Page 23 of The Same Noble Line (Darcy and Elizabeth Happily Ever Afters)

E lizabeth focused on the backgammon board set between her and Mr. Darcy. She had not expected him to accept her teasing suggestion the day before that they might play, but here he was, his concentration entirely fixed on the game. His intensity amused her, but it also stirred a certain appreciation.

“Do you approach all your endeavours with such dedication?” she inquired lightly as she moved her man.

He glanced up, the barest hint of a smile softening his features. “I have not played since Cambridge, Miss Bennet. I am attempting to make a decent showing.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Are you worried I might outwit you?”

“I am always concerned about that,” he replied, reaching for the dice.

Her quiet laugh was overshadowed by a raucous one from across the room, where Colonel Fitzwilliam had clearly charmed Lydia into forgetting any pretence of decorum.

“How close are you and Colonel Fitzwilliam?” she asked, glancing toward the colonel.

“Very,” Darcy replied without hesitation. He advanced his men. “We are like brothers, though we are cousins by blood. He has been my confidant since childhood.”

Elizabeth nodded approvingly. “That speaks well of you both. I notice that he has applied himself to distracting my youngest sisters so that you may speak with me in some semblance of privacy. Shall you return the favour when it is his time to court a young lady?”

Mr. Darcy’s brow furrowed before he said, wryly, “I am not certain I would be of much assistance. Charm has never been my particular talent.”

Elizabeth looked at him with shy amusement, her fingers lightly brushing one of the game pieces. “I think you are doing a fine job with me.”

His gaze flicked to hers, and if she was not mistaken, his breathing quickened before he schooled his features. “High praise, Miss Bennet.”

She felt her cheeks warming and lowered her eyes. Instead, her fingers deftly moved one of her men into a position that captured his. “I am pleased Papa suggested backgammon, for watching you attempt to regain control of the board has been quite entertaining.”

“Apparently, charm is not a particularly effective bulwark against defeat.” Mr. Darcy rolled the dice.

Elizabeth tilted her head to one side, feigning thoughtfulness. “Perhaps social adeptness is overrated in such matters. Strategy and intellect are far more reliable allies.”

Mr. Darcy’s lips twitched, though his focus remained on the board. She noticed that the dark circles beneath his eyes were much lighter than they had been. “Then I fear I am doubly outmatched.”

“I think you are trying to distract me with all this flattery,” she replied archly. “But it will not work.”

“Foiled again” was his dry reply.

“Only because you have underestimated me,” she teased, sliding another of her men into position and capturing another of his. “But do not despair, Mr. Darcy. You are learning.”

“Learning to lose gracefully, it seems,” he said, advancing one of his remaining men. “Though I confess, I would prefer to delay that lesson a little longer.”

Elizabeth chuckled, her fingers poised over the dice. “A noble effort, but I fear it may be in vain. Perhaps your Cambridge training was not as rigorous as you thought.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It was rigorous enough, I assure you, though some time past. Perhaps you are simply a superior opponent.”

She rolled the dice with an air of triumph. “A concession, Mr. Darcy? I shall forever treasure this moment.”

He merely shook his head at her, but Elizabeth fancied she saw a little smile flit briefly across his face.

The game continued, their conversation weaving through the steady clatter of dice and movement of pieces. Across the room, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s animated storytelling drew gasps from Lydia and Kitty, while they could hear, from down the hall, Mary’s hesitant attempts at the pianoforte being met with encouragement from Miss Darcy. Even Mamma’s voice could be heard calling for Mrs. Hill somewhere in another room, though it was not, thank goodness, a screech. But amidst all the noise and bustle of the house, Elizabeth became increasingly absorbed in this contest with him—not the game, but their conversation.

When Elizabeth finally placed her last piece and declared victory, she leaned back with a smile that was both sweet and undeniably smug. “And that, Mr. Darcy, is how one trounces an opponent.”

He surveyed the board with mock gravity. “I am undone, Miss Bennet.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she replied breezily. “You strike me as remarkably resilient.”

His expression was contemplative. “Perhaps we should try another game. Chess, perhaps?”

Elizabeth rose, shaking her head with playful defiance. “Oh, no. I have no intention of leaving my field of victory. Why risk tarnishing my reputation?”

