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A few days later, Darcy escorted Georgiana up the steps of his aunt’s London townhouse.

He had been looking forward to the watercolour showing and dreading it at the same time.

It would be a chance to see Elizabeth again.

Yet to judge by their last meeting, it was far from certain that she would be pleased to see him.

Forget your foolishness, Darcy. He shook his head. He was present because Aunt Beatrix wished him to be. No thoughts of Elizabeth need intrude.

When they arrived, a little earlier than the event was due to begin, Fitzwilliam wore a mockingly shocked visage. “You surprise me, Darcy! I thought I would need to escort young Georgiana to the festivities today. Will wonders never cease?”

“I would not have missed this,” Darcy replied. He went past his cousin to his aunt and kissed her hand. “Will you please tell your son that I am not a recluse? At least, not yet.”

She laughed. “He always did have a flare for the dramatic. Perhaps he should have gone into a career in the theatre?” she teased.

The countess had a wonderful sense of humour, unlike her older sister, Catherine de Bourgh.

And his mother, God rest her, had been of the same kind as Aunt Beatrix, so generous and kind.

“Ah, my dear Georgiana! I cannot believe my eyes!” Aunt Beatrix exclaimed. She hugged Georgiana as she entered the foyer. “She looks just like your mother, Darcy. Really, she does,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “How are you, my dear? Not too overwhelmed by the city?”

Georgiana gave a slight curtsy, then eyed Darcy. “It is quite boisterous. But it has been very exciting as well,” Georgiana replied softly. “Thank you so much for having us here today for the watercolour showing. Are they all yours?”

Aunt Beatrix laughed and looked up at Darcy, fanning herself.

“Oh, my dear, you flatter me. I would never think of displaying my own work. No, I have a friend — of French parentage — who is very good. Most of the displays are done by her practiced hand. And there are some others that have been contributed by the British Museum. I am a trustee, you know.” She leaned in close.

“But you, of course, should pay close attention to the pieces. I hear you are very accomplished in the art of watercolour. I shall introduce you to Madame Flourine over the course of the afternoon.”

By then, his aunt’s guests were beginning to arrive. Darcy took Georgiana by the hand, slipping it into the crook of his arm so they could walk together through the halls. He had no doubt that Fitzwilliam would remain by the front door until Elizabeth arrived.

He could only wish that Elizabeth was as ready to speak with him as she was to his cousin.

After turning her cold greeting on the evening of the concert over and over in his mind, Darcy had at last come to a conclusion.

Somehow, Elizabeth must have learned of the insult he had given Bingley — and her family.

He would have expected Bingley to keep their falling out confidential, yet perhaps he could not blame him for doing otherwise.

The only thing to do would be to seek her out and apologise — to tell her he was no longer the man who could speak so thoughtlessly and arrogantly about class and consequence.

Ruefully, Darcy wondered if he ever truly had thought that way, or if it had only been the opinions he had so often heard from his most arrogant relatives that had come out that fateful evening.

Regardless, he had to find an opportunity to speak with her in private, to at least attempt to reestablish his good name. He only hoped it could be done.

“Oh, I very much like this one,” Georgiana said, stopping in front of a painting of a fountain. A young woman dressed in a white gown flicked her fingers through the water, looking serene and innocent. It was a beautiful piece.

“What draws you to it?” Darcy asked, genuinely curious to get an artist’s point of view.

“She is free,” Georgiana replied.

Her tone made his head snap up. The answer was as unexpected as it was concerning. “Free?” he asked.

Georgiana did not take her eyes off the painting. “I only wish I could be so free,” she replied softly. “Look at her. She is free of guilt and shame. The expectations of society do not touch her. She is free of the hateful gossip that crouches at her door, ready to ruin her name forever.”

She looked back at the painting. “I wish I could go back and undo all the things I allowed to happen with that man. But I cannot.” Georgiana turned quickly and walked to the next easel, looking at the painting it held with a depth of concentration that seemed to conceal tears.

Darcy let out a long breath. He followed Georgiana through the halls in silence, giving her time to regain her equilibrium. He drew in a quick breath as he saw the woman who had taken over his mind — both day and night.

