Page 14

D arcy closed his library door with a soft click and turned the key in the lock—not out of fear of intrusion, but to mark the boundary between the world outside and the sanctuary within.

The lamps were already lit, casting a mellow glow over the spines of well-loved books as he crossed the room and removed his coat.

Then he opened the case of his violin and removed the instrument.

The scent of old varnish rose faintly from the velvet-lined interior, familiar and comforting.

He brushed his fingers along the polished wood, warm and smooth beneath his touch, the gentle curve of the neck fitting perfectly against his palm.

The bow gave a soft rustle as he lifted it free.

For a moment, he stood in stillness, the instrument cradled in his hands.

He did not often play for others, for he had no wish to be judged on how well he entertained.

His music was the one thing he had left from his life before his father’s death that remained entirely his own.

The rest of his life was lived for others—his sister, his other family, his estate and those who depended upon it.

Here, alone in the quiet of his own house after an evening of forced civility and exasperating distractions, Darcy let the bow fall into rhythm across the strings, the first long note seeming to draw a sigh from the room.

The music was not cheerful. It was not even composed.

He let his fingers find their own path, coaxing melody from memory and emotion, letting sorrow and vexation bleed into sound.

The loneliness of restraint, the ache of Miss Bennet’s pained expression, the iron discipline that kept him from reaching for her hand when she was near, it all took shape in the trembling resonance of the strings.

In this moment, he was not Mr. Darcy of Pemberley or of any consequence at all, just a man who spoke little and felt deeply.

When he finally lowered the violin, he did not know how much time had passed.

The hush that followed the cessation of sound seemed alive with the echoes of it.

He stood for a long while, head bowed, breath slowing, until the sound faded.

Only then did he lift the violin to return it to its case, the lid closing with a soft, definitive click as if, once again, he had locked away something too precious to survive the light.

He had begun the day with renewed determination.

He had revisited the plan he had crafted at the Abernathys', resolved to implement it with precision: to be courteous, restrained, and respectful without presumption; to offer Miss Bennet glimpses of his character without overwhelming her with unwanted attention; to allow her to lead the tempo of their engagement while he proved himself a man of sense and stability.

It had all sounded so reasonable when rehearsed in the quiet of his chamber.

But then she had looked at him with those eyes so full of wit and wariness, and the entire structure of his strategy crumbled to dust. Every carefully selected phrase had abandoned him, and he had panicked. Instead of conveying admiration, he had catalogued her complexion like a blasted physician.

He turned from the window with a sharp exhale and paced the length of his study, his boots striking the wood in an agitated staccato.

He knew exactly what was wrong—had known from the moment she first looked at him with those impossibly knowing eyes.

Any sense of strategy or cleverness, everything he prided himself on, abandoned him entirely the instant she caught him in her gaze.

Those infuriating, mesmerising eyes that seemed to see straight through every defence he had ever built.

Her figure was light and pleasing, deceptively delicate, yet she had an exasperating way of filling a room with her presence until the very air seemed to hum with his awareness of her.

He was captivated by the way her brow arched when she challenged him, the way her entire countenance lit with intelligence, the way she had looked in her gown at dinner.

How was it possible for one woman to render him so completely, helplessly undone?

A soft knock at the door interrupted his ruminations.

"Enter," he called, straightening his posture and composing his features into what he hoped was an expression of calm authority.

The knob turned, but the door was still locked. Darcy cursed softly. “Just a moment.”

Fitzwilliam strolled in once the lock had been turned, looking far too cheerful for Darcy's current mood.

"Cousin," Fitzwilliam greeted him with an exaggerated bow. "I have come to offer my condolences on your pitiful attempt at gallantry this morning."

Darcy grimaced. "I would prefer not to discuss it."

"No doubt, but I believe it requires thorough examination," Fitzwilliam replied, dropping into a leather armchair with casual ease. "You are usually a precise, strategic man, though women can make fools of us all. We must analyse where your approach failed if you are to improve."

