Chapter 18 #4
“Only those with something to hide.”
He stilled, just slightly.
Elizabeth wished at once that she had chosen different words. Something to hide. Between them, the phrase was hardly innocent. She thought of Netherfield, the Crown’s reward, Mr. Philips’s caution, and the knowledge Mr. Darcy now held. His expression did not change much, but the air shifted.
“Then I must be careful,” he said quietly.
Her heart gave a foolish little twist. “Must you?”
“I believe so. You have already discovered one hidden treasure. I would not wish to underestimate your talent for finding concealed things.”
The answer should have made her uneasy. Instead, because he said it with warmth rather than threat, she found herself smiling. “Then I shall promise not to pry, provided you promise not to hide anything dangerous.”
“A fair bargain.”
“Or anything foolish.”
“That is a far more difficult condition.”
“I suspected it might be.”
His gaze warmed, and Elizabeth felt again that curious sensation of being understood and challenged at once.
There had been men who admired Jane’s beauty, men who laughed at Lydia’s liveliness, men who tolerated Mary’s solemnity and Kitty’s giggles, men who spoke to Elizabeth because she was convenient or amusing.
But Mr. Darcy listened as though every turn of phrase might reveal something worth knowing.
She had not known how much she wanted to be listened to until he did it.
The thought frightened her enough to make her glance toward the door.
“I truly should return to Jane soon.”
“At once, if you wish it.”
There was no pressure in his voice, no attempt to detain her. That made her want, perversely, to stay.
“Not at once,” she said. “Mrs. Nicholls granted half an hour.”
“You choose to extend your ten-minute compromise, then?”
“It was only a compromise on my end; Mrs. Nicholls had no notion of my desire to leave.”
“Then twenty minutes remain.”
“You count very strictly.”
“I was a soldier. Time mattered.”
“And now?”
“Now,” he said, looking at the book in his hand, “I find I value it more when it is not commanded.”
Elizabeth understood that more than she wished.
So much of her own life had been ordered by necessity—Longbourn’s accounts, her mother’s nerves, her father’s indifference, her sisters’ futures, Netherfield’s secrecy, the Gardiner children’s care.
To sit in a quiet library and speak with a man who did not require her to be useful every moment felt like a luxury she had not known enough to desire.
“How do you do with un-commanded time, Mr. Darcy?”
“Badly, I suspect.”
She smiled. “That is not an answer.”
“It is an honest one. I am out of practice.”
“With leisure?”
“With choosing pleasure without first justifying its usefulness.”
There was no self-pity in his tone, only truth, and Elizabeth’s heart softened in spite of all her caution.
She thought of everything Susie had told her: the debts, the tenants, the militia, the closed rooms at Pemberley, the sister he loved and could not yet fully bring home.
Mr. Darcy’s pride might be real, but so were his burdens.
“Then perhaps you should begin with small pleasures,” she said.
“Such as foolish essays?”
“Precisely. Foolish essays, quiet fires, and tea that has gone cold because the conversation proved more interesting.”
He glanced at her cup. “Your tea has indeed gone cold.”
“A sacrifice to intellectual improvement.”
“I thought we had chosen distraction.”
“With you, Mr. Darcy, it appears the distinction is difficult to maintain.”
The moment the words were spoken, she realized they might be taken as too much. But he did not seem offended. Quite the opposite. His attention fixed upon her with a stillness that made her pulse beat faster.
“Is that a compliment?” he asked.
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “Observation.”
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then his smile appeared, slow and rare, and Elizabeth felt a warmth bloom through her that had nothing to do with the fire.
A knock at the door saved her from discovering what she might have said next. Mrs. Nicholls entered, curtsied, and looked unsurprised to find them together, which Elizabeth found both comforting and alarming.
“Miss Elizabeth, Miss Bennet has stirred a little. She is asking for you.”
Elizabeth rose at once. “Of course.”
Mr. Darcy stood as well, the book still in his hand. “May I carry that for you?”
She looked down and realized she had taken the history of Hertfordshire without intending to. “To Jane’s room?”
“To the door, at least.”
“That would be very kind, though if anyone asks, I shall say you were overcome by a sudden passion for parish boundaries.”
“I shall endeavor to bear the scandal.”
Elizabeth laughed softly and allowed him to take the book. As they left the library, Mrs. Nicholls walking discreetly ahead, Elizabeth was aware of Mr. Darcy beside her, of the quiet dignity of his step, of the book in his hand, and of the strange lightness in her own chest.
Ten minutes, it seemed, could be a very dangerous gift when spent in the company of a handsome young man.