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The last four-and-twenty hours had been his worst in recent memory.

Fitzwilliam’s entire body ached—Darcy did not strike often, but he hit hard .

He had submitted to a dressing down from his younger sister, endured the dullest card party ever hosted, and had been unable to plant Reggie Withers a facer because he had already thrown one too many punches that day.

Rationally, he knew that Darcy had been only responding to his own goading; he was already aware that he had been paying too much attention to his cousin’s bride-to-be.

Had he not been determined to apologise to him directly after leaving the Pig the outing sounded very dull indeed.

To make matters worse, somehow Aurelia had managed to arrange that his carriage be occupied by Miss Bennet—it might be years before he dared address her less formally—Miss Goddard, and Georgette.

Since the very awkward, very uncomfortable apology he had made that morning to Darcy’s betrothed, he would much rather be on the battlefield than facing her again so soon.

The three of them stared across the carriage at him with eyes so cool he was almost unsurprised when Miss Goddard commanded him to stop the vehicle after barely starting on their way.

“Let the rest go on,” she ordered. “It is too cold a drive for me, after all. I shall be a block of ice within minutes. ”

“For me as well, I find,” Miss Bennet said, suddenly shivering. “If you would be so kind as to stop at once.”

“As you wish.” Fitzwilliam banged on the roof, alerting Saye’s coachman. Georgette, he noticed, appeared completely unsurprised by these sudden attacks of the chills. “Ah, then,” she said. “I shall collect my maid and return shortly. Wait here. Do not move,” she ordered him.

And so he waited, whilst mind and body ached.

Sarah had claimed a megrim—an ailment she had certainly never before endured—to avoid the torture of a carriage ride with whichever gentlemen could not escape the duty of escorting her.

Once she thought everyone gone, she made her way to the library—Evans moping beside her because the other lady’s maids were all sewing and gossiping together in the absence of their mistresses.

Sarah, of course, could not care less if she were accompanied, but Evans was pretending to be a much better chaperon than was usual for her, in imitation of some of the other maids.

The library door burst open.

“Here you are!” Lilly exclaimed. “What are you doing? The carriages are about to leave!”

“Oh! I sent word?—”

“I heard, and your claim to a megrim is, of course, nonsense, as we both know. The numbers have not worked, and I shall be forced to spend an afternoon sitting between Miss Morgan and Miss Barlowe! If you love me at all, you will come at once!”

There was no time to change, but Evans hastily procured a wrap, and Sarah followed Lilly, who was racing down the steps to where a carriage was waiting.

A footman opened its door, and Lilly waved Sarah in—but then slammed it behind her.

Before she had even settled herself, the carriage was off, throwing her back into the seat with a sharp jerk.

It took a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dim interior, but the solitary person seated across from her was neither Miss Barlowe nor Miss Morgan.

“You!” she cried. “How could she?”

Fitzwilliam peered out of the window when the carriage started forward without his expected occupants.

Georgette stood on the step, arms folded, giving him what could only be described as a warning glare.

He glanced back at Miss Bentley. After her initial, dismayed comment, she spoke not a word, only gazing out of the window.

Had her friends tricked her into accompanying him?

Did she hate him, too? She might; had she not warned him he was taking his teasing of Darcy too far?

Why could he not have listened to her? Yet, the situation had been, somehow, like a wood sliver—a constant, gnawing irritant he had been unable to let go—until blood was shed and words exchanged, requiring far longer to heal than any bruises.

“You are the last man in the world Elizabeth would ever marry,” Darcy had accused.

It was only now, after much miserable contemplation, that he could admit the truth of what his heart had actually heard: “You are the last man in the world any truly worthy woman would ever marry.”

Were he Elizabeth’s father, he would do all in his power to see the marriage accomplished quickly, and Darcy’s cautious approach had annoyed him—but why?

What business had it been of his? He had believed himself jealous of Darcy’s wealth, resentful of his ability to marry where he chose, and perhaps he was.

But it was not only that. In addition to owning thousands of acres and untold riches, Darcy possessed a heart bigger than England.

Certainly, Elizabeth had captured the better man.

What did Miss Bentley see when she looked at him—something she was plainly loath to do?

She had allowed him to kiss her; was he so repulsive to her now?

He immediately recalled, however, the feeling that she might have been merely ‘practising’ on him, using him to prepare for a life with another man.

It had inexplicably fired his temper—he had not wanted her kissing anyone at all.

Anyone else , that was. She had not spoken to him since.

And then she had accepted beef-witted Withers as her partner last evening, having not heard his own invitation—or at least pretending she had not.

Maybe she had wanted to avoid him, as she obviously did now?

Well, then. He had better find out how badly he had mucked things up with her, too.

“Are you angry with me?”

She looked at him with that clear, direct gaze so many found disconcerting. Perhaps he had once, as well, but now he rather liked it. She did not simper and hide behind a fan or a twirling parasol. She did not see the ‘earl’s son’. She saw him .

“No,” she answered, finally, turning back to the window.

A wave of fatigue washed over him. For all his practised charm with females, he was no good at this— real feelings, honest expressions, as certainly Miss Bennet could attest. He ought to say nothing further and allow the day to proceed to its tedious conclusion.

But was that not how his foolish anger with Darcy had grown into a foolish row? Because he allowed it to?

He rapped on the roof, stopping the carriage, exited, had a few words with the coachman, and returned to his seat. They proceeded onward.

After several moments, she turned back to him. It was another of the things he liked about her; when she had questions, she asked them.

