Page 19 of More Than You Know (The Love Conquers Pride #3)

Chapter Eighteen

E lizabeth awoke on the morning of Christmas Eve to the muted glow of sunlight filtering through the curtains of her bedchamber at Pemberley. The fire in the hearth had burned low but still cast a gentle warmth that wrapped around her like the counterpanes piled high upon her bed. She stretched beneath the covers, savouring the comfort and security.

As the memories of the previous day crept back into her mind, Elizabeth rolled over, gazing at the embers glowing in the grate. What a day it had been. She, Mr Darcy, and her uncle Harper had returned to the house to find it in a state of uproar. Mr Bingley and her uncle Gardiner had already donned their greatcoats and were preparing to set out on horseback, joined by half a dozen of Mr Darcy’s footmen, to search for them. The look of relief on their faces when they saw her step inside, safe and unharmed, had been nearly enough to bring tears to her eyes.

And then there had been the astonishment—followed quickly by joy—when Mrs Gardiner noticed her brother. Dr Harper had been swept into the cheerful embrace of the family gathering, and Elizabeth had been swiftly bundled off to her chambers with orders to rest and recover.

She could still feel the luxurious heat of the bath water that had been promptly brought up, easing the chill from her bones and washing away the remnants of her ordeal. Afterwards, she had spent the day nestled in her bed under a mountain of blankets, comforted by the fire and the steady stream of visitors who rarely left her side. Jane, her aunt, and even Miss Darcy had taken turns sitting beside her bed, pressing cups of tea into her hands and bringing her hot broth and porridge until she protested that she could eat no more.

But it was in the quiet moments, when her visitors had retreated and left her alone with her thoughts, that Elizabeth truly began to comprehend everything she had learned at the dower house. Mr Darcy’s confession, his fears, and his relentless determination to shield his sister—it all fell into place like pieces of a scattered puzzle. Behaviours she had once found peculiar, even frustrating, now made perfect sense in light of what he had shared.

She thought back to the Meryton assembly, where his unwillingness to stand up with Jane—and his general reluctance to dance—had provoked widespread offence. How he had spent the evening at the periphery of the room, lingering in shadowed corners or gazing out of darkened windows, as though the light and noise were somehow unbearable.

By his own admission, he avoided social gatherings whenever possible, and when obliged to attend, he never danced. His preference for walking rather than riding, unless necessity dictated otherwise, had once seemed an oddity in a gentleman of his station. But now, she understood.

Then there were the subtler details—those she had observed without considering their significance. She had never seen him partake of more than a sip of wine, much less the stronger spirits most gentlemen favoured. His aversion to sitting too near a roaring fire. His rigid self-control, his unshakable reserve, the way he deflected attention in a crowded room—all bespoke a man deeply attuned to his own limitations and determined to avoid anything that might test them.

How often had she heard others remark on his aloofness, his absence from society, his apparent disdain for all but his closest confidants? Yet now, with the truth laid bare, she saw it for what it was: Pemberley was more than his ancestral home—it was his refuge. Within its walls, he found the solitude he craved, the company of trusted companions like Mr Walsh and Colonel Fitzwilliam, and the freedom to live without the relentless scrutiny of society’s expectations.

And then there were his episodes—those moments when his body betrayed him—which struck most often in times of great strain or heightened emotion. The death of his mother. The pressure of university exams. The torment of watching his father’s final illness, followed by the crushing weight of managing a vast estate alone. Even the storm that had driven him into the woods in search of her—exacerbated by the firelight in the dower house—had likely precipitated yesterday’s attack.

His reserve, his pride, even his perceived indifference—all seemed to be born not from arrogance but from a deep-rooted vulnerability and an implacable need to shield himself from the judgment of the world.

As these revelations settled upon her, Elizabeth felt her heart clench with an ache she could not quite name.

In the short time she had known Mr Darcy, she had come to admire his strength—his unflinching sense of duty, his loyalty to his family, his unwavering principles. But now she saw that his fortitude ran deeper still. Every measured action, every carefully weighed decision, was a testament to his courage. He had spent half a lifetime waging a quiet, unseen battle against his own body, carrying a burden few could begin to comprehend. And yet, through it all, he had persevered—not for himself, but for those he loved.

A wave of humility washed over her. How hasty she had been to judge him, to assume arrogance where there was only pain, to mistake restraint for indifference. She thought of the way he had carried himself as he spoke at the dower house, his voice steady even as he recounted the most vulnerable moments of his life. He had not sought compassion. He had not asked for understanding. Yet, as she sat in the stillness of her room, Elizabeth resolved to give him both.

