Page 16 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A MATTER OF TRUST

Darcy grimaced at the constant pain while his valet shaved him.

His head still pounded from the feverish night while his heart recited Elizabeth’s words, both soothing and regretful.

Mr. Johnson had examined him and assured him that the wound was healing well, but such medical optimism did little to dull the relentless burning sensation that had become his world since Wickham’s bullet found its mark.

Once his valet had finished grooming, Darcy shifted against the pillows, seeking a position that might offer relief. There was none to be found. The laudanum had worn off hours ago, leaving his mind clear but his body in rebellion.

He refused to wince. He had endured worse at Wickham’s hands—the near destruction of Georgiana’s reputation, years of financial demands, and now this bullet. The physical pain was almost welcome compared to the helplessness he had felt watching his sister’s heartbreak.

The knock at his chamber door was light but distinct. “Enter.”

Mr. Johnson appeared first, his expression professionally neutral. Behind him stood Elizabeth Bennet, and Darcy found himself momentarily robbed of speech.

Their last encounter—waking to find her asleep against his chest, her hand curled beside her face—had left him unsettled. The memory of her warmth against him returned unbidden, along with the powerful urge he had felt to draw her closer and the immediate panic of impropriety that had followed.

Now she stood perfectly composed, her hair neatly arranged, her pale blue gown simple but immaculate.

The morning light caught the rich chestnut tones in her curls, illuminating the color in a way that had always fascinated him.

Even exhausted from her night’s vigil, she possessed that singular vitality that had first drawn his notice when she’d tended her sister’s illness at Netherfield.

Elizabeth Bennet possessed a brightness that emanated from within, making everyone else in the room appear dimmer.

Her gaze met his briefly before settling somewhere near the foot of his bed, a deliberate distance that spoke volumes.

“Mr. Darcy,” the surgeon said, “I am pleased with your progress. The fever has broken, though you are not entirely out of danger. Miss Bennet’s care has proven most beneficial.”

“I am grateful for Miss Bennet’s assistance,” Darcy replied, the formal words falling far short of the complex emotions her presence stirred.

“Mr. Bingley has offered to engage a professional nurse,” Mr. Johnson continued, “if you prefer. Miss Bennet has indicated she would abide by your wishes in this matter.”

Darcy studied Elizabeth’s face, searching for some hint of her preference. Her expression revealed nothing—neither eagerness to depart nor desire to remain. She seemed to be awaiting a sentence, her fingers tightening across the back of a chair.

It was most vexing.

“Mr. Johnson, we shall give Mr. Bingley an answer.” Darcy decided. “Please thank him for his consideration.”

The surgeon nodded and departed, leaving them alone.

“Miss Bennet,” Darcy began carefully, “I would not wish to impose upon you further. You have already sacrificed much on my behalf.”

“It is no sacrifice, Mr. Darcy. I agreed to this arrangement and shall honor it for as long as necessary.”

The measured response gave him pause. Was this polite acquiescence or genuine willingness? He who had once prided himself on his discernment found himself unable to read the woman before him.

“Perhaps you would prefer to return to Longbourn? I would understand completely.”

She clasped her hands, a subtle gesture that nonetheless conveyed tension. “In truth, Mr. Darcy, my return to Longbourn would create additional difficulties for my family at present.”

He allowed her room to breathe, waiting, and she continued, “The circumstances of our situation have made me a social liability. My presence at home would only reinforce the isolation my family already faces.”

She was blunt, delivering the assessment without self-pity, and surprisingly, without blaming him. The scandal had made her a pariah in local society. Even her best friend, Charlotte, refused to vouch for her, claiming a foggy memory of the Hunsford events.

“I see,” he said, the weight of his role in her disgrace settling uncomfortably upon his conscience. “I am not sending you away, you understand. However, as uncomfortable as this situation is, I wish to ascertain your preference.”

Elizabeth’s chin lifted slightly. “My preference, Mr. Darcy? You speak as though I might somehow prefer your company after all that has transpired between us.”

“That is not what I meant to imply,” he said, though the flash in her eyes suggested otherwise.

“Is it not?” Her voice sharpened. “I would not have you believe that I am attempting to ingratiate myself to you or your good opinion, sir. I remain here because it serves my family’s interests, not because I seek advancement through proximity to Pemberley’s master.”

“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, wincing as he shifted to face her more directly, “you misunderstand me entirely.”

“It would not be the first time.” Her brittle tone betrayed her exhaustion.

“Perhaps not,” he conceded. He felt his lips crinkle with a half-smile, half-grimace. “I find your company… far preferable to that of most visitors.”

Elizabeth blinked, momentarily disarmed by his candor.

“If I may speak plainly,” she said, “while I do not relish returning to Longbourn where my mother’s lamentations over my ruined prospects await me, neither do I wish you to feel obligated to entertain me out of some misplaced sense of gratitude for my nursing.”

He almost chuckled at the irony. “I’m surprised you find changing bandages, administering laudanum, and monitoring a fevered gentleman entertaining. Perhaps the delirium is particularly challenging, but I propose a bargain, Miss Bennet.”

“A bargain?” She regarded him warily.

“If you are willing to continue as my nurse, I shall shield you from all criticism—including your mother’s—and in exchange, you need not fear any attempt at pleasant conversation on my part.

” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “I shall limit our discourse to thoroughly tedious topics. Crop yields, perhaps. Or the latest innovations in ledger column formats.”

Elizabeth stared at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You are offering to bore me deliberately, Mr. Darcy?”

“I excel at it. Ask anyone in London society. My reputation for dullness is unparalleled.”

A reluctant laugh escaped her. “I believe you underestimate yourself, sir. Your conversation, while occasionally provoking, has never been dull.”

“High praise indeed, coming from you,” he said, and for a moment, the weight of their complicated history seemed to lift, replaced by something lighter, something almost like the beginnings of understanding.

Besides, Darcy wasn’t going to tell her, but he preferred the darting of her fine eyes over the dullness of a hired nurse.

Elizabeth stood perfectly still, neither retreating nor advancing. Darcy hated this stiffness and formality, wanting nothing more than to hear laughter on her lips.

“I see you await my decision,” he said. “However, after you most clearly dispatched my last proposal, I’m under severe trepidation as to entreating you with any position.”

Elizabeth’s lips parted, the color draining from her face before rushing back in a becoming flush that spread across her cheeks. She seemed unable to form words—a rare state for a woman whose quick wit had never failed her before.

The proposal. The one he had so vehemently denied ever making. The source of all their current troubles and misunderstandings. And now he had acknowledged it, casually, as though it were a simple fact rather than the explosive conflict that had torn both their lives asunder.

“You acknowledge it, then,” she stated.

“Miss Elizabeth, we both know the truth of what occurred between us at Hunsford. We may remember the interpretations differently, but the actual words spoken—that, at least, is clear.”

Elizabeth’s posture softened. She inclined her head, a single nod of acceptance that carried more meaning than any elaborate speech could have conveyed.

“Truth between us is… welcome,” she said. “Then I shall stay.”

“Thank you,” he replied, equally direct.

Something subtle shifted in her expression—not quite forgiveness, but perhaps the possibility of it. The flush remained on her cheeks, lending her a vulnerability that struck him more powerfully than any carefully crafted appearance ever could.

“I shall inform Mr. Bingley of your decision,” she said, gathering her composure around her like a shield. Yet beneath that familiar reserve, he caught a glimpse of something new—something that might, given time and patience, grow into understanding.