The last thing she had expected from Mr. Darcy was a compliment. “Thank you,” she replied, although between the two of them, he was the first to think of a solution which might actually work. “You are clever, too.”
Mr. Darcy laughed. “I do not feel clever right now, I assure you.”
She smiled. They were not out of danger yet, but hope (and Mr. Darcy’s humor) lent her cheer. “Nor do I.” She twirled a curl around her finger, her neck warm under the curtain of hair. Her hair. As quickly as Elizabeth had relaxed, she panicked. Reaching up to pat what remained of her coiffure, confirming that the damage was just as bad as she suspected, she exclaimed, “I am a mess! What will they think when I am found?”
“That you were motivated to gain your freedom and use your hairpins to pick the lock.”
She shook her head vehemently. “If I were truly alone, I would have merely sat in one of the chairs, perhaps fallen asleep to pass the time, and waited once it became clear that I could not escape otherwise.”
“Can you not claim a fear of the dark or of confined spaces?
“I do not fear the dark or small spaces, Mr. Darcy, but I fear for my sisters’ reputations and the bleak future that would cast upon us. My family and closest friends, of whom most are present this evening, all know this about me.” And now, Mr. Darcy did too. She grabbed a lock of hair, twisted it, and tried to stuff it into place, but her rebellious waves refused to comply. “I never would have attempted to pick the lock and ruin my hair unless—”
“Unless you were trapped here with someone. With me.”
“Do not flatter yourself, Mr. Darcy. I would have reacted the same way had I been trapped with anyone else.”
He chuckled, as she had hoped he would. “I suppose that is some consolation.” Rubbing his hands together, he looked toward the window. “If you stand closer to the light, I shall be able to see better how I might help.”
Elizabeth felt her eyebrows raise. Was Mr. Darcy offering to arrange her hair? He did not appear to be teasing.
He must have sensed her skepticism. For the briefest moment, he looked down at the floor. Then, as though to defy his vulnerability, he straightened himself to his full height. But she had seen a new side to him, brief as it was, and it loosened what had been tight in her chest. “One of the few things that soothed my mother during her illness was to have her hair brushed. Her maid had so much to do to see to her care, I often took over the task.” His defensive tone softened as he spoke. “When she passed away, I missed her so much, I offered to brush my sister’s hair.” He shrugged, as though the tender image he had shared was not the most endearing story Elizabeth had heard in a long while.
“I fear that what I require is much more than an expert brusher,” she teased, appreciating his offer all the more for his embarrassment.
He folded his arms over his chest and grumbled, “When Georgiana’s hair grew long enough, I had the nurse teach me how to braid it. I braided it every night until her maid took over the task. I am qualified for the task.”
Elizabeth pressed her hands against her heart. As much as she wanted to tease him about his expertise, she could not add to his discomfort. She imagined Mr. Darcy’s thick fingers trying to smooth and twist his little sister’s hair without snagging or tugging. It challenged every assumption Elizabeth had formed about Mr. Darcy. Did she know him at all? “Your sister must have appreciated the special attention from her older brother. That was kind of you.”
“I am a poor replacement for our mother.”
Elizabeth’s lungs seized in sympathy. “Does Miss Darcy remember her?” she murmured. Oh, she hoped so. As troublesome as Elizabeth’s own mother was, Elizabeth could not imagine her life without her mother’s affection and concern. Perhaps Mama cared a great deal too much about her daughters’ prospects and futures, but the fact remained that she cared.
“Our mother died when Georgiana was only a year old. My sister became the apple of our father’s eye. She felt his loss intensely when he passed away five years ago.”
Mr. Darcy’s snub from the assembly lost some of its sting in that moment, and Elizabeth found it easier to overlook his proud, taciturn manners. She was not ready to forgive him completely, but Elizabeth felt the quickness and harshness of her own premature opinions. Although Mr. Darcy was still the proudest man she had ever met, he might not be as arrogant as she had believed him to be.
At that moment, Mr. Darcy was not the enemy. He was her partner.
Moving closer to the window, she turned so that her back faced Mr. Darcy and lifted her hair off her neck. “Is it very bad?”
It seemed like an eternity passed before he joined her at the window. His breath tickled the back of her neck, and she shivered even as heat spread over her skin.
CHAPTER12
Darcy stood behind Elizabeth, the moonlight glowing off her exposed neck. Orange blossoms and cloves swirled around him, and the impulse to bury his face in her silken hair made him tremble.
He swallowed hard, reaching for a chestnut lock, his hand near her shoulder, when he saw her shiver and wrap her arms around her waist.
Darcy had not noticed the cold before, but he did now. Elizabeth had been in the study much longer than he had. She must be chilled to the bone.
Contorting himself to remove his torn coat, he wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, then proceeded to burrow into his warmth in a way that made Darcy’s arms itch to wrap themselves around her too. “I know I should not accept your coat, but it is deliciously warm. Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”
“My pleasure,” he choked, his voice low and gravelly, his body burning. His pleasure? A simple “you are welcome” would have been more appropriate. How had he thought that helping Elizabeth arrange her hair into something more decent was a good idea? Nothing about this situation was proper.
Shaking his head, willing the icy draft seeping through the sealed window to cool him, Darcy took a step back and focused on the task before him—the task for which he had foolishly and impulsively volunteered.