It was Christmas Eve, and if this was to be Mr Darcy’s last festive season at Pemberley, she intended to do everything in her power to make it one he would not soon forget.

Darcy stepped into the entrance hall, shrugging off the winter chill as a rush of warmth washed over him. Outside, the wind still howled across the grounds, carrying with it the sting of ice and snow, but within the house, all was calm. He had just handed his greatcoat off to a waiting footman when his attention was caught by the unexpected sight before him. Garlands of fresh greenery adorned the balustrades, their dark leaves gleaming in the golden light of the chandelier. The air was tinged with the crisp scent of pine and holly, mingling with the faint trace of beeswax polish. He stood motionless for a moment, taking in the scene before him with measured thought. He had not given Hastings or Reynolds any directives regarding the decorating of the space, and it was unlike either of them to take such an initiative without his explicit instruction. The hall, though striking in its festivity, seemed suddenly unfamiliar—Pemberley shaped by a hand other than his own.

A burst of laughter rang out from deeper within the house, prompting Darcy to follow the sound to the library doors. There, he paused at the threshold, momentarily taken aback by the sight before him. The expansive room, with its towering shelves of leather-bound volumes, was bathed in the amber light of late afternoon, the warmth of a fire crackling cheerfully in the hearth. Furniture had been pushed aside, and Elizabeth Bennet and her sister Jane knelt upon the Persian rug, their hands weaving ivy and holly into wreaths, their laps littered with sprigs of fir and laurel. Beside them sat Georgiana, her delicate fingers fumbling slightly as she attempted to secure a wayward branch of yew into a garland. Scattered around them were a multitude of ribbons in deep crimson and forest green, a pair of pruning shears, and an array of freshly cut greenery. A small basket of scarlet berries rested beside Elizabeth, and as he watched, she deftly secured a spray of them to her work, her eyes bright with merriment. Shifting his gaze back to his sister, he noted the rosiness of her cheeks and the gentle smile that played upon her lips, though her eyes remained fixed upon her task.

For a long moment, he just stood, transfixed by the tableau before him, but then Elizabeth turned, catching him out. Her smile seemed to falter slightly when their eyes met, but when she spoke, it was with her usual good humour.

“Ah, Mr Darcy! I hope you do not mind that we have transformed your library into our workshop for the afternoon.”

Stepping farther into the room, he once again surveyed the scene before saying slowly, “Not at all, but…I do not understand. Where did all this come from?”

Georgiana instantly stood, hurrying to meet him, her voice spilling forth in a breathless rush, “From the grounds, of course! Well, except for the ribbons. Those came from the attics. It was all Elizabeth’s idea! To decorate the house, I mean. Mr Bingley and Dr Harper helped us to cut everything down, and Mr Hastings sent two footmen to assist with carrying it all home.”

Darcy blinked back at her. To say that he had never seen his usually reticent sister this exuberant would be an understatement, and for a moment, he was at a loss for words.

Apparently, he was silent too long, for as he watched, Georgiana’s face fell, and her cheeks grew pale. “You are not angry, are you?” she asked in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

“No, not at all,” he replied at once. “Forgive me for my reserve. I was merely surprised…and concerned that all you young ladies might have been out so long in the cold, but especially you, Miss Elizabeth, after your adventure yesterday morning,” he added, turning in her direction.

Elizabeth flushed slightly at his words, but when she looked up at him, her eyes were bright.

“Oh, I am well recovered, I assure you. And it was done for the good of Pemberley, after all. Even the grandest of houses deserves a touch of festive cheer, do you not agree?”

Despite his best intentions, Darcy smiled back at her.

“Well then, I suppose I shall leave you to it.” Taking a few tentative steps towards the door, he then turned to enquire after the remainder of the party.

“My aunt was helping us for a time,” Elizabeth replied, “but she has gone up to rest. I believe you will find the gentlemen in the billiards room. That is, unless you would care to assist us in our work?” Turning to his sister, she continued in a playful tone, “Georgiana, do you not think your brother would make an excellent hand at securing these ribbons?”

“Indeed,” his sister answered, her cheeks dimpling with evident delight, “and he is tall enough to help us hang the garlands in the places we cannot reach.”

Darcy’s lips quirked, though he made a show of considering her words. “Very well,” he said, already beginning to remove his coat. “I cannot promise my creations will meet such exacting standards, but as my sister so kindly pointed out, I do have the advantage of height on my side. Now, tell me, where are we to place these wreaths?”