Elizabeth appeared at the end of a hallway, sunbeams surrounding her as she stood in front of one of the large windows that let out into the garden. She turned and saw him, and his heart skipped a beat as their eyes met.

She did not turn away as soon as she had seen him, but continued to hold his gaze. After a moment, she seemed to come to her senses, and walked away, disappearing into the growing crowd.

Half unthinking, Darcy followed her, making his way through each of the rooms until he found her.

When he caught up with her, she was standing in the salon, studying one of the smaller paintings.

There was no one else in the room. He could not help but thank his lucky stars that he had at least a few moments alone with her. But how to begin?

He approached slowly, undone to his core by her beauty and quiet grace. Elizabeth was so lovely, so unassuming. She wore a simple cotton day dress in a muted sage green, yet he did not think he had ever seen a woman more appealing. She turned when his footsteps gave him away.

“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said with a small bow. Her surprise at seeing him was obvious in her tone. It was not warm, nor was it as cold as it had been at the opera, but something in between. At least it was a slight improvement.

“Miss Bennet. How are you today?” He stood beside her, pretending to look over the piece she had been studying.

“I am well, thank you. And you?” she asked.

“I am also well, thank you.” He allowed a slight pause before he broke the silence. “Do you paint, Miss Bennet?”

“I do not. But I enjoy admiring other’s work. I saw your sister walking among the pieces when I arrived a little while ago. Does she paint?”

His face softened, and he felt the animation rising, as it always did when he discussed his talented sister.

“She does, although I am not sure if watercolour is her favourite medium. Last summer, she designed a very pretty table with an intricate floral design. If I may say so, it was quite extraordinary.” He glanced at Elizabeth’s face, noticing the look of surprise it bore.

Was she surprised at Georgiana’s talent or his enthusiasm?

“I had the table sealed with resin when she was done. Perhaps if you are ever near Pemberley, she might like to show it to you.”

She glanced at him with such surprise that he wondered if he had said the wrong thing. There was nothing for it but to hold his breath and wait for her answer.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth nodded, her heart thudding against her ribcage. Had he really just invited her to Pemberley? She turned and stared at the watercolour piece. “I am unsure if I shall ever make it to the Peak District, but I thank you.”

“Do you like this painting?” he asked after another pause. “Personally, I find it too flighty.”

Elizabeth raised her brows. “I might have known,” she replied with a laugh.

“You seem to be one who would prefer darker subject matters. Perhaps a man riding his horse through a rainstorm? Or a battlefield?” It was odd that she felt comfortable enough to tease him, but the words had flown from her mouth unbidden.

What was she thinking? She had it on good authority from Miss Caroline Bingley that Mr Darcy was not to be teased.

To her surprise, he chuckled softly and shook his head.

“You are right about me, I suppose. I am of the mind that art should not be merely decorative, but should tell a deeper story.” He met her gaze and a shock of some emotion she could not name ran through her.

Could it be excitement? Surely only at the prospect of crossing swords with him.

Mr Darcy licked his lips, a strangely uncertain gesture in so confident a man, and went on. “Just as a woman should not be merely decorative in a drawing room, but should be cherished for her mind and spirit as well.”

Elizabeth blinked slowly. This version of Mr Darcy was not matching up against the picture Mr Wickham had painted. It was an interesting paradox. No — an irresistible one.

“That is an interesting sentiment, especially for a man of your station,” Elizabeth replied.

“It should not be a rare sentiment. Do you think so lowly of your own sex?” he asked.

“I do not. But I should have expected something quite different from you, that is all.”

“Perhaps you do not know me as well as you think you do.”

A flutter assailed her breast, and she started walking. Strangely, she was glad when he followed her. “What do you think of this one, Mr Darcy? Too ethereal for you, I suppose?”

It was a mountain scene, with curling wisps of mist surrounding the looming pine trees.

A lone woman stood at the bottom of the mountain, looking up at the summit as if it were an insurmountable task.

And yet, she seemed to move toward it, as though she were determined to try all the same.

She looked over at Mr Darcy and was pleased that he was studying the piece rather than brushing her off.