Page 1 of More Than You Know (The Love Conquers Pride #3)

August 1807, Yorkshire

F itzwilliam Darcy did not know how far he walked, watching the sky shift from a soft pink to brilliant amber and finally to a bright, clear blue. The Yorkshire moors stretched endlessly before him, bathed in the golden light of early morning, and a delicate mist hovered over the heather-clad hills. Approaching the river that separated the local village from the untamed countryside, he breathed in the earthy scent of damp grass and distant wildflowers—a faint promise of the warmth the day would bring. The gentle rush of water moving over the rocky riverbed offered a soothing cadence, and for a fleeting moment, the tension he carried seemed to ease slightly from his shoulders.

His uncle meant well; that much was certain. Since his father’s death some six months prior, Lord Matlock had proved himself to be a steadfast pillar of strength, guiding Darcy through the labyrinthine responsibilities of his estate’s management. But more importantly, he had become a true confidant—an unexpected ally in the most personal of matters.

Darcy’s cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, had been no less constant. Fitzwilliam, with his irreverent humour and his calm, steady presence was as close as any brother could be, and there was no one Darcy would rather have by his side on this journey north.

Yet, however grateful he was for their unwavering support, his uncle’s constant vigilance and his cousin’s overbearing solicitude bore down on him, tightening like an invisible restraint.

Staring out at the horizon, he exhaled deeply, the breath leaving his body in a long, weary sigh. Within a fortnight they would reach their destination, and he would learn his fate—whether he would be granted a chance at an ordinary existence or condemned to an uncertain future. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, one that had little to do with the lingering morning chill.

A sudden sound—the sharp snap of a twig perhaps—wrenched Darcy from his thoughts; his head lifted, his gaze alert as he surveyed the silent terrain.

It was only then that he realized how far he had wandered, well beyond the village’s borders.

And more unsettling still, he was no longer alone.

The girl was on the opposite bank, following the curve of the river. Darcy paused, his eyes narrowing as he took in the solitary figure moving briskly in his direction. The distance between them was such that he was unable to make out her features, but he could discern that she was young, perhaps no more than sixteen or seventeen years of age. Her gown, a simple sprigged muslin, rippled softly as she walked, and her bonnet dangled from one hand, swaying in rhythm with her steady gait. She moved with quiet confidence, seemingly absorbed in her own thoughts, her face tilted slightly towards the sky, as if savouring the morning sun. He tore his gaze away, scanning the area for any sign of a companion, but the countryside lay silent and deserted. No distant figure appeared along the winding path, nor did any sound suggest the approach of any other company.

The girl was alone.

Darcy continued to move in her direction, and when their paths aligned, he stopped, calling out across the rush of the river.

“Pray, excuse me, madam. Might I be of some assistance?”

At the sound of his voice, the girl halted, her posture stiffening at the unexpected address. A flash of wariness sparked in her eyes, and for a moment, he thought she would not answer. But then she smiled, calling back to him, “No, sir, I thank you. I am quite well.”

With that said, she dipped into a shallow curtsey before resuming her steps—though her pace had quickened. Watching her retreat, Darcy frowned, unsettled. From her speech and mode of dress, it was evident that the young lady was gently bred, yet she roamed the countryside at daybreak, unaccompanied. Such behaviour was far from customary.

A moment of hesitation gripped him, but it swiftly gave way to a decision. Adjusting his stride, Darcy veered from his original path, matching her pace on the opposing bank.

It did not take long for the girl to notice his altered course. She regarded him with a quizzical expression, yet she neither spoke nor lengthened her stride, as though weighing his intentions.

They proceeded in this silent parallel for several moments until, at last, she stopped, turning to face him with a lifted brow.

“Forgive me, sir, but were you not walking the opposite way?”

“I was,” Darcy answered, his tone clipped.

“I see.” Her head tilted ever so slightly. “And, may I be so bold as to ask why you have decided to change direction?”