"There is nothing to analyse," Darcy said stiffly. He had already identified the problem, and there was no solution. "I intended a compliment and delivered an insult. The matter is concluded."

Fitzwilliam chuckled. "Do you know, I quite like your Miss Bennet. Most ladies would have simpered and pretended to be flattered no matter what you said. She called you directly to account."

"She would not be my Miss Bennet if she had the choice,'" Darcy replied automatically, though even to his own ears, the protest lacked conviction.

"Ah, but she does not, which is perhaps fortunate for you."

"Neither of us would have chosen these circumstances."

Fitzwilliam studied him for a moment, his normally jovial expression turning serious. "And yet, you have not broken the engagement. Nor, from what I observed, has she."

Darcy resumed his pacing. "It would cause a scandal."

"Since when has Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley concerned himself with what the gossips are spewing?

You have ignored the expectations of society at every turn, refused to dance at assemblies, declined invitations from the most prestigious hostesses, and generally behaved as though the ton's opinion matters not at all. "

"This is different."

"Yes," Fitzwilliam agreed. "Because your heart is involved. And because an innocent lady's reputation is at stake, not merely your own."

Darcy halted his pacing and turned to face his cousin. "She is unlike any woman I have ever met."

"Because she deposited a fish in your lap?" Fitzwilliam suggested with a poorly suppressed grin.

"As humiliating as that moment was, I understand why she did it. No, because she is forthright without being crude, rational without being pedantic, and spirited without being wild," Darcy replied, giving his cousin a quelling look.

“She is a little wild, Darcy.”

"She speaks her mind rather than simpers, and she has an excellent mind so far as I can tell."

"And she is remarkably pretty," Fitzwilliam added.

"Her eyes are extraordinary," Darcy admitted with a sigh. Had he not just been thinking of them? "Particularly when she is amused or outraged."

Fitzwilliam laughed. "You have spent a great deal of time observing her eyes in both states of emotion, it seems.”

Darcy sank into the chair behind his desk. "I fear she must detest me."

"Do you? I cannot say I agree. Today I observed a lady who was annoyed and embarrassed, certainly. Perhaps as you were when you were wearing your dinner. But detestation? No, I saw none of that."

"You did not hear the disdain in her voice when I attempted to explain my earlier comment. And frankly, I deserved it. I do not know why I cannot speak sense around her."

"Ah, yes. 'The effort is noted, sir,'" Fitzwilliam quoted, mimicking Miss Bennet’s crisp tones with disconcerting precision. "That was rather cutting. But not, I think, indicative of contempt."

Darcy raised an eyebrow. "What would you call it, then?"

"Self-defence," Fitzwilliam said simply.

"You had, after all, just told her she looked unwell when you first met her.

Most ladies take great pains with their appearance, particularly at a ball.

To be told one has failed in that regard is no small matter.

She did not wish to have her feelings hurt again. "

Darcy groaned.

"What I find most intriguing," Fitzwilliam continued, "is that you care so much about her opinion. I cannot recall a time you were so concerned about offending someone who is not family, and certainly not a lady you scarcely know."

"I have agreed to marry her," Darcy said. "She will be my family, and it would be preferable if we could at least be civil to one another."

"Civil?" Fitzwilliam echoed with a smirk.

"My dear cousin, I believe your aspirations extend well beyond civility.” He stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles.

“You are always so precise in your planning. The fools at Whitehall could learn much about strategy from you, and Pemberley runs like clockwork under your hand. But romantic conquest? You are discovering that it is an entirely different game.”

“You are enjoying this.”

“I must admit that I am.”

Darcy glared at his cousin. "Is there a purpose to this visit beyond tormenting me?"

"Indeed there is. Mother’s art salon is on Friday, and you have not responded to her invitation. She was concerned your secretary had lost it.”

Darcy closed his eyes. “Is that this week?”

“Yes. She thinks it would be an ideal time to introduce Miss Bennet to the ton, and requests that you have her arrive a little early so that she can speak with her before the guests arrive.”

“I am not certain Miss Bennet is ready to face the ton yet.”