She could feel heat radiating from him. From his words, his smoldering eyes—his body which could so easily cover hers.
“I can’t explain it, but you know me better than anyone.” Mr. Darcy’s blue eyes burned down into hers. A lock of dark hair fell onto his forehead. “Elizabeth. My sweet Elizabeth. You are shaking.”
“I am not.” Her voice wavered as she answered.
“Elizabeth.” He stepped back and took her right fist in his hands. She watched in wonder as he slowly opened each finger, revealing her palm and studying it. Why do I not move? she wondered.
Because she wanted to find out what he might do next.
Mr. Darcy held her carefully, then traced a light finger down the center of her palm.
Perhaps she was shaking. Just a little.
And then Mr. Darcy turned her palm over, bent his head and kissed her raised hand, his lips moving so lightly that she could barely feel them.
“Stop.” She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. But when she closed them, it was worse, because now her entire world was narrowed down to the gentle motion of his thumb, caressing her wrist.
She opened her eyes to watch him slowly turn her palm back over and gently allow each finger to reform into a fist, as if rewrapping a present. And then his lips, firm and warm and soft, pressed once more onto the top of her hand.
“I am not your former husband, Elizabeth. I will always listen to you. I will stop when you tell me to.”
Elizabeth was frozen, her entire world narrowed down to the place where his lips had just burned her—branded her.
She realized he held her hand still. She could not allow this to happen—she could not focus on whatever this was, while people were being attacked!
“You will always listen to me? And yet you order me about—telling me to leave my dearest sister!”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes grew more heated. When he spoke, his voice was a low bass that rumbled through her body. “I want you to leave so that you will be safe. And why do you always sacrifice your own happiness for Jane’s? Of course we will keep Jane safe. I will send her wherever Charles wants and hire guards. You and your mother and other sisters may take my carriage to London—"
A door opened down the hallway and Elizabeth quickly withdrew her hand as Dr. Abernathy approached. He cleared his throat, knowing he had interrupted something. Then he stared at Mr. Darcy pointedly and said, “Sir, my patient wishes to speak to you—and only you.”
She watched Mr. Darcy inhale slowly. “I will be there in a moment.”
Mr. Abernathy studied the two of them with interest, before returning to Caroline’s chambers. As soon as he was gone, Mr. Darcy turned to her.
“I want you to take my carriage and go with your mother and sisters to London.”
Elizabeth felt her mouth drop open.
“It is not safe here!” he argued.
“How do you know?” Elizabeth began to pace. Her hand still tingled from where he had kissed it. “Perhaps this madman has fled? All the guests are leaving, how are we ever to discover who it was?”
Mr. Darcy cursed under his breath, moving to the top of the stairs and staring down in anger. Elizabeth joined him, and sure enough, there was a great commotion as footmen and maids carried trunks and packages to and fro.
“They can’t leave yet,” Mr. Darcy growled. “We need to question each and every person—”
“I agree, but it is too late. You need to question Caroline,” Elizabeth said. She met his eyes and tried not to care that he looked stricken by her cold tone. “She most likely saw her attacker. And whatever the relationship between the two of you, if she will speak to anyone—it will be you, Mr. Darcy.”
“Elizabeth.” He reached for her hand, but then slowly withdrew without touching her.
“My name is Mrs. Allerton, Sir. And you know nothing about me. I do not sacrifice my happiness for my sister’s. I do not—”
Elizabeth heard Jane’s voice before she saw her, running down from the nursery. “Lizzy! There you are!” Jane arrived in a swirl of skirts, completely unaware of the tension that crackled like a flame between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.
“Lizzy, you must leave at once. Mama is hysterical and I cannot have her here. If this awful intruder doesn’t attack her, Charles might. Don’t you agree, Mr. Darcy?”
Mr. Darcy did not take his eyes from Elizabeth’s when he replied. “I do not believe Mrs. Allerton would heed my advice. But whatever you ask of her, I am sure she shall do.”