Darcy straightened, instinctively drawing himself to his full height. “I should think that would be obvious,” he replied, his voice cool. “I am offering you my protection. You should not be out walking alone in such a desolate area. Any number of hidden dangers might befall a young lady in such a circumstance.”

To Darcy’s astonishment, the girl gave a light, incredulous laugh. “And how am I to know that you are not one of those hidden dangers?”

Darcy sucked in a breath, offended at such a slight. “I assure you, madam, I pose no threat to you. I simply could not, in good conscience, leave you to walk on unaccompanied. I am bound, as a gentleman, to attend you.”

The girl regarded him for a moment, as though weighing his words. At last, she gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Very well. As you wish.”

And so, they walked—divided by the river, the faint burbling of the water filling the silence between them.

The girl’s steps were light, her gown brushing the tops of the grasses along the bank, while Darcy maintained his measured pace, glancing now and again across the flowing water to observe her progress.

In time, the river narrowed, its steady current settling into the quiet meander of a gentle stream. Pausing her strides, the young lady called out, asking whether there was a place ahead where she might cross the water.

Darcy tilted his head but answered evenly, “I believe there is a bridge about half a mile upstream.”

She nodded in acknowledgement and continued onwards, her steps sure and unhurried.

They walked until the bridge gradually came into view, rising over the stream below.

As they reached it, Darcy slowed his steps, watching as the girl began to cross. The soft tap of her half-boots echoed faintly on the smooth surface. When she reached the centre of the structure—mere yards from where he stood—she suddenly startled, her gaze locking on something in the near distance.

“Oh!” she cried, and without another word, she lifted her skirts and broke into a run.

Darcy blinked, momentarily taken aback. His eyes followed the line of her vision, settling on a patch of vivid colour among the grasses—a wide expanse of purple wildflowers swaying in the breeze.

Recovering himself, Darcy exhaled slowly, and after a brief hesitation, he began to follow in the direction of the blooms.

When he reached her, she had already sunk to her knees amidst the sea of wildflowers, her bonnet carelessly discarded in the grass. She leaned forwards with an air of reverence, her fingers grazing the tops of the delicate blossoms.

“Are they not glorious?” she murmured. “They look like perfect little pincushions! I have never seen them in such abundance in Hertfordshire.”

Hertfordshire, Darcy mused, silently observing her. So, the young lady came from the south.

“Indeed?” he replied, stepping forwards to better examine the amethyst blooms. “They are devil’s-bit—a flowering plant of the scabious family. They thrive in damp soil, so I am not surprised to see them flourishing along the riverbank.”

She tilted her head to regard him, and under the weight of her steady gaze, Darcy could feel a surge of heat rising along his jaw.

“Devil’s-bit?” she repeated, a faint smile playing upon her lips. “What an unfortunate name for something so lovely.”

“If you would prefer the Latin,” he replied seriously, “its scientific name is Succisa pratensis. The common appellation derives from the shape of its roots. They appear truncated, as though bitten off—a misfortune legend ascribes to the devil himself.”

For a moment, she merely blinked up at him, and Darcy inwardly winced, feeling foolish for going on in such a pompous manner. But then her lips curved into a bright, unrestrained smile, and he was startled by the strange stirring within his chest.

“Goodness, you certainly know a great deal about flowers,” she teased lightly.

Darcy, unsure how to respond, watched as she reached into the hidden folds of her gown and withdrew a small penknife.

“Wait!” he blurted, surprising himself with the vehemence in his tone. “I neglected to mention a most important detail—the blooms are poisonous to the touch.”

She recoiled instantly, eyes widening in alarm, and a rich chuckle escaped his throat.

“Forgive me,” he said at once, though a smile still pulled at the corners of his mouth. “That was badly done. I was only teasing. The flowers are perfectly harmless, I assure you.”