Mr. Darcy chuckled, rising as well. “A sound strategy, though I cannot promise I will not seek a rematch.”

“Rematches are for those who desire redemption,” she teased. “I am quite satisfied with the outcome as it stands.”

There was a glimmer of challenge in Mr. Darcy’s eyes. “And here I thought you enjoyed a challenge, Miss Bennet. Surely you would not deny me the opportunity to reclaim my honour?”

Elizabeth folded her arms, pretending to consider. “It does seem rather unsporting, does it not?”

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady. “It seems as though you are afraid to play me again for fear of losing this time. I thought you possessed of more courage.”

She smiled. Apparently, he knew the best way to convince her to do something was to challenge her, but she wished to tease him just a bit longer, for she never knew quite how he would respond. “I would call it calculated retreat.”

“Calculated,” he repeated wryly. “I see. Are you truly so unwilling to risk your throne, or” —he bent down to speak in her ear”—do you simply wish to prolong having my attention fixed on you?”

Elizabeth felt the heat creeping up her neck but refused to let him win the moment. “Ah, there it is. A glimpse of Mr. Darcy’s legendary arrogance. I was wondering when it might make a reappearance.”

“Not arrogance,” he countered smoothly. “Merely observation.”

They stared at one another without blinking, but ultimately, Elizabeth smiled first.

“Very well, Mr. Darcy.” She waved at the board. “Since you are so eager to face defeat again, I shall indulge you. Another game it is.”

Mr. Darcy offered her a little bow. “I am honoured, Miss Bennet. Shall we reset the board?”

“Certainly,” she said, sitting down again with a playful gleam in her eye. “But be warned: I expect no excuses this time when I win.”

“Excuses?” He huffed in an exaggerated manner and began arranging the pieces. “I believe it is you who will be searching for them by the end of this game.”

Elizabeth leaned over the board as they began anew. There was something exhilarating about sparring with Mr. Darcy, something that made her reluctant to let the moment slip away. He had been right, though she would never admit it. She liked having his attentions all to herself.

Darcy followed Miss Bennet into her father’s book room, his eyes tracing the rows of well-loved volumes lining the shelves. The space was smaller and less grand than Darcy’s library in town, but as he had noted the first time he entered it, this was clearly the sanctuary of a fellow bibliophile. William Paley’s Natural Theology , Isaac Newton’s Principia Mathematica, Gilbert White’s The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne. Mr. Bennet had a bent towards science and the natural world, then.

Miss Bennet turned to him, a book already in hand. “This was always my favourite retreat growing up,” she said with a smile. “My father allowed me to read whatever I pleased, though I confess I made some very peculiar choices as a child.”

“Truly? What did you read as a girl, if I may ask?”

A deep male voice spoke from a chair facing the window. “ Samuel Hearne’s A Journey from Prince of Wales's Fort in Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean . There was one summer her mother had to tell her she could not bring a book to the table.” Mr. Bennet rose from the chair whose high back had hidden him rather effectively. “Though I suppose her warnings were as much for my benefit as Elizabeth’s.”

Miss Bennet smiled fondly at her father. “You have never given up that old trick.”

“Because your mother still has never found me.” He sneezed. “And I was about to reveal myself anyway.” He sneezed again.

“ Papa ,” she said with an affectionate sort of exasperation. “Bless you.”

Darcy’s lips quirked. “And what is your current preference?”

She scanned the shelves thoughtfully, the very tip of her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth and making him look hurriedly away.

“Something to read aloud, I think. Do you enjoy poetry, Mr. Darcy?”

“I do,” he replied, “though I must admit I read more essays than verse.”

Miss Bennet held up a slim volume of Wordsworth sonnets for her father to approve. When he nodded, she turned back to Darcy. “Perhaps this will convert you.”

“I thought sonnets starved love rather than fed it,” he said, referring to a debate they had held at Netherfield some months ago.

But she was not to be bested, and he enjoyed her pert reply even more than winning a point.

“Perhaps I intend to put you to the test, Mr. Darcy.” She arched a single brow at him, which could not fail to make him smile. “If you do not flee, I shall know it is a strong sort of inclination that you feel for me.”

“Lead on, Miss Bennet.”

They settled near the fire, the book between them. Darcy marvelled at the difference between last autumn, when he had presumed Miss Bennet had been flirting with him and now, when she was no longer afraid.