And then he bowed and went to Caroline’s rooms. Elizabeth watched him go, her throat closing up and her eyes burning.
“Lizzy, really, you must help Mama pack and take her away.”
Elizabeth nodded woodenly, barely hearing Jane’s rambling.
“Are you listening? You can go. Mr. Darcy will stay and assist us. We don’t need you here, Lizzy,” Jane said, heedless of how those words cut deep.
But it was more than that, Elizabeth realized. She might have defied Jane, in the end, and stayed to help Charles however she could. But it was the memory of Mr. Darcy’s searing blue eyes that stayed with her.
They hadn’t been angry.
They had been passionate.
They had been wild.
They had been something she had not seen in a long time.
And when Mr. Darcy looked at her like that, she forgot herself. She had to flee, for that was the most terrifying thing in the entire world.
22
Elizabeth
Dearest Lizzy,
I am glad that Aunt and Uncle Gardiner are well, though I am sorry to hear about the dropped teapot.
I am so grateful that you were able to accompany Mama and Lydia to London. To be honest, though you know I would never speak ill of our beloved mother, if she had remained at Netherfield for the past two weeks, it would have made a trying situation that much harder.
After you left, Mr. Darcy attempted to conduct a thorough investigation. Alas, everyone he questioned knew nothing. Caroline sadly says that she never saw her attacker and so we are at a loss, though with the house back to just us, I feel very safe. Caroline has returned to London as of yesterday. Perhaps you will call on her? She is not herself since the attack and I fear she will have a permanent scar across her brow.
How lovely to read that Mary and Albert have reached their new home safely. I heard from Kitty—her Martin has twisted his ankle and is quite cross with himself for foolishly jumping over that low stone wall. (I should not lecture, but that is what brandy on a Sunday will do.)
Please give my love to Mama, Lydia, Aunt and Uncle and all our cousins. Oh! And if you have not yet opened the package, please know it is from Mr. Darcy. He asked me to keep them for you, but I felt you might want them as soon as possible. How I pray they arrive safely to your care!
Yours affectionately,
Jane
“La, what did you get? I knew you went shopping without me!” Lydia burst into the Gardiners’ drawing room, a biscuit in one hand and her other pointing at the paper-wrapped package on Elizabeth’s lap.
“I did no such thing,” Lizzy said, gently slapping her sister’s hand away as Lydia tried to grab the large and heavy parcel. “And I have no idea what this is.”
A package from Mr. Darcy? There was no way she would open it in front of Lydia.
Lydia threw herself down on the settee and forced the rest of the biscuit into her mouth. “Whoseet frum?”
“Chew and swallow first, my dear!” Mrs. Bennet came bustling in, still wearing her morning gown. “And we must get dressed. Your aunt wishes to go to Leicester Square to see Miss Linwood’s exhibition.”
“Whose?” Lydia said, already yawning.
“I have no idea,” whispered their mother. “But we need to get out and see the city!”
“She means you, Lizzy,” Lydia said. “Now that you’ve let Mr. Gladwell and Mr. Darcy slip away, Mama’s intent to get you married off before you run home and hide again.”
>
“I am not running anywhere. Or hiding,” Elizabeth said. “And men are not fish. They cannot just slip away.”
Mrs. Bennet frowned as she peered out the window. “Of course men are not fish! How awful and scaly they would be! But be assured, men can most definitely slip away—and be caught. I don’t see why you choose not to try and catch another husband!”
“Mama,” Elizabeth groaned.
“And I still don’t see why you had to come with us back to London. Mr. Darcy stayed on with your sister for another four days.”
“As did Caroline,” Elizabeth said, perhaps a bit too sharply. “I did not wish to interrupt—the investigation, I mean.”
“Well, I feel badly for Caroline, I suppose,” Lydia said, finally sitting up. “Did you see that awful cut on her, Mama? But she won’t be so high and mighty now, will she? Why, she’ll have to wear hats and bonnets for ages as it heals. So ugly. I’m glad no one slashed my face.”
