Page 21

Elizabeth

“T hat passage will not do at all,” Elizabeth declared, striking her quill through a paragraph with such vigour that ink spattered across the manuscript. Darcy looked up from his desk, one eyebrow raised in silent enquiry.

Ten days after they first sat down together and she knew he was now familiar with her writing patterns. The tale she had composed for Nocturne had long been sent but they had come to continue working together.

Elizabeth’s wrist was much improved, the pain now merely a fleeting reminder when she moved too hastily. Though she could manage simple tasks once more, she was surprisingly reluctant to surrender his help or company.

“I wonder,” said Darcy, his quill poised above the page, “whether the countess might show more restraint. Would her reserve not heighten the tension?”

Elizabeth adjusted her position on the settee that had become her customary place, watching how the firelight cast shadows across his features as he bent over her manuscript.

“You have the right of it,” she admitted. “Her character would guard her sentiments, particularly after such a betrayal. Her words should be measured, her manner cool.”

Such exchanges had become familiar between them. What had commenced as mere transcription had evolved into something quite different. To her surprise, Darcy had developed a remarkable understanding of her characters, offering insights that invariably strengthened the narrative.

“Perhaps this instead,” he suggested, and read aloud a revised passage that captured precisely the brittle dignity Elizabeth had envisioned for her countess.

“That is exactly right,” she said, unable to conceal her approval. “One might imagine you have made a particular study of female sensibilities, Mr Darcy.”

Colour touched his cheeks, though his expression remained composed. “I merely follow the path you have already marked. The character is entirely your creation.”

Yet Elizabeth knew this was not entirely true. These evenings had revealed in Darcy an unexpected depth—a perception of human nature at odds with his reserved demeanour. He understood her fictional characters because he understood people, however rarely he might demonstrate this gift in company.

Elizabeth watched Darcy as he wrote—the intensity of his concentration, the slight furrow that appeared between his brows, the way the candlelight illuminated his features. These observations had become significant to her, though she scarcely wished to examine why.

“I believe that concludes chapter eleven,” he said, setting the page aside. “Your story progresses remarkably well.”

“Thanks largely to your contributions,” Elizabeth replied. “I had not expected a gentleman of your standing to possess such insight into Gothic romance.”

A wry smile touched his lips. “You forget I have a younger sister whose literary tastes run decisively towards the dramatic. I have endured countless readings of Mrs Radcliffe’s most affecting scenes.”

“Endured, sir? Or perhaps secretly enjoyed?”

His smile deepened, betraying a glimpse of the gentle humour that lay beneath his serious aspect. “I shall neither confirm nor deny such accusations.”

Elizabeth laughed, the sound bright in the quiet library. These moments of shared mirth had grown increasingly common during their evening sessions.

“Though we make excellent progress,” he continued, “I fear we must pause for tonight. I have correspondence that requires attention before tomorrow’s post.”

Elizabeth nodded, feeling a slight disappointment. These hours had become the brightest part of her days at Pemberley.

“Of course. I have monopolised your time long enough.”

Darcy rose from his desk and crossed to where Elizabeth sat, offering his hand to assist her. It was a simple courtesy he had performed countless times, yet each touch seemed to carry additional significance.

“I have a letter from Georgiana,” he said as Elizabeth rose. “Would you care to read it? She enquires after you most particularly.”

“I should like that very much.”

He retrieved the letter from his desk, his movements betraying the particular fondness that always emerged when he spoke of his sister. Elizabeth had come to recognise this alteration—the way his features softened and his voice gentled.

“She remains at Rosings with Lady Catherine,” he explained, passing her the folded pages. “Though she writes that she is eager to return to Pemberley.”

Elizabeth unfolded the delicate sheets, noting the neat, precise hand of a young woman taught to value elegance in all things.

My dearest brother,

I trust this letter finds you well. Rosings remains much as it ever was, though Lady Catherine grows increasingly particular about the drawing room furniture.

She has moved the pianoforte three times this week, each time declaring the light insufficient for proper practise.

I suspect her restlessness owes more to Anne’s situation than any deficiency in the light.

You may wish to know that Lady Catherine’s displeasure regarding your marriage has been somewhat diverted by Fitzroy’s latest letter.

Anne has not yet increased, and our aunt takes this as a personal affront, as if he and Anne deliberately withhold an heir to vex her.

She has begun a regimen of tonics for Anne, despite the poor girl’s protests that she is in perfect health.

I confess, brother, that I grow eager to quit Rosings and return to Pemberley.

While our aunt has been tolerably civil, her constant allusions to your “unfortunate alliance” grow wearisome.

I long to meet Mrs Darcy and form my own impressions, rather than rely on Lady Catherine’s decidedly prejudiced account.

Please tell Mrs Darcy that I look forward to making her acquaintance. From what little you have shared in your letters, I believe we shall get on famously. Any woman who has secured your admiration must possess qualities of both mind and character that would recommend her to me as well.

Your affectionate sister, Georgiana

“She seems a most amiable young woman,” Elizabeth said, returning the letter. “I look forward to making her acquaintance.”

“Georgiana is the best of sisters,” Darcy replied, folding the pages with careful movements. “I wish the rest of my family were as understanding and welcoming as she and Richard have been.”

