics. It must be a joke!

And yet, there was no jest in his voice. Only tightly contained anger.

Only a warning.

A cold shiver trickled down her spine. Somewhere in the distance, a carriage rumbled down the street, and the faint sound of London’s evening revelers drifted in from the squares.

Elizabeth swallowed. She could not stay here arguing. She had no carriage. No escort. And whether she liked it or not—this strange, impossible man was the only thing standing between her and the darkened city.

She took a shaky breath, forcing her voice steady. “And where,” she asked, lifting her chin once more, “do you propose to take me?”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. He exhaled slowly, as though only now realizing he had no answer.

Elizabeth’s heart pounded. For the first time since she had entered that royal room—since her world had been so unceremoniously upended—she saw something in him besides frustration. She saw uncertainty.

He had no plan.

Lord help them both.

Darcy was furious.

Not just irritated. Not merely inconvenienced.

Livid—shaking and speechless and seeing a reddish haze around all his eyes took in.

The night air was thick with damp and coal smoke, the sounds of late-evening revelers drifting from the squares. The streets gleamed beneath the gas lamps, reflecting the flicker of carriage lanterns and the slosh of horse hooves through the filth of the road.

And here he was—standing in the middle of it with an infuriatingly stubborn heiress, no plan, and the single most absurd command he had ever received. His jaw ached from clenching it too tightly.

The Prince had given him nothing.

No details. No leads. No clue how he was supposed to find whatever was missing from this case.

And now—now—he was saddled with a witness who was not only entirely useless, but also an absolute menace to his already limited patience in every possible way.

The lady had not stopped talking. She had twisted, argued, and stared daggers into his very soul as though he were the one responsible for her predicament.

He was not! By her own admission, she had strayed from her companions and been in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was not his doing!

He had spent the last ten years carving out a life of solitude and competence. He had learned to be quick-witted, sharp, decisive—he had navigated London’s most dangerous circles and survived.

And yet—

And yet…

Somehow, this woman had rendered him incapable of remembering which way was north.

She was pacing beside him now, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though she were freezing, even in the heavy cloak she wore. Her breath came fast, her eyes wild with barely restrained outrage.

And blast it all—he could not think a single coherent thought with her standing there looking as though she might set something on fire at any moment.

He had to get them off the street. Darcy’s hands curled into fists, his mind working rapidly.

He could not take her to Albany.

He could not take her to any reputable household where she might be recognized.

Which left… nothing.

No, not nothing.

A terrible idea.

An idea that would make his skin crawl, his pride wither, and his temper snap. But it would have to do.

Darcy exhaled sharply, lifting his hand to hail a carriage. One rattled toward them almost instantly, the driver leaning forward with an eager expression.

“Where to, sir?”

Darcy hesitated. Just for a single, fatal second.

Because the moment the words left his lips, he knew he would regret them.

“…Take us to cheap lodgings. In Southwark.”

The driver grinned, tipping his hat. “Aye, sir.”

Darcy turned back just in time to see Lady Elizabeth stare at him in sheer horror.

“Southwark?“ she repeated, as though she had never heard the word before.

Darcy ignored her. Instead, he opened the carriage door, placed a firm hand against her back, and—as gently as his patience allowed—guided her inside.

Then, before she could argue further, he followed her in, shut the door, and let the carriage plunge into the London night.

“This is entirely unnecessary,” Elizabeth said for the third time, her arms folded tightly as the carriage rattled through the darkened streets of London.

Darcy said nothing.

The man had barely looked at her since forcing her into the carriage, his expression set in stone, his posture stiff as he watched the city blur past the filthy glass window.

Elizabeth scowled.

“I need only send word to someone,” she insisted. “Lady Charlotte would take me in—her mother is a duchess, for heaven’s sake, do you truly think—”

“No.”

Elizabeth gasped, affronted. “No?”

He dragged a hand over his face, clearly suppressing his temper. “You still do not comprehend,” he muttered. “You cannot go anywhere you are known!”

Her lips parted in protest. “That is—”

“You were seen, Lady Elizabeth! Your life is now nearly forfeit! And for some unknown reason, the prince wishes to keep you alive, so the places you might have gone before are no longer options.”

