Thirteen
Darcy had not slept a wink.
He had lain in the four-poster bed, staring at the canopy until the patterns of shadow and firelight blurred into one another.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw Elizabeth—her flushed cheeks, the way her fingers had tightened in his waistcoat, the soft gasp she had given when his mouth found hers.
The memory of her taste, of the way she had arched into his touch, had kept him hard and restless until dawn.
He rose before the household stirred, sloshed cold water on his face, and dressed without waiting for his valet. By the time the clock struck eight he was already climbing the stairs, driven by the single fixed point in his day: saying good morning to Anne.
He pushed open the nursery door.
Elizabeth was there, seated at the low table with his daughter, helping her spread jam on toast. She looked up at the sound of the door, then immediately dropped her eyes to the plate.
The movement was swift, almost guilty. Dark circles shadowed the delicate skin beneath her eyes—twin bruises that matched his own.
She had not slept either, and the knowledge gave him an odd satisfaction.
“Good morning, Papa!” Anne waved her toast triumphantly, jam already smeared across one cheek.
Darcy managed a faint smile and crossed to kiss the top of her head.
He allowed himself one brief glance at Elizabeth. She kept her eyes lowered, her fingers steady on the knife, but the faint colour that rose in her cheeks told him she felt his regard as keenly as he felt hers.
“I shall not stay,” he said, addressing Anne though the words were meant for both of them. “There is a great deal of work awaiting me this morning.”
Anne accepted this with easy confidence. She had never yet been denied her father’s attention when she truly wanted it, after all. Elizabeth murmured something polite and appropriate, still not meeting his eyes.
Darcy left before the ache in his chest could deepen.
He descended to his study, closed the door, and stood for a moment with his back against the wood. He walked to his desk and rang the bell.
Barton appeared almost at once.
“Send for Carruthers. Immediately, if you please.”
The man of business arrived within the hour, neat and precise.
“Mr Darcy,” Carruthers said with a small bow. “You wished to see me?”
Darcy did not invite him to sit. He remained standing behind his desk, his hands braced on the polished surface.
“I require you to go to Doctors’ Commons this morning,” he said without preamble. “You will make an application for a special licence.”
Carruthers’ eyebrows rose a fraction—the only outward sign of reaction.
“A special licence, sir?”
“Yes.” Darcy’s voice was level, almost detached. “You will provide the necessary names and details when you arrive. I shall give them to you now.”
He slid a folded sheet of paper across the desk. Carruthers picked it up, opened it, read the two names written there in Darcy’s firm hand, and closed it again without comment.
“You will not discuss the matter with anyone,” Darcy continued. “Not even with me, once the application is made. You will simply bring me the licence when it is granted.”
Carruthers regarded him for a moment with the same calm, professional detachment he had shown when Darcy had asked him to purchase a house in Somers Town without revealing the buyer’s identity.
“Very good, sir. Is there anything else?”
“Nothing.”
The man of business bowed once more and turned towards the door.
“Carruthers.” Darcy’s fingers tightened on the edge of the desk. “No one must know.”
Carruthers inclined his head with perfect understanding. “Of course, sir.”
He left without another word.
Darcy remained where he was, staring at the closed door long after the sound of footsteps had faded.
A precaution. That was all it was. A sensible measure taken by a man who had learned, at great cost, that life could change in a single afternoon.
A man who had once proposed marriage in haste and been refused with brutal clarity.
A man who now found himself on the edge of something far more dangerous than he had ever imagined.
He crossed to the window and looked out over the square, but he saw nothing of the carriages or the passing pedestrians.
He saw only Elizabeth’s face in the moment after the kiss, her eyes wide, her lips parted, the rapid rise and fall of her breathing.
He saw the way she had fled afterward, as though the ground had suddenly become unstable under her feet.
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass.
It was only a piece of paper. It bound no one. It committed him to nothing. If she wished never to speak of last night again, the licence could be burned and forgotten. If she wished... something else... then it would be there, ready, waiting.
A precaution.
He repeated the words to himself like a litany, but they rang hollow even in the silence of his own mind.