The idea struck him hard. She had actually been afraid of him. Not in any physical way, but of his disdain. He had been protecting himself against the hold she seemed to have on him, but he had not considered how that might affect her.

Her voice, soft yet confident, was very different today, far more natural. “Breathless with adoration; the broad sun/Is sinking down in its tranquillity;/The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea . . .” Darcy watched her lips as she spoke, the curve of her mouth and the animation of her features as compelling as the words themselves.

From the hall came the cheerful strains of a lively tune, one of Georgiana’s favourites, punctuated by Mrs. Bennet’s loud, effusive praise and Miss Lydia’s enthusiastic clapping. Darcy smiled faintly, thankful that Georgiana was also willing to engage with the Bennets so that he might have some time with Elizabeth to himself—chaperoned by Mr. Bennet, of course.

When Elizabeth handed him the book to choose a poem, he turned to “Intimations of Immortality.” He began, his voice lifting and dropping in a familiar cadence. He closed his eyes and recited from memory. "Though nothing can bring back the hour/ Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;/ We will grieve not, rather find/Strength in what remains behind."

The words always nestled deeply into his heart as he thought about those he had lost. But this time, the pain was lessened, because of who he hoped to gain.

“You know it by heart,” she said softly, her fingers resting lightly on his arm. “I would not have guessed that poetry spoke to you in such a way.”

Darcy met her gaze, his usual reserve giving way to something more open, more vulnerable. “Wordsworth writes of a kind of loss and hope that I find familiar.”

A gruff voice interrupted from near the window. “Rather poignant. And yet, I cannot help but wonder, Mr. Darcy, if it is entirely wise to burden my daughter with such philosophical musings. Should courtship not involve a touch more levity? Or is this a modern approach?”

Startled, Darcy turned to see Mr. Bennet leaning against the chair he had vacated, watching them with sardonic amusement. Elizabeth bit her lip, clearly suppressing a laugh.

“Papa,” she said with mock sternness, “I believe you have spent too much time in your own company. Perhaps you would prefer to entertain Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

“Rescue him, more like,” her father replied, gesturing toward the lively sounds from the hall. “Let us all go.”

Darcy rose, mortified. But Elizabeth touched the back of her hand to the back of his and gave him an encouraging nod.

It helped.

Mr. Bennet straightened and waved them toward the door with exaggerated solemnity. “Come along, then.” His clap on Darcy’s back was unexpectedly strong. “If you insist upon waxing poetic, Mr Darcy, I shall do my utmost to ensure you do not turn my daughter into a philosopher. I have spent years cultivating her wit—too much gravitas may well spoil the crop.”

It was a strange jest—Mr. Bennet seemed to imply that Elizabeth lacked seriousness, when anyone could see she was an intelligent woman who chose to meet the world with warmth and wit. It was part of what he so admired about her.

“Papa,” Miss Bennet remonstrated. “Mr. Darcy will think you are serious.”

Darcy’s discomfort eased as they stepped back into the pleasant whirl of the drawing room. He had never understood his own father’s humour, either. The thought came to him unbidden, and he pushed it away.

2 February 1812

My Dearest Lizzy,

Mr. Darcy has asked to call. What a turn of events! I confess myself intrigued, though not entirely surprised. When we spent time together, all of us in the crowded drawing room at Longbourn, I suspected that Mr. Darcy’s admiration for you ran deeper than appearances might suggest. That he has approached you openly speaks well of him; it shows not only admiration of your person, but the sort of respect you could not be happy without.

You ask whether you should trust your feelings as they are so new. My dear Lizzy, it is precisely because they are new that you must approach them with care but not distrust. Let them grow naturally, without forcing them into certainty or dismissing them out of fear. A courtship is not a declaration; it is a period of discovery. Use it to learn about Mr. Darcy as he truly is, beyond what you have seen in his moments of pride or reserve. Look for consistency in his actions, for kindness toward yourself and others, and for a willingness to listen and adapt when circumstances demand it.

You must also consider your own heart. Do you respect him? Do you admire the man you have come to know? Do you feel at ease in his presence, able to speak your mind without fear of judgment? These are the foundations upon which affection grows into something lasting.

Let his actions guide you more than his words, and do not hesitate to ask questions when you feel the need for clarity. A man worth loving will never shy away from honest discourse.

