A woman was standing at the end of a long, narrow pier, gazing out across the water. She was a spritely little thing in a golden-brown pelisse, dark brown curls escaping her bonnet.
Darcy could barely breathe. He had been sure he was hearing Elizabeth’s voice back at the house. He had smelt her perfume. The book in the library—had he imagined her there, reading it? And now he was seeing her image.
He walked closer, but the image did not disappear. Elizabeth was at Longbourn, surely. Was he truly in danger of losing his wits, or was that . . . “Elizabeth?” His question was spoken somewhat louder than he had intended, the sound of his voice breaking the silence into jagged pieces.
The woman jolted and turned quickly, sending herself a little off balance. When she stepped back to right herself, therewas nothing for her back foot to rest upon, and she toppled backwards with waving arms and a little screech.
“Elizabeth!” Darcy cried and ran after her.
The water wasfrigid.Frigid, but fortunately not so very deep. Elizabeth sat up spluttering, the water coming to her chin, but her head above the surface. Her bonnet was soaked and limp, her hair half caught up in her pins and half trailing down her back.
And the wind had picked up, making every damp inch of her face feel caked over in ice.
“Elizabeth!”
The panic she felt rising in her chest had nothing to do with the fact that she was currently sitting in a pond, soaked to the skin and very likely to catch her death of cold. It had to do with the familiarity of that voice—the dearness of it—and that the man who belonged to it was currently charging towards her.
He could not come to the dinner when she had been perfectly attired, no, he must witness her gracelessness, he must see her looking like a vagabond who had been caught in a downpour. Of course. This was a sad commentary on her life of late, and the absurdity of it could not help but make her laugh a bit.
The laugh died in her throat when Mr. Darcy tore off his greatcoat, dashed down the pier, and waded into the water, boots and all, until he was at her side.
“Why did you do that?” she asked, bemused. “It is not deep here.”
“Not forme,” he said wryly, and indeed, the water did not reach the top of his boots. He held out both hands to help her to her feet, then put one strong arm around her waist and led herthe few steps back to the pier. “On the count of three,” he said, “jump, and I will lift you up.”
Her face must have turned a bright red, for he murmured, “We must get you out of the water as quickly as possible, madam.”
She had preferred it when he had called her Elizabeth. But she did not protest, simply nodded. Mr. Darcy’s large, strong hands nearly encircled her waist, and Elizabeth closed her eyes at the exquisiteness of his touch.
“One,” he said. “Two.”
Elizabeth bent her knees.
“Three.”
She pushed up with her legs as hard as she could and found herself being easily lifted onto the wooden platform again. Mr. Darcy placed both hands on the side of the pier and pushed himself up, gaining his feet in no time.
Then he stood before her, strong, tall, handsome, caring. She studied his face and noticed a small white scar near the corner of one eye. “I thought you were gone to Pemberley,” she said, irritated at how her shivering made her words stutter like a staccato note on the pianoforte.
“I intended to. Horse trouble,” he said roughly, and her disappointment was acute.
Stupid girl. Did you think he had stayed for you? How many times must the man rescue you from your family’s folly and your own?
He placed his arm around her waist again, leading her to the shore. Elizabeth leaned into his side, willing to be brazen for she might never have another chance to be so very close to him. When they reached the place where he had discarded his greatcoat, he let her go to retrieve it.
A blast of icy air blew through her wet clothes and froze every part of her. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself and triedto stop shaking. She bent over, trying to make herself smaller, to conserve what heat she had.
Suddenly, she was swathed in warmth and was being lifted off her feet. “What are you doing?” she asked shakily, more surprised than offended.
Mr. Darcy had wrapped her in his greatcoat.
“You are shivering so hard you cannot stand,” Mr. Darcy replied sternly. “We must get you to the house and changed into dry clothing.”
He meant nothing by it, of course, his talk of changing her clothes, but Elizabeth imagined what it would be like were they wed, and he could take her to their chambers. Would he see to her care himself or leave it to the maid? Would they sit together before a fire after and laugh at her clumsiness? Would he read to her until she fell asleep on his shoulder, then kiss her forehead and carry her to bed—carry her as tenderly as he carried her now?
“Put your arm around my neck,” he instructed her.
Elizabeth did so, then buried herself deeper into his coat and closer to his chest, mortified not by the thoughts themselves, but that she was having them at all. The man clearly did not want her. He had been in the house, no doubt aware that she was in residence, but had not even bothered to come down for dinner last night. More than that, he had been at Netherfield since the wedding!
