Chapter 9
9
E lizabeth had never felt such despair.
Her conversation with Mr. Collins had left her feeling hollow, suffocated, utterly without hope.
Was this truly to be her life? A husband who spoke of turnips with more enthusiasm than his future wife? Who saw no reason for her to think, to decide, to have a voice in her own home?
Elizabeth had thought she was strong enough to endure it. That she could accept this fate with grace, with dignity, with sacrifice.
But as she had sat there, listening to his endless monologue about accounting, the truth had finally settled over her.
She could not do this.
She did not know what she would do instead, but she could not do this.
And so, without thinking, she had found herself leaving Rosings.
Her feet had carried her down the stone path leading to the grove of trees, past the manicured hedges and trimmed roses, toward the wilder part of the estate where the world was quieter, softer, untouched by the hands of society.
She did not mean to find him.
But somehow—she was not surprised when she saw him, again, as she always did.
Mr. Darcy stood beneath the shade of an old oak, his hands tucked behind his back, his head tilted as though lost in thought.
Elizabeth’s heart lurched violently at the sight of him.
For a moment, she considered turning back, considered saving herself from whatever this was becoming.
But then—he turned.
And their gazes collided.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, finally, Elizabeth found her voice.
"Are you avoiding me, Mr. Darcy?" she asked lightly, though her pulse was anything but steady.
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, brief but real.
"No," he said simply.
Elizabeth tilted her head. "Are you certain? It has been quite some time since our last…" She hesitated. "Conversation."
Darcy exhaled slowly, his gaze searching hers. “If you are counting the minutes as am I, you are correct. There have been many minutes since our last encounter.” He grinned. "Do you wish to walk?"
She did.
Desperately.
She fell into step beside him as they ventured deeper into the grove.
The trees were tall and golden, their leaves whispering softly in the breeze.
For a time, they spoke of everything and nothing—of the estate, of the changing seasons.
But their hands—They brushed against each other once, then twice—and neither of them pulled away.
Elizabeth’s breath hitched, but she did not move her fingers.
Neither did he.
His knuckles grazed hers again, and again, and again, until the warmth of his touch became a brand against her skin.
The path narrowed, and their shoulders pressed together as they walked, their bodies closer than they had ever allowed before.
She turned slightly, daring to glance at him, and saw that his gaze was fixed on the ground ahead, his jaw set, his entire being taut with restraint.
The sight of him—so composed, so in control, and yet so visibly affected by the simplest touch?—
It undid her.
Elizabeth stopped.
Without thinking, without planning, without fear, she stopped.
She turned, stepping away from the path, pressing her back against the rough bark of a towering tree. “I had the most unbearable discussion with Mr. Collins just now.”
Darcy stopped too.
He turned to face her, standing so close, his breath uneven, his gaze dark and unreadable.
The wind stirred the leaves above them, the world around them distant, unreal.
Slowly, carefully, he stepped toward her until he was near enough to touch, close enough she could see the veins in his neck.
His chest rose and fell unevenly, his breath warm against her skin.
She could see the tension in his jaw, the battle waging in his eyes.
And then—his lips parted, his voice rough, raw, aching—"There must be a way."
Elizabeth’s breath hitched painfully. "A way for what?" she whispered.
"For this," he said.
The space between them was barely a breath now.
For a wild, reckless moment, she thought he might kiss her.
She knew she would let him.
But he did not.
They did not.
Instead, they stood there, trapped in a moment that should not exist, that could not exist, but did.
Elizabeth did not know how much time passed.
She only knew that she did not want to leave this place, this moment, this man.
Finally, Darcy exhaled slowly, stepping back—just slightly, just enough.
She saw a promise in his eyes.
This was not over.
She found herself clinging to the wild hope that ravaged her heart.