Page 51 of Stuck

Leaving Fiona in Priya’s capable hands, we made our way to the underground parking levels.

23

DARCY

“How does it work, having a chauffeur?” Elizabeth asked as we went down in the lift. “Does he sit around all day waiting for you to summon him?”

“I was on my way out. He was already waiting for me.”

Trent did a hell of a lot more than drive me between home and work. As well as managing my whole fleet of cars and drivers for my family and businesses, he organised things for me, from mundane travel logistics to background checks, private investigations, and press management. He was essentially a cross between my private secretary and my fixer.

My guess, though, was that Elizabeth didn’t really care about any of that and had only asked to distract herself. She was growing paler by the moment and winced with every jostle of her hand.

“He’ll have some painkillers in the car.”

“Painkillers would be great. It’s starting to throb.”

Trent was already waiting for us, the engine ticking over, when we exited the lift. And, as promised, he was able to provide Elizabeth with two ibuprofen and a drink to wash them down.

“Would you like me to call Bingley for you?” I asked as we set off.

“No,” she said, almost too quickly. As though realising it, she added, “I already did.”

“Good. Does it still hurt?”

“Yes.” She grinned weakly. “I only just took the pills. They don’t work that quickly.”

I knew that, but I hadn’t wanted to sit here in silence. Plus, the more my adrenaline levels receded and the reality of the situation settled on me, the less I liked the idea of Elizabeth being in pain.

“How did it even happen?” I asked, hoping to distract her from it if I could.

Her wobbly grin widened. “Honestly, I could find a way to injure myself in a padded cell, I’m such a klutz.”

I’d noticed. I didn’t mention how endearing I found it.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve needed stitches,” she admitted. “Or even the second.”

“What happened the other times?”

“The first lot I earned slipping down a muddy embankment. I sliced the back of my arm on a rock. The second was when I decided to make myself the poster girl for the ‘don’t run with scissors’ campaign.”

I raised an eyebrow, and she let out a feeble laugh.

“Got the scar to prove it. My poor parents—it’s no wonder Dad turned to drink, really.”

The car went over a speed bump, and she sucked in her breath and squeezed her eyes closed before blurting, through clenched teeth, “What about you? Bet you’re not a klutz. Can’t see you letting anything injure that temple of a body.”

I nearly swallowed my tongue. What had she meant by that? She hardly looked as though she’d meant to be flirtatious, sitting with her eyes closed, jaw clenched, and hand clutched tightly to her chest. Then what? She objectively thought I was well packaged, and shock had dimmed her inhibitions enough for her to tell me so? That didn’t make knowing she thought it any easier to ignore, despite that being exactly what I had to do.

“I’m not generally clumsy, no,” I told her, my voice coming out gruff with tension. “Most of the injuries I’ve ever incurred have been inflicted by other people.”

She kept her eyes closed. “Oh?”

“A couple of torn ligaments and a dislocation from playing rugby, a concussion from getting thrown off a horse. One scar, courtesy of fighting with my cousin.”

“The one you walked down the aisle?”

“No, this one is hairier, uglier, and a lot more annoying.”