Chapter 13
Elizabeth did not dare look at Mr. Darcy again.
The music had ended, the company had begun to stir, and yet her body remained fixed in that dangerous corridor, where his voice had lowered, his eyes had fallen to her mouth, and every inch between them had seemed less like distance than restraint.
Even now, with Miss Darcy’s final notes fading into polite applause, Elizabeth could feel the memory of him beneath her skin: the breadth of him standing too near, the roughened sound of her name, the heat in his gaze when her lips had parted before she could prevent it.
Her own dreams had betrayed her, but this was worse, for she was awake now, fully awake, and desire did not fade with the music.
She needed occupation. Immediately.
Miss Darcy still sat at the instrument, flushed and visibly relieved after the exertion of performing before company, and Elizabeth seized upon the sight with something like gratitude.
Here was safety, sweetness, a proper object for attention; here was Mr. Darcy’s beloved sister, shy and gentle, and entirely innocent of the fire her brother had kindled across the room.
Elizabeth approached to thank her, meaning only to be civil and composed, but when Georgiana looked up with such anxious hope, retreat became impossible.
“You play with great feeling,” Elizabeth said, gently. “I hope you know it.”
Miss Darcy’s colour deepened. “You are very kind. I am afraid I am not used to performing before those I do not know well.”
“Then I am honoured you played before me at all.”
Georgiana’s eyes lifted, startled by the warmth of the answer, and then softened. “My brother wished me to try. He says I must not let fear decide too much for me.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a small, painful turn.
Across the room, Mr. Darcy stood in conversation with Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Bingley, but his attention, even from a distance, seemed never wholly removed from his sister.
He was not watching in command, nor with impatience, but with a guarded tenderness that made Elizabeth’s throat tighten.
It was the same care she had seen by the carriage, the same restraint that had governed his hand with the ribbon, the same strength that had caught Elizabeth in the gallery and released her before propriety could accuse him.
“He seems a most attentive brother,” Elizabeth said.
“He is the best brother in the world,” Georgiana replied, with more animation than Elizabeth had yet heard from her.
Then, as if ashamed of saying so much, she looked down at the keys.
“I know everyone says such things of their own family, but I cannot help it. He has been very good to me, especially when I have been unhappy.”
There was a tremor in the last word, slight but unmistakable. Elizabeth did not ask what sorrow had made her unhappy, for the letter from Kent had told her enough. Instead, she sat beside the instrument, close enough for companionship, not so close as to crowd.
“Then he has given you what all unhappy people need most,” she said. “Not speeches, perhaps, but steadiness.”
Georgiana looked at her quickly.
“Yes. That is exactly it. He does not always say much, but he is there. When I cannot speak, he does not force me. When I am ashamed, he does not make me more so.”
Elizabeth felt those words as if they had been spoken of herself—had he not done the same since her arrival?
He had not punished her for believing Wickham, had not pressed his claim, had not turned his injury into power.
Even when desire had burned between them in the corridor—oh, she could not think of that too long without heat rising beneath her skin—he had mastered himself.
He had stood close enough to unsettle every nerve in her body, yet he had asked nothing she was not free to refuse.
The safety of that restraint moved her more deeply than any boldness could have done.
“You are fortunate in him,” Elizabeth said, though her voice had softened dangerously.
Georgiana smiled. “I think so. And he is different tonight.”
“Different?” Elizabeth asked, hoping her blush did not betray her.
“Happier, perhaps. Though not exactly easy.” Georgiana hesitated, then added, with shy daring, “I think you make him wish to be easy.”
Elizabeth could not answer at once. Her eyes moved, against her will, to Mr. Darcy.
He had turned at that same moment, and their gazes met across the candlelit room.
His expression altered, only by a little, but she felt it as if he had crossed the distance and touched her: in the catch of her breath, in the fluttering pulse at her throat, in the sudden warmth gathering beneath her gloves and spreading lower, beneath every layer of silk, linen, and propriety.
He was not merely proud, not merely handsome, not merely the man who had once wounded and been wounded.
He was beloved here. Trusted here. A brother, a master, a protector.
The same hands that had steadied Georgiana’s fears, governed Pemberley with justice, and caught Elizabeth before she fell were hands that knew how to restrain their own strength; and the thought of such power held in check, such desire mastered rather than indulged, made her own longing feel less like danger than invitation.
Because his strength was governed by tenderness, Elizabeth’s desire no longer frightened her quite so much.
It warmed her, instead.