Once the remainder of the greenery had been hung, everyone retired to their respective chambers for some much-needed rest and to ready themselves for dinner and the evening’s festivities.

While the Christmas feast would take place the following day, Cook had still managed to prepare a meal that included hearty dishes of roasted venison and beef and a variety of savoury pies, which were served alongside a spiced wassail punch and mulled wine to warm everyone’s spirits.

Afterwards, they retired to the drawing room, which had taken on a festive air. A fire blazed in the marble hearth, while candles were lit throughout the space, casting a cheerful glow. But it was their earlier handiwork that truly completed the alteration: evergreen garlands adorned nearly every surface, while wreaths studded with bright red berries hung over the mantelpiece, and the air was scented with pine, mingled with the heady aromas of baking spices wafting up from the kitchens below.

Georgiana and Elizabeth took turns at the instrument, and they all sang carols. After some time, Mrs Reynolds came in with several footmen carrying silver trays laden with coffee, tea, mulled wine, and chocolate as well as small cakes and biscuits, roasted chestnuts, and candied and fresh fruits, and they all ate and made merry.

Next there were parlour games, including Hunt the Slipper , charades, and a lively round of Snapdragon , which Elizabeth easily won.

Afterwards, they all settled around the dwindling fire, and Dr Harper—who had a sonorous baritone—read aloud from William Cowper and Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Now, as the evening drew to a close, Darcy stood near the hearth, his glass of port untouched, surveying the room. The evening had been a joyful one—laughter and lively conversation weaving through the space as the group gathered to celebrate. Even Georgiana, typically reserved in company, had seemed unusually at ease, her soft laughter ringing out more than once.

Yet for all the warmth of the gathering, Darcy’s thoughts continually led him back to Elizabeth. Since their return to the house late yesterday morning, they had not shared a moment alone, and the absence of any private conversation weighed on him more than he cared to admit. Although she had displayed her usual cheerful demeanour, effortlessly charming those around her, he could not shake the feeling that she was avoiding him. Her glances had been fleeting, her attention carefully fixed elsewhere whenever he drew near.

So, when she deliberately approached, his heart quickened, though he schooled his features into calm composure. She stopped a few paces away, her posture poised yet her expression unreadable.

“Mr Darcy, I wonder whether I might solicit your opinion on a book I recently finished?” she asked lightly, but her dark eyes carried a weight of earnestness that belied her casual tone.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice low but steady. “If I may be of service, I am happy to oblige.”

Elizabeth nodded, before sharing the title. “It is a novel Georgiana was kind enough to lend me when we first arrived. I found it most engaging. Have you read it?”

“I regret to say I have not,” Darcy admitted, his curiosity piqued by the subtle shift in her tone. To his surprise, her smile deepened.

“Well then, I think you must,” she said, her gaze holding his for a fleeting moment. “I believe you would find it extremely enlightening.”

Darcy inclined his head, murmuring his thanks, but before he could say more, Elizabeth offered him a brief curtsey and turned away, moving across the room to rejoin her aunt. He watched her retreat, her words lingering in his mind with curious persistence. What had she meant? And why had the encounter felt so charged with unspoken significance?

When, not long afterwards, the clock struck midnight, happy tidings were exchanged, yawns were stifled, and cups were set aside as everyone made their way towards the staircase to retire for the evening.

Darcy, who had stayed behind to speak to his butler, noticed upon reaching the landing that Elizabeth hung back from the others, and she called to him as he reached the upper floor.

“Mr Darcy,” she said once he was within earshot, “might I ask you to wait just a moment? I should like to fetch that book for you.”

Still slightly puzzled by her sudden interest in sharing the novel, Darcy agreed. He waited at the top of the stairs as she retreated down the guest corridor, reappearing moments later with three handsome leather volumes in hand.

He accepted them with a slight bow, once again wishing her a good evening before turning in the direction of his chambers. But he had not gone more than a handful of steps before he heard Elizabeth call out quietly behind him.

“I particularly think you will enjoy chapter twenty, in the first volume,” she said, her eyes holding his for the briefest of moments.

Darcy blinked but quickly recovered his composure. “Thank you, Miss Elizabeth. I shall look forward to reading it.”

She nodded, her expression indecipherable, and then added softly, “Good night, Mr Darcy. And a very happy Christmas.”

Before he could respond, she turned and disappeared down the passageway, leaving him standing there with the books in his hands.

