Mr. Darcy turned awayfrom the unopened window. The look on his face filled Elizabeth with horror. “We are trapped?” Her words sounded too small for the enormity of their problem.
Turning to the door, she began pounding. This could not be happening. How had this happened? Why had Charlotte not come before? If she was the one to discover them, Elizabeth knew she could count on her dear friend’s discretion.
But what if Charlotte did not come? What if she had never intended to meet Elizabeth in the study? She kicked the door, her toes no match for the unmovable barrier. Had Kitty lied? Had there evenbeena message? Or was this part of Lydia’s plan to get even? Elizabeth kicked the door again, her breath heaving, her palms sore, and her toes throbbing.
Strong hands pulled her away from the door. Had they not belonged to Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth would have been more tempted to melt into them. The depth of her distress left her feeling weak.
Lydia had won. Oh, she had won. Elizabeth imagined her sister prancing and giggling and making a spectacle of herself while their mother proudly bragged of Jane’s success. She imagined Jane, cheeks flushed with mortification, watching helplessly as the shameful behavior of her own family stamped out her hopes.
Elizabeth seethed. “I am going to kill Lydia.”If I ever get out of Mr. Bingley’s study.
Lydia was silly and selfish, but Elizabeth had never thought her so malicious to compromise her with a gentleman she knew Elizabeth did not like, and who despised her in turn. This was the height of cruelty! As soon as Elizabeth gained her freedom, she would march downstairs and drag Lydia back to Longbourn by the hair if she must. She would lock her in the nursery and toss the key in the outdoor privy where not even Kitty had the stomach to search.
Elizabeth was tempted to continue plotting her revenge, but first she must escape. She pulled against Mr. Darcy’s hands. “We could break the glass! There are several sturdy tables we could use—”
The look he gave her silenced her.
“Have you heard nothing I said?” he asked.
She stopped tugging. He must think her mad, which at least explained why he still held her shoulders. Truth was, she had not heard Mr. Darcy say a word, which meant that her agitation was too great to think clearly. She must calm down or she would be completely useless.
Taking a few steadying breaths, she said, “What did you say?” She raised her chin and looked him steadily in the eyes to better convey her sanity.
She must have been convincing, for he dropped his hands and gestured at the window. “The glass is too problematic.”
“We would be careful—”
“I cannot allow you to injure yourself any further.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but her hands were bruised where she had beaten the door. As were her toes.
Softly, he said, “I swear on my honor I shall do you no harm. You are safe with me. Pray do nothing more to cause yourself injury, I beg you.”
Maybe she had not been entirely convincing. He spoke as though he still thought her mad. He held his palms up for her to see how harmless he was. Such a tall, strong man with such a gentle expression. Truth be told, Elizabeth had not once felt herself in danger from Mr. Darcy. Until he mentioned it, the thought had not entered her mind. “I am not afraid of you, Mr. Darcy.”
Still, he held his hands up, moving her to add, “You have never given me cause to fear. We have had our differences, but I trust that you will not take advantage of this situation.” She said the words and, to her amazement, she realized how much she meant them.
“Do I have your word that you will not do anything which might harm your person? I cannot allow it.” He swallowed hard, his hands slowly dropping. It occurred to Elizabeth that Mr. Darcy must often find himself in the role of protector. Mr. Bingley, his younger sister, no doubt, his tenants and household staff… and now her.
While Elizabeth appreciated his gallantry on her behalf, it frustrated her logic. Her freedom was worth a few cuts, scrapes, and bruises. But his tone brooked no argument, and she knew from previous debates that she would be wasting her breath to attempt to convince him otherwise. “I promise. Are there any other doors?” She squinted at the bookshelves, trying to see a door frame or a latch.
“No.”
“Any secret passageways?”
“No.”
The air around them grew heavier and harder to breathe. She closed her eyes and composed herself. She must think logically, rationally. She always found a way; this was no different.
Opening her eyes, she glared at the barrier separating her from independence. She had promised she would not cause herself any harm, so she could not very well attempt to knock the door down. There had to be another way. The keyhole. The lock did not look new, which meant she might be able to pick it open.
With a silent apology to Sarah, who had spent the better part of an hour coaxing Elizabeth’s curls into submission, Elizabeth pulled out a hairpin. A curl tumbled down her back. Oh bother! A weight-bearing pin. She had hoped to avoid one of those.
“What are you doing?” Mr. Darcy grumbled beside her.
“I am going to pick the lock.” She spoke with as much confidence as she could muster.
“Do you have experience picking locks?”
