Page 17 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A PINCH OF POETRY

The scent of fresh linen mingled with the faint medicinal smell of spirits of wine as Elizabeth pushed open the door to Darcy’s sickroom, balancing a stack of books against her hip.

“I see you’ve brought half the library,” Darcy observed from his propped position against the pillows. His voice was stronger today, though the shadows beneath his eyes betrayed his restless night. “Are you determined to improve my mind during my convalescence, Miss Bennet?”

“I doubt that’s possible, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied with a quirk of her brow. “Your opinion of your own understanding is already so secure.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Touché.”

Three days of tending to his wound had established an unexpected rhythm between them—a cautious dance that occasionally slipped into something less formal, more reminiscent of their verbal sparring from months ago.

“Your fever returned last night,” Elizabeth said, setting the books on the bedside table. She approached to press the back of her hand against his forehead—their established ritual. His skin was cooler this morning, though she noticed his breath catch slightly at the brief contact.

“I prefer discomfort to confusion,” he said, anticipating her suggestion about laudanum. “The medicine makes my thoughts imprecise.”

“Heaven forbid your thoughts should ever lack precision,” she replied dryly. “Though your sister would never forgive me if I allowed a fever to carry you off while I slept.”

“My sister doesn’t know I’ve been shot,” Darcy replied, then frowned. “I instructed Colonel Fitzwilliam to keep the matter from her until we know the outcome.”

“The outcome being whether you live or die?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, Mr. Darcy, while under my care, only one outcome is permitted.”

His lips twitched again with that almost-smile. “I would not dare defy such explicit instructions, Miss Bennet.”

She turned to the small table where she kept her supplies, measuring spirits of wine into a bowl for his morning bandage change. “I’ve brought books, as you requested yesterday. Something to occupy your mind besides cataloging your various discomforts and staring at the ceiling.”

“A thoughtful gesture,” he said, his tone softer than she was accustomed to hearing. “What selections have you deemed suitable for an invalid?”

She gestured toward the books. “Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire , which I recall you were reading during your previous stay at Netherfield.”

“You noticed that?” Darcy asked, sounding surprised.

“I notice many things, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied, setting the book aside. “Though I confess I sometimes draw the wrong conclusions from my observations.”

Something shifted in his expression at her tacit acknowledgment of past misjudgments. “As do we all, Miss Bennet.”

She continued through the stack. “I’ve also brought other literary works, Milton, Homer, and as a last resort, should boredom become truly unbearable, a volume of contemporary poetry.”

“Poetry?” Darcy’s eyebrow rose fractionally. “I was under the impression you did not consider poetry the food of love.”

“Nor do you, if I recall correctly,” Elizabeth countered, pleased he remembered their past conversation.

“Indeed. Though perhaps we should give the poor poets a chance to change our minds.”

“How magnanimous of you, sir.” She selected the volume of poetry and settled into the chair beside his bed, feeling strangely at ease. “Shall I read, or would you prefer to select something yourself?”

“Pray, read whatever strikes your fancy. I find myself curious about your taste in verse.”

Elizabeth opened the book, flipping through the pages until she found a particularly florid piece. “Very well, though I warn you—my selections may be made with an eye toward amusement rather than edification.”

“I welcome the diversion.” He rested against the pillow, looking more relaxed.

She cleared her throat dramatically and took on the role of an orator with her hand across her breast.

“Oh, fairest bloom of nature’s garden sweet,

Whose beauty doth the very stars outshine,

Before thy gaze my heart doth wildly beat,

And yearns to make thy precious spirit mine!”

She glanced up to find Darcy watching her with those deep, penetrating eyes. “Well? Are you not moved to raptures, sir?”

“Profoundly,” he replied dryly. “Though I confess I am struggling to imagine any lady responding favorably to being compared to a garden bloom.”

“Perhaps the next verse will prove more compelling,” Elizabeth suggested, continuing with increased dramatic flair:

“Thy lips, like petals of the reddest rose,

Thy cheeks, like apples ripened on the bough,

Thy slender form, which grace and charm bestows,

Before thy beauty, I can only bow!”

By the final line, Darcy was actually smiling—a genuine smile that transformed his usually severe countenance. “I stand corrected. What woman could resist such eloquence? Especially the comparison to an apple.”

Elizabeth laughed, delighted by his unexpected humor. “Indeed. Though I would prefer not to have my form compared to fruit of any variety.”

Their shared laughter filled the room, a surprisingly harmonious sound that caught Elizabeth off guard.

She immediately pressed her fingertips to her lips, suddenly conscious of the impropriety.

Here she was, alone with an unmarried gentleman in his bedchamber, reading ridiculous poetry and laughing like old friends.

“Forgive me,” she said, composing her features. “I’ve forgotten myself.”

“On the contrary, Miss Bennet. If we are to be trapped in these gruesome circumstances, we might as well find what pleasure we can in ridiculing bad verse. May I?” He gestured toward the book.

Elizabeth handed it to him, curious to see what he would select. He propped it on his lap, awkwardly turning the pages with his left hand.

“Ah. Here is one that may restore our faith in the poetic arts—or at least provide fewer botanical comparisons.”

He began to read, his deep voice giving the words a gravity she had not expected:

“Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,

But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.”

He paused, meeting her eyes. “Longfellow. Not quite as entertaining as comparing a woman to an apple, I grant you, but perhaps more truthful.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth said softly, wondering if he, too, was often defeated by his foils as much as she.