Once Elizabeth had vanished from sight, Darcy made his way to his chambers with all due haste, chasing away his valet and perching on the edge of one of the armchairs in his sitting room as he turned the pages of the first volume with clumsy fingers.

Chapter twenty… When he finally landed on the appropriate page, he began eagerly skimming the text. He could not fathom why Elizabeth had taken such pains to mention that particular part to him, but he knew her well enough to believe that if she had done so, it was not by chance.

It was not until he was four pages into the chapter that he noticed something written faintly in pencil in the righthand margin. Holding the book closer to the fire, he could just decipher the faint inscription: Two o’clock. Darcy’s gaze quickly shifted to the sentence beside it: I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.

His heart began to pound, the steady rhythm quickening as the implications of the note took shape. The library, at two. This morning, he had to presume… His eyes darted to the clock on the mantelpiece. Twenty past twelve.

Was Elizabeth attempting to arrange an assignation, of all things?

He closed the book, but his fingers lingered on the cover, tracing its embossing as his thoughts raced. Surely he had misunderstood. Elizabeth Bennet would never be so reckless as to summon him to meet her in the middle of the night. Would she? And yet, she had made a very specific point of pressing this volume into his hands and had even emphasized the chapter specifically. Could it have been a mere coincidence? No, he could not believe that it was.

Rising abruptly, Darcy crossed the room, his steps restless. He paused before the window, his gaze fixed on the moonlit grounds, though his thoughts were far from the quiet scene beyond the glass. What could Elizabeth wish to say to him at so late an hour and in such secrecy? Was it something she dared not speak of in daylight, or in the presence of others?

Unbidden, an image from their time together at the dower house appeared in his mind: her touch, warm and steady, grounding him in his most vulnerable moments. Her words—gentle but fierce in their defence of his character—echoed in his ears.

Darcy briefly closed his eyes, the memory searing. Her kindness, her courage, her ability to look beyond his flaws and see the man beneath—it was a gift he had neither expected nor deserved. And now this.

His hands flexed at his sides before he turned back towards the fireplace, his jaw tightening. If he went, what would it mean? Could he risk another moment alone with her, knowing the strength of his feelings? And yet, if he did not go—if he let this chance slip away—would he regret it for the remainder of his days?

The mantel clock chimed, marking the half-hour. Darcy’s gaze returned to the book, still resting on the table where he had left it. The decision loomed before him, weighted with uncertainty, yet in the deepest recesses of his heart, he knew it was no decision at all.

Drawing a steadying breath, he straightened, his resolve hardening. Whatever awaited him in the library at two o’clock, he would face it. He was helpless to do otherwise.

Darcy moved silently through the dimly lit corridors, the faint glow of the wall sconces casting long shadows that flickered as he passed. The house was strangely quiet, the footmen who stood watch by day now absent, as though the great house itself had hushed in anticipation of what was to come.

His footsteps slowed as he approached the library doors. Pausing, he drew in a steadying breath, his fingers tightening briefly before he lifted the latch and stepped inside.

The library was shrouded in a golden glow, the fire in the hearth reduced to a bed of smouldering embers, its weak light casting faint shadows against the high ceiling. And there, standing near the centre of the room, was Elizabeth.

She was simply dressed, her gown a modest departure from the finery she had worn earlier in the evening. Her hair, while neatly arranged, lacked the elaborate adornments of a formal gathering, and the effect was one of quiet elegance. But it was her expression—nervous, yet resolute—that captured Darcy’s attention and set his pulse quickening.

Closing the door, he offered her a shallow bow before moving farther into the large space. “Miss Bennet,” he greeted, his voice low, though the stillness of the room carried it easily to her.

“Mr Darcy.” She inclined her head, her hands clasped before her. “You came.”

“I did,” he replied.

Her lips curved faintly, but her eyes remained fixed on his. “I was not certain whether you would decipher my message, or agree to meet me, even if you did.”

“I was not sure myself. You are putting your reputation at great risk, contriving such an assignation—in the dead of night, unchaperoned.”

Elizabeth regarded him with a measured look, her chin tipped up ever so slightly. “I am aware of the risks. However, I needed a moment alone with you, and I could not be certain I would have another opportunity.”

Before Darcy could respond, she brushed past him, crossing to the door and, with deliberate intent, turning the key in the lock. The click of the mechanism falling into place echoed in the silence, and Darcy’s heart began to hammer inside his chest.

