CHAPTER TWENTY #2
Her spotted ball flew forward on a clean path, striking red, then white in a perfect cannon. She gave a startled laugh, her own astonishment evident as an irrepressible smile lit her features. Aided by the generous handicap, the game was somehow hers.
“Well played. You are full of surprises, Elizabeth,” Darcy said, his voice carrying an inflection that was entirely new to her. It was a sound that seemed to convey both an admiration and amusement, and she knew not what to make of it.
Time seemed to slow as their eyes met across the felt of the table. Her heart gave a small, hopeful lurch as she searched his gaze, looking for a glimpse of something more.
But it was not there. Darcy held her gaze for a polite beat, then broke it, turning his attention back to resetting the balls on the table, and Elizabeth felt a hollow ache settle where the hope had been.
The wardstone resisted him.
It should have been a simple thing. For centuries, Pemberley’s wardstones had imposed a gentle order upon the land, filtering the wild currents of raw magic, ensuring the seasons turned as they should, the soil remained true, and his people remained safe from unpredictable surges.
It was a task of maintenance, of discipline, a task for which his own talents were perfectly suited.
Which made his current failure all the more infuriating.
This should have been straightforward, a measured infusion of his own controlled power into the ward’s weakening supply. Yet every time he reached for his magic for this simple task, his thoughts drifted.
Georgiana’s pale face, Wickham’s betrayals. And beyond them, Newcastle, a city of ghosts, a responsibility so vast and terrifying it allowed him little sleep. Yet it was the thought of Elizabeth, and her apology, the almost-kiss that still sent fire through him, that truly tormented him.
He replayed their billiards game, treasuring the memory of easy camaraderie, but his mood soured when he contrasted how easily those moments came with Richard. With his cousin, her light was unburdened; with him, every shared smile felt as fragile as a thin sheet of ice.
And so he knew he must tread carefully, never revealing the weight of his own heart.
Maintaining this distance when he yearned for more was torture, but a torture he would endure.
He had seen the result of his arrogance once before, in her scathing rejection of a love she did not want.
He would not make that mistake again. He would not impose his heart where it was not welcome.
If this distance was all she wished for, then he, in his love for her, would accept it.
He would accept even though it came with the quiet death of his legacy. The mere thought of heirs was a firebrand to his strained control, for his mind did not conjure an image of a child, but instead the image of the woman who would bear one. And that thought was an agony above all else.
Besides, he reflected bitterly, there was little sense in pondering a future for his line when England’s own was so gravely in doubt.
This will not do. Darcy set his jaw grimly.
He had resolved not to think of her, and yet it was all he was doing.
The wardstone sputtered again, its light dimming with a pathetic fizzle, as if in direct rebuke to his fractured concentration.
The chill from the ground seemed to seep into his bones, a cold reminder of the price of his distraction.
Frustrated, he stepped back, closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his hands against them, trying to force these unwanted thoughts from his mind. He needed to focus. This was his duty; he would not fail in it.
A soft footstep behind him broke his concentration. He turned, his guard instinctively snapping back into place.
Elizabeth stood at the edge of the oak wood, her presence a vibrant warmth in the cold, colourless landscape. He had been so absorbed that he had not even registered her approach until she was just a few feet away.
“Elizabeth, I must beg your indulgence for a moment. This particular ward requires utmost concentration.”
A vain hope, he thought, when her presence scattered his thoughts so completely.
“Of course,” she said softly, her voice calm as she pulled her cloak tighter around herself. “Pray, do not mind me. Take all the time you require.”
Darcy found that he almost wished she had come to argue; that, at least, was an interaction he understood. He was the Master of Pemberley, yet he could not command the simple beat of his own heart when she was near.
Fighting against the impulse to stare at her, he turned back to the stone, the heat of her gaze on his back making his hands feel clumsy.
He made another attempt to channel his magic.
The wardstone’s light flared erratically for an instant, then sputtered and died, almost completely.
A sigh slipped from him before he could stop it.
He could feel Elizabeth step closer. “A boundary ward?” she asked.
“I am attempting to reinforce it,” he replied, his gaze determinedly fixed on the stone. “This ward protects the lower fields.”
“Has the stone said something to offend you?”
“No?” The absurdity of her question made him blink. He hastily added, “I beg your pardon?”
“You are glaring at it. Rather fiercely, too.”
For a moment, he fought a smile, but a small laugh escaped him all the same. “I suppose I am,” he murmured, and then releasing a breath and gathering himself, he turned.