Mrs. Bennet pulled Lydia to her feet and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “As am I, my darling girl. But who could dare ruin such perfection?”
Lydia ignored her mother’s cooing and sighed. “I’m so bored. Do we really have to go to another museum?”
Mrs. Bennet glanced at Elizabeth, then back at her youngest daughter. “Just do it for me, my darling girl.” From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth could clearly see their mother gesturing at Lizzy and mouthing the words, “Go with her! There might be gentlemen there!”
“I can go with Aunt Gardiner alone,” said Elizabeth.
Mrs. Bennet shook her head. “You will both attend the exhibit.”
“Why don’t you come with us, Mama?” Lydia said.
“M-me?! To see the worsted wool? Oh, I would darling heart, but—my nerves!” Mrs. Bennet began to fan herself assiduously. “I had better stay here and rest. But you!” She pointed at Elizabeth. “You are not wearing that awful brown gown. Come upstairs and put on the blue, or the yellow.”
“Anything else, really,” Lydia said.
“Fine!” Elizabeth said. “I will wear whatever you like. Can you let the maid know of your choice?”
To her surprise, this worked immediately. Her mother and sister left for her rooms, loudly arguing over which pastel made Elizabeth look a little less like a bluestocking. Once they were gone Lizzy turned back to the package with relief.
She had thought about Mr. Darcy every day since she had left Netherfield. She had tried not to—but she had failed. At night, she found herself composing letters to him—letters she knew she could never send. It would not be proper. And yet, here she was, with a package from him.
From Jane, to be precise. But Mr. Darcy had left it for her sister to deliver.
Lizzy shifted its heavy weight and examined the sloping black scrawl on the outside. She did not recognize the masculine handwriting that had carefully and perfectly written her name, but it seemed to fit Mr. Darcy perfectly. She could wait no longer, and so she carefully untied the twine and unfolded the multiple layers of paper. Inside, there was a layer of linen. And once she had unfolded that—
Elizabeth gasped, her eyes filling with tears.
She knew what the gift was before she even read the words. Three books, heavy leather covers, embossed titles…
They were her father’s favorite Shakespeare collections.
“How?” Elizabeth whispered, taking the top leather-bound collection and holding it up to her face. She breathed in deeply and yes—yes!—there it was: the scent of her father’s old rooms at Longbourn. The dust and the candle wax, the pipe smoke and whatever magic was still left of her father’s favorite place on earth.
His library.
“Papa,” she whispered. A tear fell and landed on the leather, staining it too quickly. She shook her head angrily and then wiped her cheeks, then dried the leather. She picked up the second and third volumes, holding them as if they were newborn creatures. How? How had Mr. Darcy found such things?
And then a note fell from inside the last book and onto the floor.
With a shaking hand, she picked it up. It was thick, heavy paper. Expensive. And across the top, in the same confident, sloping handwriting that had been on the outside of the package, she saw her name.
Miss Elizabeth,
Do you know, that for years that was how I thought of you? My memories of you were always “Miss Elizabeth,” she of the wicked wit, and flashing eyes, and the way you danced and danced and danced.
I regret every day of my life, that I did not dance with you the first time I saw you.
Elizabeth stared at the note, breathing hard. What was this? In the distance, she could hear her mother calling for her, but nothing in the world could make her stop reading now.
I should not send you a note. It is not done. And yet, spending my life following rules, doing the proper thing, has not made me happy. Nor has it made anyone in my care joyous. I am tired of doing the proper thing. Still, I am compelled to give this package to your sister. I have a feeling that she will ensure it reaches you. And I am hiding this note—still I follow procedure, and precedent.
Perhaps someday I will be brave enough to leave them behind entirely.
Brave, like you, my dear Miss Elizabeth.
I told you I wrote another letter to you, once, long ago. And then I burned it. I will not make that mistake again. But what I want to say—what I will say to you one day—is not for this missive.