Her frown deepened, but Darcy crouched down and, with deliberate ease, snapped one of the stems, running his thumb along the cluster of tiny petals.

“See? You have nothing to fear. In truth,” he continued, “plants in the scabious family have been used for centuries to treat ailments of the skin. So these blossoms are far more likely to heal than to harm.”

He rose and extended the flower in her direction. She hesitated only briefly before accepting it with a crooked smile.

“Well then, I shall have to hold on to this one,” she said archly, twirling the stem between her fingers.

For a lingering moment, they simply stood there, the quiet hum of the countryside surrounding them. But soon, a flicker of awareness crossed her features, and she glanced towards the horizon, where the sun had climbed higher in the sky.

“Oh! It is later than I thought,” she exclaimed, hastily gathering her discarded bonnet. “I must go. If my relations wake to find me missing, they will worry.”

She lifted her skirts and set off towards the footbridge at a brisk pace. Instinctively, Darcy followed, lengthening his stride. Noticing his intent, she flushed delicately.

“You need not trouble yourself. I am bound only for the inn across the square.”

She inclined her chin in the direction of the nearby village, now visible beyond the trees. Darcy followed her gaze before nodding his agreement. The girl resumed her measured pace, and Darcy hesitated before calling out impulsively, “Wait! Will you walk this way again tomorrow?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he could feel his cheeks heating at the boldness of his question, but the girl merely looked back at him with a guileless expression.

“I may,” she answered simply, “if the weather holds.”

And with that, she offered him a fleeting, luminous smile before her steps carried her across the bridge and out of sight.

That night, Darcy scarcely slept. But, for once, it was not his own troubles that caused his restiveness. His mind was consumed by the enigmatic young lady he had encountered along the riverbank. Her image lingered in his thoughts—the way the morning light had caught the loose tendrils of her hair, the bright curiosity in her eyes, the lilting tone of her laughter. There was an unstudied ease about her, a liveliness so genuine that it unsettled him.

In truth, he could not recall the last time anyone—be it lady or gentleman—had so thoroughly captivated his attention. He, who prided himself on his restraint and discernment, had behaved with uncharacteristic familiarity. What had possessed him to speak in such an open, sportive manner? And worse, what reckless impulse had driven him to arrange another assignation? The very idea was beyond reason!

Was he not the same man who had cautioned her against walking alone in such a remote place? Then, in the next breath, he had encouraged her to do precisely that. It was madness!

He turned restlessly on the thin mattress, the bedsheets twisting around his body as if to ensnare him in his own folly.

And yet—he could not bring himself to regret his boldness. Not when the promise of seeing her again stirred something within him, something he could not even name. The lady—a virtual stranger—had sparked an almost visceral need to know her better, to unravel the mystery of her bright, knowing eyes and easy smile.

But what if she did not come? The thought gnawed at him, causing him a moment of utter panic. He did not even know her name. If she failed to appear, would he be able to find her again in this unfamiliar corner of Yorkshire? How could he explain his need to seek her out when he did not understand it himself?

Darcy exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. It was senseless to dwell on such things, and yet sleep would not come. His thoughts circled endlessly, an uneasy blend of anticipation and dread. He had risked too much already, and still, the thought of returning to that quiet stretch of moorland and finding it empty distressed him in a way he could not describe.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted into a restless slumber, his mind haunted by the fleeting image of a young woman’s smile and the uncertain promise of tomorrow.

Darcy was out of his bed before the clock struck six. They had not arranged a specific time to meet, and he could not bear the thought of missing her.

As he strode through the pale morning light, his mind raced with troubling thoughts. Not only had he encouraged the young lady to walk out alone, he had practically insisted upon it. The very idea unsettled him. How would he ever forgive himself if harm should befall her as a result of his recklessness?

The cool morning air was sharp against his skin when Darcy took up his post near the footbridge. He paced restlessly along the river’s edge, scanning the near distance for any sign of her. Minutes stretched interminably, until at last, a movement captured his attention. Finally, the girl approached.