He was not prepared for the sight of her. Windswept and vibrant, with colour high in her cheeks from the cold air, she was so breathtakingly lovely that both thought and speech deserted him. All he could do was gaze upon her and wish desperately to call her his in more than name alone.
“Forgive me,” he said, the words feeling formal and inadequate for the sight before him, “I have been unaccountably rude. Did you require my assistance with something?”
“I was on the path to the Jones farm when I felt a dissonance. I followed it here to you.”
The magical bond between them was a constant current that flowed beneath the surface of his daily thoughts.
Her words were like a stone dropped into it, sending ripples of awareness through a connection he had learnt to relegate to the background.
He grimaced as he was forced to acknowledge the intimacy he usually tried to keep at a manageable distance.
“This should be a simple reinforcement,” he said, “Yet the ward’s attunement has proven more stubborn than I had anticipated.”
“The stone seems to sense the weight on your mind,” Elizabeth said gently, “Would it help to speak of what troubles you?”
If there had ever been an understatement!
His thumb pressed hard against his forefinger, a small, sharp point of pressure invisible to any but himself.
Her words seemed an invitation to unburden this thoughts, to allow greater conversation…
yet to give voice to the chaos in his own mind, to speak of Georgiana, of Newcastle, of his emotions for her, was a vulnerability he could not afford at present.
Not when he had such an important duty to Pemberley before him.
“I thank you for the offer,” he said instead, making a stiff gesture towards the wardstone, “but to speak of such things now would only fracture my focus further. I cannot do so when it is already failing me.”
He saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes before she concealed it, but Elizabeth did not push him.
There was only compassion in her eyes. Darcy drew in another shallow breath, the clean scent of winter air and Elizabeth a dizzying combination that did nothing to steady him as he focused on the stone.
He failed again. Now thoroughly vexed, his breath left him in a tightly controlled exhale.
“It is a pity my own magic is of no use to Pemberley’s wards,” Elizabeth said lightly. “I find my own thoughts are remarkably orderly today.”
The sound that left him was not quite a laugh, but it was close.
“Still,” she continued, her eyes dancing as she gestured towards the stone, “the chill you are projecting is quite impressive. I believe even the stone is shivering. Is this your intended effect? I thought the goal was to renew the ward, not to usher in a new ice age.”
Her gentle nonsense cut through the dense fog of his frustration, leaving him feeling unaccountably lighter.
The desire to answer her challenge was a sudden impulse.
He raised a hand and let the warmth he felt for her take form.
A sphere of flame bloomed above his palm, its warm light illuminating the space between them.
Elizabeth’s gaze shifted from the magic to his face, and a look of fascination lit her features. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to keep that sparkle in her eyes.
In a rare surrender to whimsy, Darcy sent the flames weaving through the air in a fiery waltz.
“Is that sufficient warmth?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral, though his heart beat a little faster at the wonder he saw on her face. He had put it there.
“Most assuredly it is,” she replied, her eyes still on the fire. She turned to him then, and he was struck by the sudden conviction in her face. “The dissonance I felt earlier is gone. I believe the stone will answer you now, should you wish to try again.”
Her words were more than a simple observation; they were an assurance, a promise of success that he, in his frustration, had not been able to find for himself. A strange feeling settled in his chest.
Deciding to trust her intuition over his own judgement, Darcy let go of the rigid control he had been trying to wrestle over his magic.
A different feeling flowed from him as he reached out again.
Command was forgotten; thought was set aside.
There was only the image of her, of the light in her eyes.
It was this feeling that became a persuasive current of power, touching upon the old magic in the stone.
The wardstone responded immediately. Its sullen pulse was replaced by a soft, blossoming warmth. The light settled into a glow that began to radiate outwards, pushing back the damp chill.
Elizabeth drew in a soft breath. “Am I to take it your renowned focus has returned, sir?” she teased.
She was the thought. The only one. The chaos and the clarity, all at once.
The air felt suddenly thin. A strange tightness constricted his throat, and he swallowed, his eyes darting to the ward’s light as a refuge. The truth was a confession he would not make; a lie, however distasteful, was the only recourse.
Praying his features remained a mask, Darcy offered the only answer he could. “Yes,” he said, dissembling desperately, casting for an escape before he forgot himself, “Thank you, it has. I should attend to the other wards; I shall see you tonight.”
He could not trust himself to remain a moment longer. With a stiff inclination of his head that served as a farewell, he turned and walked away, every step an act of will against the overwhelming urge to stay.