For now, please know I regret that we argued before you left for London. Someday—hopefully soon—I will tell you what I know of Caroline Doughton. Some part of me wanted to protect her and her privacy. Not because I have any sort of relationship with her, outside of a sisterly one because of my friendship with her brother. But because I am a brother, and because of my loyalty to Charles Bingley, I did not tell you her secrets.
But I now realize that there is only one person I need be loyal to, for the rest of my life.
Have I sparked your curiosity, Miss Elizabeth?
You asked me, in righteous anger, where I had disappeared to when I was missing from Netherfield for several hours. The answer is now in your hands. I rode to Longbourn and spoke with your cousin and his wife. Thankfully, though Mr. Collins was difficult, his wife was rational and happy to assist me. She sends her deep affection. I left your former home with three of your father’s books.
Perhaps one day you might find a new home for them, in a library such as the one you and your father so deeply loved.
Elizabeth looked up to find one of the maids staring at her, hesitantly.
“Mrs. Allerton?” the girl whispered. “I’ve been sayin’ your name for five minutes. Are you quite well, ma’am? Did ye fall asleep?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, her voice hoarse. She swallowed and looked back down at the note.
It was signed only with one large letter D. She traced its bold curves.
“I am well,” she said softly. “And I am most definitely awake.”
23
Darcy
“You’re not still mad at me, are you now?”
Darcy looked up from his book to find his cousin staring at him.
“No, Oliver,” he said. “And since when do you spend time in the library?”
Fitzwilliam grunted, entering the Georgiana’s library slowly, as if he expected Darcy might charge him at any moment.
Because I might, Darcy thought wickedly. And then smiled.
“You only ever call me ‘Oliver’ when you’re furious with me.”
Darcy looked up and smiled again. He knew it was not a pleasant grin, and it caused even his battle-hardened cousin to pale slightly. “You’ve been in love with Georgiana for years and never once told me. It might take me some time to accept all this, Oliver.”
Fitzwilliam raised his hands as if in surrender, then motioned at someone behind Darcy. Darcy turned to see a footman carrying a heavy tray of multiple decanters and two crystal glasses.
“Trying to bribe me with more French wine?” D
arcy said, pretending to return to his book but watching as Fitzwilliam filled one glass almost to the brim.
“Not at all. I’m trying to bribe you with cheap English brandy.”
Darcy set the book to his side and took a glass, clinking his cup against his cousin’s. Fitzwilliam threw his long, lean body into the chair opposite him. “What are you reading?”
“Do you care?”
“No.”
Darcy couldn’t help but respond with a real smile this time. “And how is my dear sister?”
“Pacing frantically in the gardens. To be honest, I’d rather be in here with you—even if I am surrounded by books, and you might challenge me to a duel at any moment.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I would never challenge you to a duel. You’re too highly trained,” Darcy said.
“Well, thank God for that.”
“I’d hire assassins instead.”
His cousin choked on his laughter, spitting brandy all over his trousers. “Blast it, man!”
Darcy laughed outright now.
“So that’s the secret to your forgiveness? Me making a fool of myself?”
“No, not at all,” Darcy said, taking his own sip of brandy. “Though it is an enjoyable addition to however else you might wish to grovel.”
Fitzwilliam sighed heavily and unconsciously rubbed his left thigh, the spot of an old injury—one that had probably saved his life. If he hadn’t been hurt, he might have gone back to France—and died there. The thought wiped the smile from Darcy’s face.
“I’m not sure which is worse,” groaned Fitzwilliam. “Your devilish smile or your deadly serious face.”
“Oliver, you know I love Georgiana and only want the best for her.”
“As do I.” Fitzwilliam stopped smiling himself, and met his cousin’s eyes. “You know I would never hurt her.”
“I do.” Darcy inhaled dramatically. “And that is why, Fitzwilliam, I refuse to give you my permission to marry her.”
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