“But how could anyone know who I—”

“It would be the work of a moment to identify a woman as striking as you!” he cut in, dark eyes flashing in the dim carriage. “Are you truly so naïve that you think the questions have not already been asked and answered? Everyone within five miles of London can identify the Marquess of Ashwick’s daughter!”

Elizabeth’s mouth snapped shut. Then, she blinked. “You think me striking?”

“Heaven help me.” He covered his eyes and groaned out a heavy sigh. “And now that I am stuck with you, I cannot even go back to my own flat for a change of clothing! What the devil am I to do with a spoilt, contrary, ignorant—”

“I will have you know, I speak Latin, French, German, and Portuguese. I am better with figures than most gentlemen, I can argue Plato and Socrates, I play chess and whist—”

“And you are also a liar,” Darcy growled. “Or seriously deluded about your own abilities, which is worse.”

Elizabeth curled her lip and huffed, crossing her arms and turning her gaze toward the window.

The streets had changed. They were no longer in Mayfair or St. James’s—no longer among the grand terraces and townhouses she recognized.

These streets were narrow, winding, with buildings pressed close together, their second stories jutting out over the road. The people they passed were roughly dressed, the inn signs dirtied with soot, the air heavy with the smell of stale ale, damp wood, and unwashed bodies.

Elizabeth stiffened. “Where, in the name of all that is holy are we?”

Darcy did not answer.

A moment later, the carriage jerked to a halt. The driver twisted in his seat and called down to them. “Lodgings, sir.”

Elizabeth’s stomach sank.

Darcy opened the door, stepped down without hesitation, and held out his hand.

She did not take it.

Instead, she stared at the crooked sign swinging over the door of a dingy, low-roofed inn, its windows thick with grime, the doorway uneven.

Her breath came fast. “You expect me to—”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “Out.”

Elizabeth’s teeth chattered as they stepped inside.

The common room was dimly lit, the walls stained with tobacco smoke and splattered ale. A few patrons sat at rough wooden tables, hunched over their drinks, casting furtive glances at the newcomers.

Darcy paid them no mind. He strode toward the counter, where a bored-looking innkeeper wiped a tankard with a rag that looked dirtier than the floorboards.

Elizabeth wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself.

This was indecent.

This was unacceptable.

“I need a room,” Darcy said, tossing a coin onto the counter.

The innkeeper squinted at it, then at Darcy… then at her. “One?”

Darcy exhaled slowly. “One.”

Elizabeth’s head snapped toward him.

“One?“ she hissed in horrified disbelief.

Darcy turned to her, his jaw tight. “Yes,” he said shortly.

The innkeeper dropped a key on the counter and pointed. “Upstairs. Second door.”

Mr. Darcy sighed and took the key. “Thank you.”

Elizabeth’s face burned. “You cannot mean to—”

He placed a firm hand against the small of her back and steered her toward the stairs.

She bristled. “Do not put your hands on me!”

“I assure you, my lady,” he muttered darkly, “it is not my preference, either.”

She gasped in fresh outrage.

There was no kindly maid waiting with a lantern, no polite footman to guide them. Just a narrow, uneven staircase, a creaking banister, and Darcy push-dragging her up the steps before she could gather herself enough to scream.

The room was small, cold, and utterly wretched. A narrow bed, a rickety table, a single window with a threadbare curtain. It smelled of old wood, damp wool, and the ghost of tobacco smoke.

Elizabeth whirled toward him, seething. “You mean to leave me here alone?”

Darcy closed the door behind them, exhaling heavily and bolting the door. “No.”

She reeled back. “Then—”

Darcy shrugged off his overcoat.

Elizabeth’s heart dropped into her feet, and her back pressed against the wall. “What,” she demanded, voice high and sharp, “are you doing?”

Darcy tossed the coat onto the back of the chair, utterly ignoring her distress.

Elizabeth’s heart pounded.

She had heard of men like him—men who thought they could take what they wanted—

“I will scream!” she warned.