“Did you change our destination? ”

“Yes. Just over the dale is a pleasure garden, not far from the River Derwent. There is a walk that is truly lovely. It will not be crowded at this time of year.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why did Lady Aurelia not choose this locale, instead of a tea shop?”

“It is not the weather for it. It will likely be cold.” He frowned. “Perhaps too cold. You are not dressed for it.”

She shrugged. “I shall walk faster then, until I am warm. My shoes are practical.” She lifted the hem of her skirt an inch to reveal sturdy half-boots in a bright red leather, and he struggled not to smile.

“There is a path—it is very steep, you may not like it—which leads directly up the edge of High Tor. One can see the entire village of Matlock Bath, which is known for its spa waters.”

For the remaining distance, he talked about the sights of the pleasure park, with its river walks and pretty paths. Gradually, she unbent a bit. By the time the carriage stopped, she had even laughed at a little story he told about punting—and capsizing—on the river.

But while he had managed to set her at ease with his ‘tried and true’ charm, once they were strolling side by side on the river walk, he attempted, again, to set the conversation upon a less familiar, less comfortable path.

“I suppose you heard that Darcy and I fought.”

She stiffened immediately. “Yes. ”

“It was my fault, of course.”

“Of course.”

Well, no attempt at softening his self-accusations here. Not that he had expected her to.

“I am not even sure how it happened—” he began, but she interrupted.

“Are you not? Well, then, allow me to enlighten you.” Her tone was dry.

“Rather than choosing to regulate your feelings and moderate your behaviour, you dwelt upon your resentment and fed upon your annoyance. It happened because you gave yourself permission for it to happen. That is how self-pity and entitlement work together to cause grief and pain in others.”

His jaw clenched, the more familiar anger flooding him. He turned to look at her, but she was not looking at him.

To his surprise, although she had sounded composed, a tear tracked down her cheek, and then another, as she stared, all unseeing, at the path ahead.

“Do not cry,” he whispered. “I am not worth any of your tears.”

“I know,” she said, still calm. “I am crying over Mr Darcy’s split lip. Such an awful blemish to a perfect face.”

He grinned at that, stopping, stepping in front of her. He took her face in his hands, marvelling at the delicacy of her skin. Her eyes were blue, but so dark at their edges as to almost be navy. Unique. Like she was. Another tear escaped.

“Why are you crying?” he asked gently .

“Because…” she took a deep breath, gazing at him, those unique eyes filled with sorrow. “Because…I wanted you to be a better man.”

He had disappointed her. Not just himself, and not just Darcy, and not just Miss Bennet. And the feeling of it…the feeling of bearing her disappointment was…excruciating. He wanted to run from it, not wallow in it by standing here, facing her.

Instead, he dropped his forehead to hers. “I am sorry,” he said.

They stayed that way for a long while. When she moved away at last, he felt bereft.

“I have always prided myself on my rational mind,” Sarah said—panting a little. The trail was steep and rough, and the last place a gentleman would take a lady. She liked that he had brought her up it. “But you confuse me.”

“I confuse myself,” the colonel replied. “Why not you too?”

“Are you in love with Elizabeth?”

He stopped mid-step to look at her, and she wondered if he would be angry with her bold question. But he only shook his head.

“As I recall, you were the first to tell me I was not. Have you ever been stupid, Sarah? Utterly, wrongly, stupid?” It was his first use of her given name, and she was so surprised he even knew it that when he quickly began tramping up the hillside again, he outpaced her and then had to wait for her to catch up.

When she did, he was staring over the valley floor.

“Many women, usually the least appropriate ones, desire a connexion to my family. I am accustomed to being pursued, and not because I am an interesting, handsome fellow. I have grown adept at making it known that they ought to hunt elsewhere. I did so immediately when I met Miss Bennet.”

“I cannot imagine her as a huntress.”

“She was not pursuing me, I soon realised. Just…seeing me, as I was unaccustomed to being seen.”

“You ‘ceded the field’ too soon, then. And gave Mr Darcy the advantage.”

To her surprise, he laughed. “Of course you heard my blustering, since I was determined to make a fool of myself. No, I gave nothing. The story of Darcy’s courtship is his own, and Miss Bennet’s. I was jealous, horribly so. But I have since realised Miss Bennet had little or nothing to do with it.”

Sarah raised a brow. “Jealous of your cousin, then? His wealth, his power?”

“No.” He looked at her directly. “Jealous of deserving a love so precious. He saw her too, you know. I never did. Never truly even looked. When you look at me , what do you see?”

She did not hesitate. “ Cantharis fulva . A handsome species, prevalent in warmer months, often found on the prettiest summer flowers. Remarkable pollinators. More commonly known as red soldier beetles.”

He grinned, and she grinned back. He really was unfairly intelligent. What was more, he understood her, and her sly, eccentric sense of humour.

“You do not yet trust me, and with good reason. But I shall earn your trust, Sarah. You are Chrysoperla rufilabris .”

She gasped, her mouth opening in utter shock. He lightly traced her lips with a single finger; she felt it all the way to her toes. “A lacewing? But…why?”

“Lacewings are capable of coping with a wide variety of conditions, have a high tolerance for the unusual, and are one of the loveliest insects on earth. Like you, Sarah. I see you now.”

Slowly, cautiously, her shock gave way to a secret smile. She took his hand, his rough, calloused hand, and placed it, once again, over her pounding heart. “It only does this for you, you know,” she confided.

And because he understood, he joined his mouth to hers.