Chapter 11
11
D inner at Rosings Park had never been an occasion of ease or comfort, but tonight, the tension was palpable.
Elizabeth sat at the long dining table, barely touching her meal, her thoughts still tangled in the events of the day.
Darcy sat across from her, his expression unreadable, but she could feel his gaze on her, steady, searching.
Mr. Collins, to no one’s surprise, had been particularly talkative, recounting the success of their tenant visits with a great deal more enthusiasm for his own contributions than was warranted.
But even he—oblivious as he was—fell silent when Lady Catherine spoke.
"I have given much thought to the matter," she said, her voice slow and deliberate, as if she were announcing a royal decree.
The entire table stilled.
Lady Catherine tilted her head slightly, her eyes piercing as they settled on Elizabeth. "And I have decided that it is best that your wedding to Mr. Collins be moved forward."
Elizabeth’s breath caught. “Surely not.” She called out before she could stop herself.
She was certain she had misheard.
The entire room went still, the only sound the faint clink of silverware as someone set down a fork too hastily.
Even Mr. Collins—who had never once contradicted Lady Catherine—looked momentarily stunned. His mouth opened, as if he might object. But then, as quickly as the expression had appeared, it was gone, replaced by a nervous chuckle. "Why, Lady Catherine, what an—an unexpected honor," he stammered, though his voice lacked its usual cheerfulness.
Elizabeth felt cold. She gripped the edge of the table, her stomach twisting violently. "Your ladyship," she said, forcing her voice to remain even, "is such a change truly necessary?"
Lady Catherine arched a brow. "Necessary?"
Elizabeth’s fingernails dug into her palm beneath the table.
Lady Catherine waved a dismissive hand. "It is the most logical decision. Mr. Collins' position is secure, the household is prepared, and I see no reason to delay what has already been settled."
Settled.
The word felt like a noose tightening around Elizabeth’s throat.
She could not breathe.
She could not do this.
Across the table, Darcy’s hand curled into a fist.
His expression had not changed, but his eyes—they burned.
Elizabeth could not look at him for long.
She could barely remain in her seat.
Lady Catherine continued speaking, but Elizabeth did not hear a word of it.
Her pulse was too loud, her vision too blurred, her entire body caught between dread and a terrible, shattering truth.
She had to leave.
She had to get out.
She now knew she was the weakest Bennet sister, but even so, she could not go through with this.
Elizabeth did not remember how she got there. She only knew that her feet had carried her to the library, that her hands had pushed open the heavy doors, that she had stumbled inside without a second thought.
And then—he was there.
Darcy.
She tried to speak. She could not.
Her hands were shaking.
Darcy’s gaze flickered downward, catching the tremor in her fingers.
And then—before she could think, before she could stop him—He closed the space between them, his hands warm and steady as they gently wrapped around hers.
Elizabeth let out a breathless sound, something between a sigh and a sob, wrapping her arms around him, she stepped into an embrace, holding onto him like he was the only solid thing left in the world. "I cannot do this," she whispered.
Darcy lowered his head to rest on top of hers.
She swallowed hard, her arms tightening her grip. "I tried," she admitted, her voice breaking. "I truly did. I told myself it was for my family, for my sisters. I thought—" She let out a weak laugh. "I thought I was strong enough."
Darcy exhaled sharply. "You are strong," he said fiercely.
Elizabeth shook her head, her breath unsteady. "Not enough," she whispered. "Not for this."
A pause.
Then—softer, raw, edged with something dangerously close to desperation— "Then do not do it."
Elizabeth’s breath hitched.
Darcy lifted one hand, his fingers brushing against her cheek, so lightly, so carefully, as if he thought she might break.
Her eyes burned, her throat tightened, and she knew—she could not pretend anymore.
"I do not know how to leave this path," she admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Darcy’s expression hardened. "I will find a way," he vowed.
She closed her eyes briefly, exhaling shakily. "You cannot promise that," she said.
"I can," he murmured. "And I do."
She opened her eyes.
He was right there, so close, his breath warm against her lips, his hands steady, unshaken, certain.
She could feel it—the tension, the pull, the weight of everything they had refused to name.
He could kiss her.
She could let him.
But he did not.
Instead—he pulled her against him again, his hands running up and down her back. “Shh. It’s going to be well.”
Elizabeth let out a shaky breath as his arms wrapped around her, solid and warm and grounding. Her hands curled into the fabric of his coat, gripping tightly, anchoring herself to him.
And for the first time in weeks—she felt safe.
For the first time in weeks—she was not alone.
Neither of them spoke.
Neither of them moved.
The crackling of the fire in the library was the only sound, its glow flickering against the shelves, casting shadows that danced across their faces.
"I cannot let you marry him," Darcy murmured into her hair.
Elizabeth swallowed hard. "I cannot marry him," she whispered.
His arms tightened around her.