“I expected nothing less,” Elizabeth assured him. “Family loyalties run deep, and I appeared without warning or proper introduction. It is natural she should harbour reservations.”

“You are generous in your assessment. My aunt’s behaviour has been inexcusable.”

“Perhaps. But I would rather earn her good opinion through patient demonstration of character than expect immediate acceptance. Time often proves the best advocate in such matters.”

Darcy regarded her with a contemplative expression. “Your equanimity continues to surprise me. Most ladies of my acquaintance would be mortally offended by such treatment.”

“Then perhaps you have known the wrong sort of ladies, Mr Darcy,” she replied, her tone light though her eyes held his steadily.

A curious tension filled the space between them—not uncomfortable, but charged with something unspoken. Before either could break it, a discreet knock sounded at the library door.

“Enter,” Darcy called, stepping back from Elizabeth.

The butler appeared with a silver tray bearing several letters. “The evening post has arrived, sir.”

“Thank you, Simmons.”

After the butler’s departure, Darcy sorted through the correspondence with practised efficiency. “Business from London… a note from Bingley… and—” he paused, his expression shifting to one of interest, “a letter addressed to you, from Nocturne Publishing.”

Elizabeth’s heart leapt. “From Nocturne? Already?”

Darcy crossed to her immediately, the letter extended before him.

With trembling fingers, Elizabeth broke the seal, her injured wrist momentarily forgotten in her excitement. She scanned the contents, and her hand shot up to her mouth.

“They wish to publish my manuscript,” she whispered.

“They request a meeting in London at my earliest convenience to discuss terms with both of us. As my husband, you are required, of course.” She looked up at Darcy, her face bright with joy.

“They find merit in my work. They truly wish to publish it.”

“Of course they do,” Darcy replied, his own expression warm with pride. “Anyone with sense would recognise the quality of your writing.”

In her elation, Elizabeth acted without thought. She rose swiftly and threw her arms around Darcy’s neck, pressing against him in a moment of pure, unguarded celebration.

“Thank you,” she breathed against his shoulder. “Without your help, I could never have completed the manuscript in time.”

Darcy froze, as if shocked by their sudden proximity. Then his arms encircled her waist, returning her embrace with equal warmth. Elizabeth became suddenly, acutely aware of their position—the nearness of him, his scent, the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek.

She began to draw back, conscious of having overstepped the bounds of propriety, but before she could fully withdraw, Darcy’s hand came up to touch her cheek, his fingers light yet warm against her skin.

Their eyes met. Elizabeth saw something in his gaze—a vulnerability, a question, a hope that seemed to mirror her own confused feelings.

Then he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss was gentle—a question rather than a demand. When he pulled back slightly, Elizabeth remained still, unsure what had happened. Darcy searched her face, and whatever he found there must have encouraged him, for he leaned forward once more.

The second kiss was different—deeper, less tentative. Elizabeth’s body responded as she pressed against him ever so slightly.

All too soon, clarity returned. She stepped back, her hand rising unconsciously to her lips.

“Forgive me,” Darcy said immediately, his voice altered. “I should not have presumed—”

“No, please,” Elizabeth interrupted, struggling to gather her thoughts. “There is nothing to forgive. The fault was mine. In my excitement, I forgot myself.”

“The fault was entirely mine,” he insisted. “I took advantage of the moment in a manner most ungentlemanlike.”

Elizabeth could not meet his eyes, focusing instead on straightening her sleeve, though it needed no adjustment.

“We must consider the journey to London,” Darcy said at length. “Nocturne Publishing will expect a prompt response.”

Elizabeth seized upon this change of subject. “Yes, of course. How soon might we depart?”

“Within the week, if that suits. The roads should be good at this season.” He hesitated, then added, “We shall need to consider our accommodations carefully. London will present challenges we have not yet faced together.”

“How so?”

“Our families reside nearby. We have thus far avoided society’s scrutiny, but a visit to Town will make such continued isolation impossible.”

Elizabeth nodded, her mind focusing on these logistical concerns as a welcome distraction from the lingering sensation of his lips upon hers. “You are right, of course. We must prepare for such encounters.”

“We might also call upon your family in Hertfordshire,” Darcy suggested, his tone carefully even. “Netherfield Park is let to Bingley, as you know. We could break our journey there.”

“It would be lovely to see Jane again,” Elizabeth admitted, though the prospect of facing her parents after her precipitous departure filled her with apprehension. “And to witness this attachment that appears to be forming between her and Mr Bingley.”

“Then it is settled. I shall write to Bingley tomorrow to inform him of our impending visit.”

The considerations stood in stark contrast to the intimate moment they had just shared, yet neither seemed prepared to address it directly. Elizabeth gathered her letters, aware that something fundamental had shifted between them. Something that could not be undone or easily dismissed.

“I should retire,” she said, moving towards the door. “It has been a most eventful evening.”

Darcy bowed slightly; his expression guarded. “Of course. Goodnight, Elizabeth.”

“Goodnight.”

As she climbed the grand staircase towards her chambers, Elizabeth’s thoughts wandered. Her feelings had evolved in a way she had not anticipated. Whether Darcy’s kiss had been a momentary impulse or the revelation of deeper feelings, she could not discern with certainty.

What she knew was this: their journey to London would test not only the strength of their peculiar union, but the nature of her own heart as well.