“Good morning,” he called when she had drawn close enough to hear him.

Her lips immediately curved into a bright smile, and Darcy felt an unexpected warmth bloom inside his chest, as though some long-dormant part of him had quietly awakened.

“Good morning,” she replied, dipping into a graceful curtsey.

Darcy inwardly recoiled, realizing he had neglected to offer the same courtesy. He hastily bowed, mortified by the lapse.

Recovering himself, he inclined his head, gesturing towards the path ahead. “If you are not opposed,” he began, “I thought we might walk in this direction today. I passed a thicket full of blackberries that looked ripe for the picking.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her features, but after a moment she nodded her agreement, and they set off together.

“I had not expected to come upon you so soon,” she remarked lightly as they walked. “When we met yesterday, it was at least a mile downriver.”

Darcy inclined his head, acknowledging the truth of her observation; but he could hardly admit that he had arrived in the village nearly an hour ago and had spent the intervening time pacing the path between the river and the inn.

“I thought it prudent to wait near the bridge,” he answered. “I did not wish for you to venture too far on your own.”

A low laugh escaped her lips. “Ah yes, I had forgotten that you frown on young ladies scampering about the countryside unchaperoned.”

Darcy’s mouth tightened at her teasing tone, but he did not reply.

They walked on in amicable silence, the rhythmic crunch of dirt beneath their boots blending with the gentle rustle of the breeze through the wild grasses. Darcy’s thoughts churned, but his watchful gaze remained attentive to the terrain.

He was just about to point out the blackberries in the distance when he noticed the young lady’s steps had begun to veer towards the edge of the water.

“Miss—!” Darcy stopped abruptly, realizing he knew not what to call her.

She turned to him, waiting, and he coughed lightly into his fist. “There is moss along the riverbank. It is slick, so pray, be cautious.”

She nodded, glancing down and stepping carefully around it. “Thank you, sir. That might have been unfortunate.”

They walked on in the direction of the bushes for some moments before Darcy stopped, looking back at her.

“Forgive me for shouting earlier, but I realized that I had no proper way to address you. I still do not know your name.”

A slow, serene smile spread across her face, her eyes glinting with quiet mischief.

“No,” she agreed, “that is true. As I do not know yours.”

She turned to resume their walk, but Darcy called after her, “I beg your pardon, but if we are to continue in one another’s company, I believe I must know what name I may use.”

She stopped, one brow arching in silent defiance, and Darcy exhaled in quiet frustration.

“Very well,” he said at last. “If you will not tell me your name, then I shall be forced to invent one for you.”

The girl gazed back at him as Darcy glanced about for inspiration. At length, his eyes settled on the slow trickle of water by their side, and he turned back to her triumphantly.

“I shall call you Miss Rivers.”

Her laughter, light and musical, rang out, and he found himself oddly arrested by the sound.

“ That is hardly a river, sir,” she said, playfulness evident in her tone. “Why, it is scarcely more than a stream.”

“Yes,” he conceded, “but Miss Stream lacks a certain elegance, do you not think?”

She laughed again, the sound so genuine that it made his chest tighten.

“Very well. You may call me Miss Rivers if it pleases you. And what shall I call you?”

Darcy hesitated. He had been the one to request an introduction, but now he realized the risk of revealing his true identity. The name Darcy was well-known in polite society, and his Christian name, Fitzwilliam, no less so.

His gaze drifted towards the horizon as he considered inventing a name—perhaps something as simple as Stone or Meadows. Yet when his eyes met hers once more, he found himself giving her a very different answer from the one he had intended.

“You may call me William,” he said quietly.

Her eyes widened in response, a light flush creeping into her cheeks. Clearly, she was well aware of the impropriety of being asked to address him in such a way, but after a pause, her usual composure returned, and she smiled.

