Chapter 3
3
T he morning light streamed through the grand windows of Rosings Park, casting long golden beams over the polished floors of the breakfast room. Elizabeth satas properly as she could manage, her hands folded neatly in her lap, while Lady Catherine de Bourgh presided over the table with an air ofimmovable authority.
Mr. Collins, already on histhird speech of the morning, sang Lady Catherine’s praises between mouthfuls of food, his voicereverent and cloying.
Elizabeth hardly heard him.
Her attention wasunwillingly drawn elsewhere.
Mr. Darcy sat directly across from her,silent, composed, unreadable. His dark eyes did not linger on her, but every now and then—just briefly—his gaze would flicker in her direction,watching her when he thought she was not watching him.
She did not understand him.
Why did he look at her this way?Measured. Searching. Intense.
What did he hope to gain from such an exercise, she was trapped, unavailable.
She tore her gaze away, lifting her teacup to her lips, but her hand wasnot as steady as she wished it to be.
The meal passed in a torturously long, though delicious manner until her face was heated and her heart beating strange patterns against her bodice.
She had some moments to herself and so after breakfast, Elizabeth excused herself tofind a measure of solitude.
She wandered the halls of Rosings, stopping when she came upon thelibrary doors, slightly ajar.The room beyond was grand, lined withtowering shelves of books, their leather-bound spines glinting in the light of the great windows.
She stepped inside, exhaling softly at the blessed silence.
Relaxation rolled over her as the smell of books welcomed her until she realized she was not alone.
A tall figure stood near the farthest shelves, his back to her, absorbed in a book.
Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth froze.She should leave. She should turn around immediately.
But before she could move, he glanced up, and their eyes met.
For a moment—just a moment—neither of them spoke.
Then he closed his book withmeasured precision, stepping forward. "Miss Bennet."
Elizabeth inclined her head. "Mr. Darcy."
A pause.Long. Heavy. Charged.
"I should not be surprised we meet again. Do you enjoy reading?" he asked at last, his voice quieter than she had ever heard it.
She arched a brow, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Do you?"
Something flickered in his gaze—not amusement, not irritation. Something else.
"You already know the answer," he said.
Elizabeth swallowed.They had indeed discussed books at great length. “As do you.” This felt familiar, too familiar for a woman soon to be married.
She turned toward the shelves, running her fingers over the spines of the books,searching for a safe subject. "I see you do not join the others for morning calls," she said lightly.
"No," he murmured. "I find I prefer the quiet."
His voice wascloser now, the warmth of itcurling along her skin.
Elizabeth’s fingers faltered. She reached for a book—any book—but as she pulled it free, another hand reached for it at the same time.
His hand.
For a breathless second,their fingers touched—barely, fleetingly, but enough to senda jolt of something unbearableup her arm.
Elizabeth inhaled sharply, stepping back.
Darcy froze, his gaze dark, unreadable.
"Forgive me," he said.
Her heartpounded against her ribs."There is nothing to forgive."
But there was.
There was everything to forgive.
She turned swiftly,fleeing before she could make a terrible mistake.
She exited outside the first door she passed. She needed a distraction. She needed some calm. The air outside was crisp and fresh, and Elizabeth took in a steadying breath as she walked along the path that led tothe small grove behind Rosings.
She needed toclear her mind.
She needed toforget the way Darcy had looked at her.
But as she rounded the corner, she heard voices—low, familiar voices drifting from the other side of the hedgerow.
She paused.A maid’s voice.
“—Miss Bennet seems sad,” the woman was saying. “I knew her when she lived near Meryton. I was once in service to Miss Lucas, her dear friend.”
Elizabeth froze.
Her former neighbor, the maid who had once served Charlotte Lucas, was speaking.About her.
The other woman, a Rosings servant, replied, “She is engaged, is she not? To the parson?”
“Yes,” said the maid. “But I do not think she is happy.”
Elizabeth’s breath hitched.
There was a long pause.
Then—her own voice,low, uncertain, unguarded, spoke the words she hadn’t dared utter to anyone outside her family.
"I am not."
The admissionfell from her lips before she could stop it, barely above a whisper, but those three words werethe truest thing she had ever spoken.
Her stomach twisted.
She turned sharply, her boots crunching against the gravel as she moved to leave before she could hear more?—
Andwalked straight into the solid chest of Mr. Darcy.
Elizabethstaggered back, her breath catching in her throat.
Darcy steadied herinstinctively, his hands on her arms,strong, warm, grounding.
Their gazes met.
She saw it in his eyes first.
He had heard her.
He knew.
"Miss Bennet," he said, his voicelow, almost pained.
She tried to step back, but his griplingered—just for a second.
"You should not be here," she whispered.
His jaw tightened. "And yet, here I am." He cleared his throat. “I followed you out, I admit, to see after your welfare. I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”
Another pause.Long. Tense. Breathless.
His hands finally dropped from her arms, butthe warmth remained.
She turned slightly, glancing anywhere but at him.
"Did you know," she blurted, "that Lady Catherine's footmen wear silver buttons? I counted."
Darcy blinked. "You counted."
"Yes," she rushed on. "Thirty-two. A rather excessive number, if you ask me. And one of them is slightly tarnished, which I imagine Lady Catherine would be scandalized to know."
Silence.
Then—a sound she had never expected to hear.
A softhuff of laughter.
She snapped her head back toward him, startled.He was smiling.
Notsmirking, notmocking, butsmiling—a small, fleeting thing, as if it had escaped him before he could stop it.
Elizabethfaltered, something in her chest tighteningtoo much.
"Lady Catherine," she continued, speaking quickly now, as if the words mightfill the space between them, "has very strong opinions about mirrors. Did you know that? She believes round mirrors are an abomination. Only rectangular ones are acceptable. I expect she thinks the circular ones encourage vanity, which is odd, considering she speaks so much of her own fine reflection?—"
"You talk when you are nervous," Darcy observed.
Elizabeth’s mouth snapped shut.
Heat rose in her cheeks.
"I do not," she said,lying blatantly.
The amusement in his eyes deepened. "You do."
Elizabeth exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "And you, sir, are impossibly arrogant to assume you know me so well."
"Perhaps," he murmured, his gazesearching hers, thoughtful, unreadable.
A pause.
Three heartbeats.
“I know it is not my place. But you must know. You deserve to be happy.” His voice was firm, sure, and the message rang so true she could hardly resist him.
Elizabeth swallowed, suddenly breathless again.
"I should go," she whispered.
Darcy studied her forone long, unreadable moment.
Then, finally, he inclined his head. "Good day, Miss Bennet."
Elizabeth turned andwalked away quickly, her heartpounding painfully in her chest.
Behind her, Darcy did not move, watching her disappear into the night withsomething dangerously close to longing.