Page 2 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
“Neither have you.” Darcy tugged on his gloves, removing them slowly.
“Miss Bennet, while I admit that this is not how I envisioned my evening progressing when I departed Netherfield this morning, I want to assure you that I consider this duty not a burden but… a responsibility I am prepared to meet.”
It was hardly a declaration of ardent admiration, but something in his careful words suggested that he did not find the prospect of marrying her entirely repugnant.
Given their limited prior interactions—most characterized by mutual misunderstanding—she supposed that was the most she could hope for.
“You are very kind,” she said, the formality of her response at odds with the bizarre intimacy of their situation .
“Not kind. Merely decent. You should dry yourself by the fire. You are shivering.”
He was right. She was cold to her core, her clothes sodden, and her spirits lower than she had ever known them.
She moved to the fire, holding her hands out to the meager flames.
Mr. Darcy busied himself arranging what looked like spare blankets near the hearth, keeping a careful distance between them.
“The bed is yours,” he said, not looking up from his task. “I will make do here by the fire.”
“Mr. Darcy, I cannot take your bed,” she protested. “You have already sacrificed enough on my behalf.”
“You most certainly can, and you will. You are chilled to the bone and exhausted. The floor will serve me adequately.”
Even now, they were arguing. Elizabeth nearly smiled at the absurdity of it—that in such extraordinary circumstances, they should fall into the same pattern of contradiction that had marked their past interactions.
Her impertinence, her teasing, her refusal to be impressed by his consequence—all that belonged to a woman with a home and family, however imperfect.
Now she was utterly dependent on his goodwill, a humbling realization that settled like a stone in her stomach.
She was at his mercy, and they both knew it.
“Very well,” she conceded, turning back to the fire. “Thank you.”
Mr. Darcy answered the knock at the door. A maidservant stepped in with a tray of food and extra linens. She cast a curious glance at Elizabeth, but said nothing as she deposited her burdens and departed.
“You should eat,” Mr. Darcy said, gesturing to the steaming bowls of stew and bread. “And then rest. Tomorrow will bring challenges enough.”
Elizabeth nodded, too exhausted to argue further.
Whatever tomorrow might bring, tonight she had been saved from a fate far worse than marriage to this proud and honorable man. For that, at least, she could be grateful .
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy, For everything.” And she meant it.
He inclined his head, a gesture that acknowledged both her gratitude and the extraordinary circumstances that had brought them to this point. “Rest, Miss Bennet. You are safe now.”
Safe. The word struck her as ironic. When was the last time she had felt truly safe?
Not at Longbourn, where her mother’s nerves and her father’s indifference had created a household of constant tension.
Not at Netherfield, under Caroline Bingley’s cutting gaze.
Certainly not on the road, abandoned by those sworn to protect her.
Yet here, in this small room with a man she had professed to dislike, she felt something dangerously close to safety.
“You should eat,” Darcy said again, gesturing to the tray. “And dry yourself by the fire.”
Elizabeth glanced at the steaming food—a thick stew, fresh bread, and what smelled like mulled wine. Her stomach clenched with hunger. “Will you not join me?”
“After you have had your fill,” he said, turning his attention to her trunk. “We should see if anything can be salvaged from your belongings.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Mr. Darcy, you needn’t concern yourself with my things.”
“I believe your options for assistance are limited at present,” he replied, not unkindly. “Would you prefer to sleep in wet garments?”
She would not, of course. But the thought of Mr. Darcy—fastidious, proper Mr. Darcy—sorting through her sodden personal items was mortifying.
“I can manage,” she said stiffly.
Something like amusement flickered in his eyes. “As you wish. But eat first.”
Elizabeth couldn’t argue with that logic. The stew was hearty, the bread still warm, and the spiced wine sent blessed heat coursing through her veins. She had not realized how ravenous she was until the first bite passed her lips.
Darcy busied himself with arranging blankets near the hearth, carefully keeping his back to her to provide what privacy he could in the confined space. The thoughtfulness of the gesture surprised her.
Outside, the storm intensified. Rain lashed the window in sheets, and wind howled through every crack in the ancient building. The shutters banged against the wall, then tore free entirely, exposing the glass to the full force of the deluge.
Darcy crossed to the window, attempting to secure what remained of the shutters, but it was a lost cause. “They’re gone,” he reported, water dripping from his shirtsleeves. “We’ll have to manage without.”
A sudden gust drove rain through the broken glass, spraying across the room and soaking the blankets he had arranged on the floor.
“Perfect,” Elizabeth muttered, setting aside her empty bowl. “Providence appears determined to strip away every last vestige of propriety from this situation.”
“It does seem that way.”
Lightning flashed, illuminating the room in stark white light. Thunder followed immediately, so loud that the floor vibrated. The fire guttered, nearly extinguished by a downdraft.
Elizabeth shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. “Perhaps the storm is punishment for my stubbornness in refusing Mr. Collins,” she said, attempting levity. “My mother certainly thought so.”
Darcy knelt to nurse the struggling fire back to life. “Your mother was wrong,” he said, his voice hard. “No woman should be forced to marry where she cannot respect or esteem her partner.”
The unexpected support left Elizabeth momentarily speechless. “I… thank you.”
And since the two of them had to marry, she supposed she should respect and esteem Darcy. A week ago, she would have thought that impossible. Now, it would be hard not to.
He glanced up at her, firelight casting his features in warm relief. “It is merely the truth.”
Another blast of wind rushed through what remained of the window, this time extinguishing the fire completely. Darkness engulfed the room, broken only by flashes of lightning, and the temperature plummeted.
“Blast,” Darcy muttered, fumbling in the dark. “Where are the—ah.” A scratch, a spark, and a small candle on the mantelpiece sputtered to life, casting weak golden light over the scene.
Elizabeth surveyed the damage. The floor near the hearth was a sodden mess. The blankets Darcy had arranged for himself were soaked through. The only dry spot in the room appeared to be the bed itself, positioned against the opposite wall.
Darcy ran a hand through his hair. “I will sit in the chair. You take the bed.”
Elizabeth glanced at the hard wooden chair, then back at Darcy’s tall frame. “Don’t be absurd. You’d be crippled by morning. The bed is large enough for both of us. If we… if we remain clothed and maintain proper distance, surely it would be acceptable under these extraordinary circumstances.”
Darcy’s eyes widened. “Miss Bennet, I cannot?—”
“Mr. Darcy,” she interrupted, summoning every ounce of practical sensibility she possessed, “I am cold, exhausted, and have nowhere else to go. You have been more than generous. I will not repay that generosity by forcing you to spend the night in discomfort when there is a perfectly reasonable alternative.”
“Reasonable is not the word I would choose,” he muttered.
Another thunderclap shook the building. Rain continued to pour through the broken window, spreading across the floorboards.
“Very well,” Darcy conceded, his expression unreadable in the flickering candlelight. “But I will remain atop the covers, and you beneath them.”
Elizabeth nodded, relief and trepidation warring within her. “Agreed.”
The practical matter of preparing for bed presented its own challenges.
Elizabeth’s nightgown was in her trunk, but there was no screen behind which to change.
Eventually, they worked out a system—Darcy would face the wall while Elizabeth quickly changed into the least-sodden garments she could find, then she would do the same while he removed his boots and waistcoat.
When they finally settled into the bed, Elizabeth felt the mattress dip beneath Darcy’s weight. He kept as far to his side as possible, rigid with tension. Elizabeth pulled the covers up to her chin, painfully aware of his presence merely inches away.
“Goodnight, Mr. Darcy,” she whispered, blowing out the candle.
“Goodnight, Miss Bennet,” came his stiff reply.