“Well then, William , perhaps you might lend me your handkerchief. It would be a shame not to collect at least some of those berries before the birds have their feast.”

Darcy chuckled, withdrawing his handkerchief and offering it to her with a formal bow, and they approached the briars at a lively pace.

For Darcy, the next hour passed in a contented haze. They moved among the brambles, plucking ripe berries and speaking of everything and nothing. Darcy could scarcely recall a time when he had felt so unencumbered, so free from the cares that had long rested upon his mind.

At last, the sun had risen a fair way into the sky, and they found themselves back at the footbridge. The girl turned to him, offering a polite curtsey before setting off for the village beyond.

“Miss Rivers,” Darcy called after her, “will you walk again tomorrow?”

She paused, turning to look back at him, a gentle frown furrowing her brow.

“I am not certain,” she answered slowly. “We leave tomorrow.”

The words struck him with unexpected force, a knot immediately forming in the pit of his stomach. He had nearly forgotten that he and his relations were also meant to resume their journey.

“Before you go, then,” he called, more urgently than he intended. “I can meet you at the usual time.”

She hesitated, then offered a small smile.

“I cannot promise anything,” she called back to him, “but I shall try.”

And with that, she turned and retraced her steps, vanishing from view.

That night, exhaustion weighed heavily upon Darcy, dragging him into the deepest slumber he had known in weeks. No restless turning, no dark thoughts to plague his mind—only the comforting stillness of oblivion.

He awoke to the sweet trill of birdsong, the golden light of morning stretched leisurely across the floorboards of his chambers. He rolled onto his side before his eyes snapped open, and for one disorienting moment, he could not comprehend the hour. Then the dreadful realization struck—the sun stood high in the sky.

“God above!” he called out in a choked whisper, flinging aside the bedclothes.

Panic clawed at him as he stumbled towards the washstand. He had overslept—on the one morning he could not afford to do so.

Without thought for his appearance, he tugged on his clothes, scarcely bothering to fasten his cravat properly. Snatching up his coat, Darcy tore from the room, his footfalls echoing sharply along the narrow corridor. His lungs burned as he raced across the grass, his strides eating up the distance to the river.

His heart thundered in his chest, each beat louder than the last. How long had she waited? Or worse—had she gone already? The footbridge loomed ahead, still frustratingly distant. His breath came in ragged gasps as he scoured the opposite bank.

Then he saw her.

A solitary figure, moving along the water’s edge. Relief crashed over him, nearly buckling his knees.

“Miss Rivers!” he bellowed, but the wind and the river’s steady rush swallowed his shouts.

Heedless of his new Hessians, he strode into the swirling shallows. Ice-cold water surged over his boots, soaking through to his stockings. The swift current dragged against his legs as he pressed on, struggling to maintain his footing. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called out to her again, his voice desperate and raw.

The figure stilled. Slowly, she turned, her head tilting in surprise as her eyes searched for the source of the sound.

He knew the moment she saw him, as her posture instantly straightened. “William!” she called, lifting her skirts as she approached him at a run. “Forgive me—I waited as long as I could.”

“No, the fault is mine,” Darcy managed. “I meant to be here over an hour ago.”

Scrambling up the rocky embankment, he came to an abrupt halt before her. His heart raced, the words he wished to say tangled on his tongue.

For a moment, they just stood there, rooted in place.

“I am so sorry,” she said at length. “I must go. I am already late.”

Darcy gave a rigid nod, a knot tightening at the back of his throat.

Then, without warning, she reached out, pressing her palm gently to his chest, just over his heart. Her touch sent a thunderbolt racing through his body.

“Goodbye, William.”

She turned away, moving towards the village at an accelerated pace. Several moments passed before panic seized him. “Wait!” The word tore from him, raw and urgent. “Will you not tell me your name?”

She hesitated before turning to face him. Then she smiled, calling out in a strong clear voice.

“Jane. My name is Jane.”

And then she was gone.