His breath hitched as his gaze followed her movements. “If you are thinking to force a proposal,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “I warn you, it will not work.”

Elizabeth turned back to him, her expression calm, though her cheeks were flushed. “Rest easy, Mr Darcy,” she answered simply. “I have no desire to win you by force.”

“Then what—” Darcy’s words died in his throat as Elizabeth turned away. As he watched, she reached behind her neck, her slender fingers deftly beginning to work the buttons at the back of her gown.

His throat tightened, panic—and something far more potent—surging through him. “What—what are you doing?” he croaked, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

Elizabeth did not respond, her fingers continuing their task with a practised ease that made his heart pound erratically. He stood rooted to the spot, torn between alarm and a helpless fascination. His breath quickened, each inhalation shallow and uneven, as he struggled to regain his self-control. He knew he should stop her, or at the very least look away, but he could scarcely move.

“Elizabeth, pray, do not…” he whispered at last, his voice breaking, just as the bodice of her gown slipped from one shoulder. The curve of her collarbone and the smooth expanse of her skin glowed in the firelight, drawing his gaze as though compelled by an unseen force.

She turned to face him then, and her eyes, steady and unflinching, met his. For a moment, he could do nothing but look back at her, the space between them taut with something unspoken, something that crackled like a gathering storm. But then his eyes drifted, drawn irresistibly to the pale skin laid bare before him.

And there, just below her shoulder, was a mark—irregular in shape, like a splash of ink, its edges softened as if faded by time. It stood in stark contrast to the otherwise perfect smoothness of her skin.

Elizabeth’s voice broke the silence, low but steady. “It has been with me since birth. I have always hated it, though my mother used to tell me I should be grateful it was in a location that was so easily concealed.” She paused for a moment before looking back at him with a steady resolve. “So, you see, Mr Darcy, none of us is perfect.”

Darcy’s throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, the words escaping before he could think better of them. His gaze lingered, reverent and awestruck, before he continued, “And I love you for revealing this. For trusting me and for trying to convince me that, in some small way, this makes us equals in our imperfections. But it is not the same.”

“Is it not?”

“No,” he replied firmly, even as his voice trembled. Tearing his gaze away, he paced back a step, as if distance might lend clarity to his thoughts. “Your mark is superficial—a curiosity, nothing more. Whereas I—” He broke off, his hands clenched at his sides. “I am not whole, Elizabeth! I am deeply, irrevocably flawed—on the inside. Can you not see that?”

Her expression gentled, her lips parting as though to respond, but Darcy cut her off, his voice rising. “And before you say it does not matter, it does. It matters to me.”

Elizabeth’s expression turned distant, her gaze falling as she looked away. With careful movements, she reached for the bodice of her gown, tugging it back into place before briskly fastening the buttons.

“Very well,” she said, her voice resolved. “You have made your wishes abundantly clear, and I now see that there is nothing I can do to alter your opinion. But I would like to ask something of you, just the same.” She turned back to face him, her eyes steady, and Darcy inclined his head in reply.

“If it is in my power to give, then you know that you will have it.”

“You may not feel that way when you have heard what it is,” Elizabeth answered. “I would like you to speak to my uncle Harper…in a professional capacity.”

Darcy began to shake his head, and Elizabeth immediately raised a hand to forestall his refusal.

“I know what you would say, but you saw that physician years ago. And if you are worried for your reputation, I assure you, my uncle would never reveal your secret.”

Darcy released a ragged breath. While he could not fault Elizabeth for grasping at straws, he knew agreeing to her request would only raise her hopes—a cruelty he wished to spare her. Yet, despite himself, he hesitated, her determination making it nearly impossible to refuse.

“It is not that I do not trust your uncle’s discretion,” Darcy answered slowly, “but you must understand, the physician I saw was an expert in maladies of the mind. I mean no disrespect, but Dr Harper is a country doctor. It is unlikely that he has ever encountered a case such as mine, and even if he has, Dr Abernathy was very clear on my prognosis—there is no cure.”

“I know. And I am sure you think me very foolish, but I just… I would still wish for you to speak to him, if you are willing. It certainly cannot make things any worse, and he is right here at Pemberley, after all.”

Once again, Darcy sighed. He knew better than to believe that Elizabeth’s uncle would have anything to offer by way of assistance, but she was right about one thing: speaking to him could certainly do no harm.

“Very well. If it pleases you, I shall do as you ask. But Elizabeth, I beg you not to expect too much. My prognosis will not change, nor will my intentions.”