Darcy let out an exhausted breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “For the love of—” He turned toward her, exasperation burning in his dark eyes. “We are in Southwark! I cannot very well put you in a room alone like a fine lady with no attendant.”

Elizabeth’s mouth parted. “Then you mean—”

“To make you appear as anything but a fine lady,“ he cut in.

A terrible silence stretched between them.

Darcy lifted his chin, eyes flashing in warning. “We must either appear as man and wife, or—” His jaw worked, and he fell into a stubborn mute glare.

“Or?” she prompted with suspicion.

“Or, the more likely supposition, as a man and his mistress.”

Elizabeth recoiled. She opened her mouth—then snapped it shut.

Then opened it again.

Then—

Her breath hitched, and she whirled toward the door. “No. Absolutely not.”

Darcy caught her wrist before she could reach for the handle. “Would you rather be seen as an heiress eloping with her amour?”

Elizabeth gaped.

He stalked close and lowered his mouth to her ear, his breath creating little tickles in the hair at her temple. “Because that is the only other conclusion they will draw! And the more you are seen, the more they get a look at your fine gown or hear your noble protests, that is precisely the conclusion that will be drawn.”

She yanked her arm free. “You would be the last man in the world I would elope with!”

Darcy’s expression did not change. “The feeling,” he said dryly, “is mutual.”

“At least we agree on something!”

“You do not understand. A man and his mistress—that is so common as to be de rigueur. These establishments would hardly exist without such custom. But a noble heiress, dragged to a shabby rooming house by night? Particularly one who sounds like the veriest snob and keeps raising her voice in protest? That, my dear Elizabeth, is rather suspect.”

She straightened. “That is Lady Elizabeth to you, you cretin.”

“Not here, it is not, and you had best accustom yourself to somewhat less genuflection than you are acquainted with. A protesting heiress draws attention. That innkeeper below cares nothing for your virtue, but he likes coin well enough, particularly in the form of a reward given by a grateful father. If he hears a scuffle, the sounds of an outraged young lady, and pieces together your looks with your snobbish manner of speaking—why, there will be a constable below within an hour.”

“Perfect!”

“Not if you like breathing,” he shot back. “The same men with the power to execute a scapegoat for murdering a Prime Minister would think nothing of making an annoying heiress ‘vanish.’”

She blinked. And she hated how small her voice sounded when it finally emerged. “Then… what do I do?”

Darcy turned, crossing the small room to glance out the window.

Elizabeth huffed. He was always looking at something. Always watching, always calculating. As if he were some cloaked figure in those novels Charlotte read! It was most vexing.

She folded her arms tightly. “And what,“ she asked, voice clipped, “are you looking for now?”

Darcy did not turn. Instead, he reached for the curtain.

And closed it.

Darcy lifted the edge of the curtain once more to steal another glance out the window, his body tense, his thoughts racing.

Elizabeth—Lady Elizabeth—stood silent behind him, a miracle in itself. Her question still hung in the air.

“Then… what do I do?”

A fair question.

One he was hardly prepared to answer.

Outside, the street was dimly lit, the glow of a nearby lantern illuminating puddles in the uneven road. A few figures lingered, dark shapes moving through the fog. He could not tell whether they were drunken revelers, pickpockets, or something worse.

The room was small, suffocating, the walls too thin, the locks too flimsy for his liking. But it would do for now. His breath fogged against the windowpane. Behind him, he heard the rustle of skirts, a huff of frustration.

“Are you always this brooding?”

“I prefer ‘thoughtful,’” he said dryly.

She huffed again. “I asked you a question. You seem so determined to control this situation—so tell me. What do I do?”

He turned, leaning against the sill. His gaze met hers, and for the first time that evening, she was not glaring at him in open defiance.

She was waiting.

She was frightened.

And something in that look made his chest shatter.

He exhaled slowly. “You behave,” he said. “You do not draw attention to yourself. You speak as little as possible.”

Elizabeth’s brows lifted. “I am not a silent person.”

“So I gathered.” Darcy folded his arms. “I have done what I can to keep suspicions away, but I assure you, it would not take much for you to ruin it.”