Finally, my dear, remember that your happiness is as important as his. A marriage founded on duty or expectation alone cannot stand the tests of life. It is only when two people meet as equals, sharing respect, friendship, and affection, that they can build something enduring.

Write to me again soon, and do not hesitate to share your thoughts. You have always had a discerning mind, Lizzy, and I trust that now you have a reason, you will also find your way to the truth of your own heart.

Your loving aunt,

M. Gardiner

Elizabeth folded the letter and placed it back in the drawer of her writing desk. She had read it a dozen times since its arrival a few days past.

Mr. Darcy had been a constant presence over the past week, his daily visits accompanied by his cousin and his sister. Each visit revealed another facet of the man she thought she had known. He had surprised her—delighted her, even—with his quiet attentions and unfailing courtesy, not only to her but to her family. There was no hint of his former stiffness when he addressed her mother, and with her younger sisters, he was kind, though firm in deflecting Lydia's overly familiar remarks.

His interactions with the Gardiners during their Christmas visit had already impressed her. He had not merely tolerated their company but offered every appearance of enjoying it. The easy camaraderie he had shared with her uncle over matters of trade, estate management, and fishing, of course, spoke to a man unafraid to value merit over social status. How wrong she had been to think him insufferably proud. He had only wanted to be put at ease for him to become quite affable. He would never be entirely easy in company, but Elizabeth thought that might be something with which she could assist him.

Elizabeth's thoughts turned to Miss Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. She liked Miss Darcy immensely, and not only because her younger sisters seemed to be improving under her quiet influence. Miss Darcy’s reticence had softened into genuine warmth as they all spent time together. The girl’s admiration for her brother was evident, as was her own growing approval of Elizabeth. Colonel Fitzwilliam, too, had proved to be both witty and insightful as well as clearly fond of his cousins. It was reassuring to think that, should she marry Mr. Darcy, these two would not only support the match but might also become dear friends.

Her aunt’s advice echoed in her mind: Look for consistency in his actions, for kindness toward yourself and others. Had he not already shown her both? His attentions were deliberate and steady. When she spoke, he truly listened, and though he did not always agree, he engaged her with a thoughtful respect that felt as new as it was exhilarating. Over the past days he had even sought her opinion on improvements to Pemberley’s tenants’ cottages, and his honest interest in her ideas was a compliment that gratified her deeply.

But what of her heart? Her aunt’s words encouraged her to trust it, to allow her feelings to grow naturally. Her admiration for him, already established, was rapidly increasing, and the many facets of his character were intriguing to her. Above all, there was a sense that Mr. Darcy valued her, which was a more substantial compliment than the studied, flowery praises that some suitors were known to bestow. Mr. Darcy was a serious man. She had never considered, before, how safe, how secure such a man might make her feel.

A soft knock at the door interrupted Elizabeth’s thoughts. “Miss Lizzy,” Hill said as she peeked in. “Mr. Darcy has called. Your mother is receiving him downstairs.”

Elizabeth’s heart gave an unexpected flutter, and she scolded herself for it even as she rose. “Thank you, Hill. I shall be down shortly.”

As the housekeeper withdrew, Elizabeth crossed to the glass. She adjusted a wayward curl and pulled her loveliest shawl from London over her shoulders with a nervous energy she could not quite explain. She glanced at her reflection and then laughed quietly at herself. How absurd to fuss over her appearance now, as though Mr. Darcy had not seen her at her most bedraggled, utterly dishevelled and her hems covered in mud when she had arrived at Netherfield to care for Jane. If anything, that image of her would be etched into his memory more vividly than whatever impression she might make now.

Still, she could not deny wanting to look her best, not for vanity’s sake—well, not entirely—but because something in the way he treated her made her feel cherished. She pressed her fingers to her cheeks, which had grown warm with the thought, and took a steadying breath.

This was love.

As it settled in her mind, the admission felt less daunting than it might have before Jane’s wedding. She had despised him all autumn and then had been confused by him for more than a month. Now she wondered how well she really knew herself. Had she been wishing for his good opinion all along?

She had believed she was well on her way, that her heart was no longer hers alone. But now her feelings had grown too strong to ignore.

With one last look in the glass, Elizabeth left her room and made her way downstairs, anticipation building with every step.