“Your turn, I believe,” Darcy said, returning the book to her.

Elizabeth accepted it, their fingers brushing momentarily in the exchange. She ignored the inexplicable flutter the brief contact caused and quickly turned to another page.

“Oh, this one promises to be particularly dreadful,” she announced. “Listen to this effusion of sentiment.”

“When first I gazed upon thy face divine,

My soul was struck as by a thunderbolt!

My heart, once free, became forever thine,

Against thy charms, no man could e’er revolt!”

She looked up, expecting to share another laugh at the hyperbole, but found Darcy watching with quiet consideration.

“Absurd, is it not?” she prompted, suddenly uncomfortable.

“The execution, perhaps,” he said. “Though I cannot fault the sentiment entirely.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted subtly. He’d certainly not considered her face divine when he’d declared her not handsome enough to tempt him. She quickly turned the page, searching for something less fraught with unintended meaning.

“Perhaps we should compose our own dreadful poetry,” she suggested, seeking safer ground. “I imagine between us we could create something truly atrocious.”

Darcy’s expression lightened. “An intriguing challenge. Though I warn you, I have no talent for verse.”

“All the better,” Elizabeth replied. “Genuine talent would spoil the effect entirely.”

“Very well,” he agreed. “Shall we attempt a joint composition? Alternating lines, perhaps? You go first.”

“An excellent suggestion.” Elizabeth straightened in her chair, adopting a pose of mock seriousness.

“The gentleman with countenance so stern…”

Darcy’s eyebrow rose at her teasing, but he continued smoothly.

“Matched only by the lady’s sharp discern…”

“Who frowns at all that fails to meet his taste…” She lobbed back.

“While she pronounces judgment in great haste…” he returned, surprising her with his quickness.

Elizabeth placed a hand to her heart in mock offense. “His pride exceeds the bounds of good sense…”

“Her prejudice forms before evidence…” Darcy replied in his characteristically stiff tone.

“A master who commands with just a glance…”

“A wit who gives poor suitors little chance…” he answered, lips twitching with barely held laughter.

Elizabeth burst into giggles as Darcy’s shoulders shook; the movement jarred his bandaged shoulder, and a sharp hiss escaped through his teeth.

“Oh! I’ve caused you pain,” Elizabeth said, immediately sobering.

“Worth every twinge,” Darcy assured her, his breathing slightly labored, but his eyes still bright with amusement. “I cannot recall the last time I laughed so freely.”

Elizabeth found herself transfixed by the change in him. When he smiled—truly smiled, not the tight, polite expression he wore in company—he was handsome in a way that caught her off guard.

The door opened without warning, and Caroline Bingley swept into the room like an autumn breeze—hot, brisk, and distinctly unwelcome.

“Mr. Darcy!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening at the scene—Elizabeth seated intimately close to his bedside, both flushed with laughter. “I heard sounds of distress. I feared your condition had worsened.”

“As you can see, Miss Bingley, I am quite well,” Darcy replied, his voice cooling several degrees. The transformation was remarkable. The man who had been composing ridiculous poetry was once again the reserved Mr. Darcy of Derbyshire.

Caroline’s gaze flickered between them. “How fortunate. I came to deliver this.” She extended a sealed letter toward Elizabeth. “From Mrs. Collins, I believe.”

Elizabeth accepted the letter, her fingers stiffening as she recognized Charlotte’s handwriting.

“The post rider mentioned it was sent with particular urgency,” Caroline added, making no move to leave. “Something about Mr. Collins making the most extraordinary claims regarding your visit to Hunsford Parsonage.”

“Thank you for bringing this to me, Miss Bingley.”

“I confess I find myself quite curious,” Caroline continued, settling uninvited into a chair. “Mr. Collins has apparently been telling everyone who will listen that his wife never once left you unattended during your entire stay at Hunsford. Most peculiar, don’t you think?”

The implication hung in the air—Charlotte was providing false testimony about Elizabeth’s meetings with Darcy, presumably under pressure from Lady Catherine.

“My correspondence is private, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth replied evenly.

“Of course,” Caroline agreed with false contrition. “How thoughtless of me to mention it. Charles asked me to inquire after your health, Mr. Darcy, and to see if you felt strong enough for a brief visit.”

“I am well enough,” Darcy said carefully, “though Miss Bennet and I were in the middle of?—”

“Excellent,” Caroline interrupted. “I shall fetch Charles immediately. Miss Eliza, I’m sure you’ll want to read your letter in private. We wouldn’t dream of keeping you from such urgent correspondence.”

Elizabeth recognized the dismissal for what it was. The brief interlude of companionship with Darcy was clearly at an end.

“Indeed,” Elizabeth said, rising. “I shall return later to change your bandages, Mr. Darcy.”

His eyes met hers briefly. “Thank you for the books, Miss Bennet. They will provide a welcome diversion.”

As she moved toward the door, Caroline called after her, “Do let us know if Mrs. Collins’ letter contains any news of general interest, Miss Eliza. We are all so concerned about this unfortunate situation.”

Elizabeth didn’t trust herself to respond. She merely inclined her head and slipped from the room, a single thought echoing: Laughter with him is dangerously easy.

She opened Charlotte’s letter as soon as she reached her bedchamber. A line jumped out at her.

“Mr. Wickham has been spotted in Kent, not three miles from Rosings Park.”