She squared her shoulders. “I do not make a habit of ruining things.”

“The past hour would suggest otherwise.”

She glowered. “Only because you are impossible.”

He pushed off the windowsill. “You are tired. You may take the bed.”

Elizabeth blinked in surprise. “That thing?”

“I will take the chair.”

She glanced at the chair and shivered visibly—a sentiment he shared, for it looked even more worn and rickety than the bed. Darcy was not terribly inclined to allow his clothing to touch it, but he suspected the bed was, in actuality… the worse of the two.

“You expect me to believe you would sit there all night?”

“I have endured worse.”

She pressed her lips together, hesitated, then wrinkled her nose slightly.

“Well,” she muttered, shifting her weight. “I can only imagine what that bed must be like.”

Darcy could hardly blame her disgust. He grabbed his overcoat from the chair, strode over to the bed, and threw it over the bedding. “There. Try not to expire.”

Elizabeth blinked. Then scowled.

Darcy turned away before she could find another reason to complain, brushing past her toward the chair.

“You do not look like a man accustomed to discomfort,” she muttered.

Darcy huffed a humorless laugh. “You,” he murmured, lowering himself stiffly into the chair, “do not look like a woman accustomed to patience.”

Her mouth fell open, but instead of speaking she just waited… and finally closed it with a deep glare that would have shot ice into his bones, were he not already so blasted weary.

Darcy sat down with finality, stretching his legs out before him, his body exhausted but his mind still racing.

She muttered something about arrogant, impossible men, but at last—at long, long last—

She did not argue. She even gingerly stretched out on top of his coat on the bed.

Darcy let his head fall back against the chair.

He had no idea how the devil he was going to get through the night.

Darcy had spent nights in some miserable conditions before.

He had slept in a damp prison cell, disguised as a common pickpocket. He had spent an entire week in a filthy tavern in Liverpool, pretending to be an out-of-work dockhand, while gathering intelligence on a smuggling ring. He had lain on rooftops in the freezing cold, waiting to intercept a courier carrying treasonous letters.

And yet—somehow—

This chair was worse.

The legs wobbled if he shifted even slightly. The seat was too narrow. The back angled just enough to make it impossible to rest his head comfortably.

And the company?

The most trying of all.

A frustrated sigh drifted from the bed. Darcy rolled his head to the side, cracking open an eye.

Elizabeth—Lady Elizabeth—was not asleep.

Not for lack of trying, clearly. She had turned onto one side, then the other. She had pushed back the overcoat, then pulled it up again. She had lain on top of it, under it, and inside it, touching every surface of the thing so that he would never get her perfume out of it. She had huffed, sighed, growled under her breath, and shifted so many times that he had lost count.

Darcy sighed, rubbing his forehead. “What,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded, “is the matter now?”

She flopped onto her back, glaring at the ceiling. “This bed,“ she hissed. “Is an insult to the word ‘bed’.”

Darcy huffed a low laugh, more breath than sound. “Welcome,” he murmured, voice heavy with exhaustion, “to disreputable lodgings.”

A long silence followed.

Then—softly— “This is the worst night of my life.”

Darcy snorted, cracking open one eye. “Then you have been extraordinarily fortunate.”

Elizabeth made a rude noise, yanking the sleeve of his overcoat higher over her chest.

Another stretch of silence.

Darcy exhaled, tilting his head back, letting his eyes fall closed. For a single, fleeting second, he thought she had finally given up.

Then— “Why are you looking out the window all the time?”

Darcy’s eyes snapped open. She had been watching him? He shifted, slowly rolling his head back toward her.

Elizabeth lay still, her face half-hidden in the dim glow of the dying firelight. Her gaze was sharp, keen, waiting for an answer.

He considered his words. “I… do not take unnecessary risks.”

Elizabeth scoffed, rolling onto her side, tucking her hands under his overcoat. “Well,” she muttered. “You are doing a poor job of that.”

Darcy sighed, closing his eyes again.

Tomorrow.

He would deal with her tomorrow.

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You can get Better Luck Next Time today, or wait for April 30! Either way, happy reading!

-Alix