Something in his tone made her study his face more closely. “What do you mean?”
Before he could answer, fat raindrops began to fall, quickly increasing to a steady downpour. They looked at each other with shared dismay.
“The house,” Darcy said. “We shall need to dash.”
They hurried across the lawns, but the rain came faster than their feet could carry them. Elizabeth’s skirts grew heavy with water, and her bonnet provided little protection against the deluge. As they neared a grove of trees that offered some shelter, her foot caught in an exposed root and she tumbled forward with a cry of alarm.
Darcy was beside her instantly, helping her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”
“I think not,” she gasped, though her hands trembled as she brushed mud from her dress. “Only startled.”
They stood very close together beneath the canopy of leaves, both breathing hard from their flight from the rain. Water dripped from Darcy’s hair onto his forehead, and Elizabeth’s cheeks were flushed with exertion. The intimacyof the moment—alone together, dishevelled and breathless—suddenly overwhelmed all his careful restraint.
“Elizabeth,” he said.
Before he could think better of it, before caution could reassert itself, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
This kiss was nothing like their brief, impulsive contact at the lake. This was deliberate, passionate, filled with all the longing he had been suppressing for weeks. Elizabeth’s hands came up to rest against his chest, and for a moment she yielded completely to the embrace.
When they finally parted, both were trembling.
“I must tell you,” Darcy said, his forehead resting against hers, “I have fallen in love with you. I know it is not wise, given our circumstances, but I cannot deny it any longer.”
Elizabeth’s eyes searched his face. “Why is it not wise? We are husband and wife, after all.”
The simple logic of her words struck him speechless. She was right—what could be more natural than affection between married couples? Yet the foundation of lies beneath their union made every genuine feeling seem like betrayal.
In answer to his silence, Elizabeth rose on her toes and kissed him again, her lips warm and sure against his own.
The rain continued to fall around them, but Darcy barely noticed. In Elizabeth’s arms, surrounded by the landscape of his youth, he felt something he had never expected to experience—the possibility of genuine happiness. Yet even as he held her close, guilt gnawed at his conscience. How could he build afuture on such deception? How long before the truth destroyed whatever fragile joy they had discovered?
When they finally returned to Matlock, bedraggled and glowing despite their soaked clothing, they were met by Georgiana’s white face and obvious distress.
“Oh, thank heavens you have returned!” she cried. “It is Mr Wickham—he collapsed whilst walking this afternoon. The physician has just left.”
The joy of the afternoon evaporated instantly. Darcy felt Elizabeth’s hand tighten on his arm as they hurried towards the cottage, where the old man lay pale and still beneath quilts that seemed to swallow his diminished frame.
“What did the physician say?” Darcy asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.
“That his time is coming,” Georgiana whispered. “Perhaps months, but no longer. His heart simply cannot sustain him much further.”
Darcy sank into the chair beside the bed, taking the old man’s frail hand in his own. Mr Wickham’s eyes fluttered open, focusing with effort on Darcy’s face.
“My boy,” he whispered. “Did you enjoy Pemberley?”
“Very much,” Darcy managed.
“Good. That is… good.”
As Mr Wickham’s eyes drifted closed again, Darcy felt the weight of all his secrets pressing down upon him like stones. The man who had been father to him was dying, and still he could not bring himself to speak the truth about George Wickham’s crimes.
Beside him, Elizabeth’s presence offered comfort even as it intensified his anguish. He loved her—truly, completely loved her. But how could he build a life with her when that life was founded on lies that grew more impossible to bear with each passing day?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Darcy
29th November 1811
