Page 14 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DISARMED AWAKENING

Pain came first. Searing and inescapable, it flared from Darcy’s right shoulder through his entire body like fire through dry timber. His consciousness surfaced slowly, reluctantly, as though his mind understood that wakefulness would bring the suffering his dreams had mercifully obscured.

Where was he? The unfamiliar ceiling above him suggested somewhere other than his London townhouse or Pemberley. The quality of light filtering through windows told him it was morning, though of which day he could not say.

The second sensation was warmth, not the burning heat of fever, but something pressed against his chest, accompanied by the whisper of breath against his skin and the faint scent of lavender mixed with something uniquely feminine.

Darcy’s eyes snapped open fully.

Elizabeth Bennet lay curled against his bare chest, her face peaceful in sleep, a plain white servant’s cap askew over her curls. His arm—his uninjured left—had somehow come to rest around her shoulders, holding her close in a manner that propriety would find utterly indefensible.

Shock coursed through him, eclipsing even the pain in his shoulder. Why was Elizabeth Bennet in his bedchamber? Why was she asleep upon his person? Who had authorized such an inappropriate arrangement?

The events returned in flashes, disjointed and jumbled. Netherfield. Wickham’s accusations. The duel at dawn. Elizabeth’s unexpected appearance on Oakham Mount. The bullet—he had been shot. Wickham had fired before the signal.

But the memories that followed were fragmentary, dreamlike—a woman’s hands cooling his burning skin, a voice speaking to him through the darkness. Someone had tended to him through what must have been a serious illness, but surely it could not have been…

Elizabeth Bennet?

Her chestnut curls had escaped their pins, falling in soft disarray around her face. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Her morning dress, a dull brown servant’s dress, was wrinkled and stained with what he recognized with a shock as his blood.

Gone was the sharp intelligence that usually sparked in her eyes, the satirical smile that had both attracted and unnerved him.

In sleep, Elizabeth appeared younger and softer.

Her features relaxed into an expression of such peaceful vulnerability that something inside his chest tightened with protective instinct.

More memories surfaced, clearer now. Her voice through the fevered darkness, sometimes sharp with anger, other times impossibly gentle.

Had she really bathed his burning skin with cool water?

Had she truly held him when delirium made him thrash?

The intimate care required for such nursing would have been… improper did not begin to cover it.

I might have accepted you had you spoken to me as if I mattered.

This memory felt more solid, more real, though equally impossible. Elizabeth Bennet would never admit such a thing to him, which suggested either his delirium had been more creative than usual, or she had believed him insensible when she spoke.

You must live. Not for me, but for those who love you.

The words echoed in his mind with startling clarity. Had she honestly said that? Had Elizabeth Bennet, who claimed to hate him, fought through the night to preserve his life? The evidence of her care lay warm against his chest.

I’m not a failing. I’m Elizabeth Bennet. I’m not a regrettable affliction. I am worthy.

Shame washed over him with devastating force. Those words—if they were real, if his fevered mind had not conjured them, cut deeper than Wickham’s bullet. To hear his arrogance reflected through her pain, to understand how thoroughly he had wounded her while believing himself the injured party…

Darcy tried to swallow, his throat raw and parched. How long had he been unconscious? Hours? Days? Time seemed malleable, unreliable. He remembered fragments of her voice, snatches of conversation that might have been dreams or delirium or devastating truth.

I was but a fool, and if you die, it was because I couldn’t hold my tongue.

She blamed herself. Elizabeth, who had every right to leave him to face the consequences of his pride, believed his near-death was her fault. The injustice of it made his chest burn with something fiercer than fever.

He should wake her. Their position was scandalously improper, no matter the circumstances that had led to it. And yet, he was oddly reluctant to disturb this moment.

When had anyone looked so peaceful in his presence? When had he ever felt such… contentment was not the right word. Elizabeth Bennet had never brought him contentment. But something about her warmth against his side, the trust implied by her unguarded sleep, made him hesitate.

Elizabeth stirred against him, a small sound escaping her lips as she shifted slightly.

He felt her breathing change, quickening as she rose toward consciousness.

He should close his eyes and feign sleep to spare them both the awkwardness of the moment to come.

It would be the gentlemanly thing to do.

But he could not look away, transfixed by her lashes fluttering as awareness returned. She stiffened suddenly, her body going rigid as she registered her position against his chest. For a heartbeat, she remained perfectly still, as if hoping it was merely a dream from which she might yet awaken.

Slowly, carefully, Elizabeth lifted her head from his chest. Her hair was disheveled, her dress wrinkled beyond repair, and her face was marked by exhaustion. But her eyes…

Her gaze met his, and the world stopped.

Darcy stared at her, caught in a moment of bewildering contradiction—grateful for her care yet resentful of her past actions; acutely aware of her as a woman yet constrained by propriety; wounded by her betrayal yet moved by her evident exhaustion on his behalf.

He could not have named what passed between them, only that it held the weight of all that had transpired and all that remained unresolved.

Her lips parted slightly, perhaps to offer some explanation, some apology for their improper position. But no sound emerged. Her cheeks flushed crimson, the color spreading down her neck, yet she seemed unable to look away from his gaze.

What did she see in his eyes? Darcy wondered. Gratitude? Confusion? The unwelcome turmoil unsettling his usual composure? Or perhaps she saw the pain that radiated from his shoulder, setting his teeth on edge even as he tried to maintain his dignity.

With excruciating slowness, hindered by weakness and pain, Darcy lifted his arm from around her. The movement sent daggers of agony through his injured side, but he kept his expression carefully neutral, unwilling to add his physical suffering to her emotional discomfort.

Elizabeth scrambled backward immediately. She nearly fell from the edge of the bed, steadying herself against the bedpost with one hand.

“I… I must have fallen asleep,” she said. “Your fever… it was very high. I was monitoring—” She broke off, pressing her hands to her cheeks as though to cool them.

Darcy tried to respond, to offer some assurance that would ease her embarrassment, but his throat was parched, and his tongue felt like lead. The best he could manage was a small nod, which sent fresh waves of pain crashing through his skull.

“You should not attempt to move,” Elizabeth said. “I should… refresh myself. The surgeon will want to examine… I should call for…”

She could not complete a sentence, moving toward the door like a woman fleeing a fire.

At the threshold, she paused without turning back. “I am… that is, I am glad you are awake. That you are… better.”

The door closed behind her with a soft click that echoed in the sudden emptiness.

Darcy exhaled slowly, finding himself surprisingly bereft at her departure. Her presence had been strangely comforting.

And yet, her words during his fever suggested regret on her part as well:

I should not have trusted Wickham.

I should not have made a jest out of your proposal.

Perhaps there was blame enough for both of them in this unfortunate affair.

The shame of that realization burned hotter than his fever had. He had wounded her deeply, not through intention but through carelessness. Through pride. Through a failure to consider how his words would sound to someone who did not share his perspective.

I might have accepted you had you spoken to me as if I mattered.

The memory of their eyes meeting upon her waking returned to him. That moment of connection, of seeing each other without pretense or pride. What had she seen in his gaze? And what had he seen in hers?

Not hatred. Not in that unguarded moment. Something else entirely… something more promising.

Darcy closed his eyes, surrendering temporarily to the weakness that pervaded his body.

I might still hate you…

Her voice echoed in his memory, haunting him even as he drifted back toward sleep. But now he focused on a different word, one that offered a slender thread of possibility.

Might.

She might still hate him. But there remained the chance, however small, that she might not.