Page 51 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

The book came without ceremony, though the weight of it, both literal and otherwise, settled heavily upon her.

Elizabeth paced the drawing room while her mother and Jane focused on their work baskets. She had received it from Hill, who said, “A loan for you, Miss Elizabeth. From Mr Darcy.” The name sent her pulse tripping.

Her mother sniffed. “I hardly think a book a thing of value. Even from Mr Darcy.”

And yet, he values it enough to entrust it to me.

“Go, go. You are nothing but a distraction, what with all your pacing and moping. Leave us.”

Elizabeth kissed her mother’s cheek and tripped up the stairs.

She sat upon the cushioned window seat in her bedchamber, the journal in her lap and traced its worn leather. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled leather, aged paper, fresh ink, and something else—mystery? Anticipation? She knew not.

Curiosity warred with reluctance. What did he expect? That a book, however, treasured, could sway me?

She exhaled sharply. No. Enough. If he meant this as a challenge, I will accept it and best him at his own game.

Elizabeth turned the first page. A gentleman’s first duty is to those he loves.

She frowned. It was not the romantic entreaty she had expected. Indeed, it was more a guiding principle—succinct, clear, and commanding.

Had Mr Darcy needed such instruction? Had he not been raised in privilege, his path of duty laid before him like a well-worn road?

And yet, its quiet authority refused to release her. A gentleman’s duty.

Her father had never lectured on duty; he had lived it. She once thought him more scholar than sentinel—until the fall. Until she lay still in the field, the chaff clinging to her dress, and Jane’s cries piercing the air.

He had been at her bedside, drawn and quiet. “No more, Lizzy,” he had said, smoothing her hair. “I will not lose you.” And he had not.

From that day, his duty was no longer abstract. It had been her.

He had fought battles that could not be seen.

He had ensured her safety, protected her from whispers, from the fear that had gripped their household in the months after her accident.

When her mother had fretted about prospects, when the physician had murmured about lasting effects , her father had stood firm and held their world together.

A gentleman’s first duty is to those he loves.

The passage spoke of a gentleman’s obligations—love intertwined with duty. Her father at her bedside, her hand in his. Had Mr Darcy ever known such a duty? Had he ever felt a love so deep that it became a vow? Her father had.

Was this what Mr Darcy meant to convey? That duty was not merely an expectation but a choice—a promise made in the quiet hours with no audience to laud the gesture?

She traced the words with her fingertips. A gentleman’s first duty is to those he loves.

Her father had known this truth before she had ever read it. Had Mr Darcy? Had she?

She turned the page. Strength is not in never falling but rising every time you do. Her heart clenched. How many times had she fallen?

She shut her eyes against the memory of the assembly—the sting of Mr Darcy’s slight—the cutting glance. But that was not all.

She had watched him later—walking beside Jane. Listening to her. Smiling. Not coldly. Not distantly. Gentle. Attentive. And she—she had felt something twist within her. Not quite anger. Not grief. Jealousy.

She had told herself it was concern. That she only meant to protect Jane. But it had been something else. She had wanted his regard. Not his notice but his esteem. And when it had turned, however briefly, towards Jane, it had stung. Had she let that envy fester into certainty?

A sudden restlessness filled her. She stood, clutched the book against her chest, and paced the length of her chamber. She would not entertain the idea that she had misjudged him. And herself, as well.

And yet, she returned to the window seat and resumed reading.

Page Three: The world is full of painted smiles—look beyond them.

She pressed her lips together. Had she not lived among such smiles her entire life? Had she not seen men flatter and women preen, all under the guise of civility?

Miss Bingley. Mr Bingley.

Mr Wickham had unsettled her; his aire tinged with something false.

Mr Darcy had given her no such footing. He had insulted her. And she had condemned him outright. An unease crept into her chest.

She turned the page. Allow her to sketch your character.

Elizabeth stilled. The phrasing struck something deep within her. Sketch. As in outline. As in capture.

Had Mr Darcy wished her to see him as he was rather than how he appeared? Had she even been willing to do so?

Page Five: Do not hesitate. The brevity of it sent a chill through her.

What did it mean? That she should act with conviction?

Should she trust what she saw rather than what she presumed?

She had hesitated before. She had waited for some sign—some assurance that what she saw in a man was true. And she had been wrong.

Page Six: Look at her. With your heart. Her breath caught. It was the first passage that struck her as intimate rather than instructive. Did Mr Darcy see her this way?

The room felt smaller. Warmer. As though she had stepped too close to a flame.

She turned the page. The words on the previous pages had been deliberate, layered with meaning. They demanded she look, decipher, and reflect. Yet this was different.

A single, silent offering. The outline of a hand. By its sheer size, a man’s hand.

Drawn with precision. Dark ink, smooth and measured, each stroke executed with purpose. Not careless, not impulsive, but traced with intent.

Did he mean for her to place her hand against it? To compare? To feel?

She had studied him before, his movements, expressions, his words. But this was something different. This was him , not through spoken pride or rigid propriety, but through the quiet vulnerability of an outstretched hand. Her fingers traced the page, just shy of touching the ink.

A simple gesture—one that spoke volumes. Had he intended this as a request? A plea? A challenge?

Elizabeth swallowed. If she placed her hand atop his, what then? Would she find a connection? Or would it only remind her of all the ways they were misaligned?

Before doubt could speak, she placed her palm against his. Her breath caught at the unspoken connection, the weight of the moment an illumination.

This was not an invitation to possess or forgive. It was a gesture that spoke more than words ever could. A bridge. A chance for her to look beyond painted smiles, missteps, and assumptions.

She closed the book and pressed it to her lap, fingers tight around the leather binding. Mr Darcy had given her his words. And he had given her his hand.

But was she ready to take it? She flipped through the rest of the book, but the pages were empty. She held the book upside down, the cover flaps in each hand. She shook the pages like a fan.

A sliver of parchment fell out. She unrolled it.

I have traced my hand. If you place yours atop it, we will have met halfway.

It was Mr Darcy’s hand. She turned back to that page. The outline was bold.

Elizabeth raised her own, hesitated, and then pressed it atop his. A perfect fit.

She inhaled shakily. For the first time, she saw not the gentleman of wealth or pride but the man who had extended his hand. She looked down at the journal, at his traced offering beneath her touch. Does he expect me to understand? Do I?

Darcy had not asked for her affection. He had not even asked for her forgiveness. In that moment, she comprehended him, not as others had spoken of him nor as she had once presumed. And she understood, at last, what it truly meant to sketch a man’s character .