Because the truth—the truth he could not yet bring himself to face fully—was that he would marry Elizabeth Bennet tomorrow if she would have him. He would marry her today. He would have married her seven years ago if she had not refused him with such righteous fury.
And now, after last night, after the taste of her on his tongue and the sound of her pleasure in his ears, the thought of living without her had become intolerable.
He closed his eyes.
A precaution.
Nothing more.
Yet even as he repeated the lie again and again, a sliver of hope appeared tentatively.
Just in case, nothing more.
He sat in his chair staring at the same column of figures for nearly half an hour when the door to his study opened after a quick knock.
Georgiana entered first, bright as the morning itself in a pale-yellow walking dress.
Richard followed close behind, his military bearing somewhat relaxed now that he was on leave.
“Brother, you look dreadful,” Georgiana announced without preamble. “Have you slept at all?”
Darcy set down his pen. “Good morning to you as well.”
Richard dropped into the nearest chair with the easy familiarity of family. “She is right, you know. You have a complexion that indicates you have been wrestling with demons all night. Or perhaps with ledgers. Either way, it is not becoming.”
Darcy leaned back in his chair and attempted a semblance of composure. “I am perfectly well, cousin. Merely occupied.”
“A fine May day has dawned outside,” Georgiana sighed, undeterred. “The sun is shining, the air is soft, and Rotten Row will be at its most agreeable this morning. We thought a drive in the barouche would do us all good. Will you join us?”
Darcy opened his mouth to refuse. There were letters to answer, accounts to review, and a special licence application now winging its way through Doctors’ Commons that he preferred not to dwell upon.
Georgiana’s eyes brightened with hope. “And might Anne come as well? She has been cooped up with her lessons all week. A little fresh air would be beneficial.”
Before Darcy could formulate a polite deflection, Richard added, “Miss Bennet should accompany her, naturally. The child will be safer with her governess close at hand.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened at the casual mention of Elizabeth’s name. The prospect of sitting opposite her in an open carriage for the better part of the morning was both punishment and temptation.
Yet he could not bring himself to disappoint his sister.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I shall have the barouche readied.”
Georgiana’s face lit with genuine pleasure. Darcy rang the bell and gave instructions for Anne and Miss Bennet to be summoned, and for the carriage to be brought round at once.
Thirty minutes later they were descending the front steps of Darcy House, Anne bouncing with excitement, Muffin clutched firmly in one hand.
Elizabeth walked beside her, quiet and composed, though the shadows beneath her eyes had not faded.
She avoided Darcy’s eyes as they settled into the barouche, choosing the seat farthest from him.
The drive through Mayfair was pleasant enough. Anne chattered about ducks, about clouds, about whether horses preferred carrots or apples. Georgiana answered her with patient good humour while Richard lounged opposite, occasionally interjecting with dry remarks that made Anne giggle.
Darcy said little. His attention kept drifting to Elizabeth.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her profile turned to the passing streets, the brim of her bonnet casting a soft shadow across her cheek.
Every now and then Anne would lean against her side, and Elizabeth would adjust the child’s shawl with gentle fingers.
They alighted at the Serpentine, where the water sparkled under the sun and the paths were already busy with fashionable society taking the air.
Anne immediately demanded to feed the ducks.
Elizabeth produced a small packet of crumbs from her reticule—clearly prepared in advance—and the two of them moved near the water’s edge.
Darcy remained a few paces behind, watching.
Anne crouched on the grass, tossing crumbs with gleeful abandon.
Several ducks paddled closer, quacking noisily.
Elizabeth knelt beside her, one hand resting lightly on the child’s back to ground her.
The sunlight caught in the dark strands of hair that had escaped her bonnet and turned the fine fabric of her gown almost translucent at the shoulder.
He forgot to guard himself.
For several long moments he simply stood and looked—at the tender curve of Elizabeth’s neck as she bent towards Anne, at the easy smile on her lips when the little girl laughed, at the competence with which she kept Anne safe from the water’s edge while allowing her joy.
“Brother.”
Georgiana’s voice was soft but pointed. She and Richard had come to stand beside him.
“You are staring,” she murmured.
Darcy blinked and forced his gaze away. “I am merely ensuring Anne does not fall into the water.”