“Miss Bennet, I regret that I will be departing for London on the morrow. Estate business will keep me away for a week. While I am gone, if you have a need, do send a note to Mrs. Nicholls,who has promised to send an express rider to me. I would be pleased to be of assistance.”
Elizabeth’s eyes shot to him. “Gone?”
Her distress eased the pain in his heart that he suffered at leaving her behind.
“I expect to return in time for Bingley’s ball.”
Bingley slapped his forehead. “The ball, I completely forgot! I mentioned it to Caroline last evening.” Bingley exclaimed. To Miss Bennet, he said, “Yes, I would like to hold it in ten days’ time. Since my purpose is to celebrate your recovery, might I request the honor of your first two dances?”
Miss Bennet’s blush deepened. “I would be honored, Mr. Bingley.”
Darcy studied Elizabeth’s face, delighted to see the small smile that curved her lips at her sister’s happiness. She deserved the same happiness.
If only he could give it to her.
“Miss Elizabeth, might I have a word before you depart?”
She nodded. They moved to a window, far enough away for privacy but still within sight of the others.
“I wanted to tell you,” he began, then had to clear his throat. “The eighth piece will arrive while I am in London. I have already put instructions in place for its delivery.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes were warm, encouraging. “I very much look forward to receiving the drawing.”
“And the ninth…” He paused, struck by how inadequate words were for what he wanted to say. “The ninth, I will bring myself. At the ball. It is…special. I want to hand it to you personally.”
“I shall wait for it.” Her voice was soft. “And for your return.”
“Elizabeth…” Her name came out barely above a whisper, rough with all the emotion he could not fully express. Urgency flooded through him.
Miss Bingley’s voice rang out. “Mr. Darcy! Do come, settle a question for us. Charles insists the ball be held on a Tuesday. I believe most balls in good society are held on Wednesday.”
The interruption was deliberate, malicious, and completely effective.
Elizabeth stepped back, restoring proper distance. “You should go. Miss Bingley seems to require your opinion.”
“I care nothing for Miss Bingley’s opinion on balls. I care about?—”
“Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley called again, more insistently.
He closed his eyes briefly, marshaling his composure. When he opened them, sympathy softened Elizabeth’s expression.
“We will speak at the ball,” she said. “When you bring the ninth piece.”
“Will you open the ball with me? And save the supper set for me?” he asked boldly.
“I will.”
His happiness was almost complete. He bowed formally. “Until then, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr. Darcy.” She bobbed a curtsey before she moved closer. “Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, sending his heart racing.
Peering from the window as Bingley hovered nearby, Darcy’s hand rose unconsciously toward the glass, while maids and Elizabeth adjusted blankets and hot bricks for Miss Bennet’s comfort during the three-mile journey. The distance between himself and Elizabeth opened like a chasm. He could not hover. Could not offer assistance. Could do nothing but watch her prepare to leave.
The drawings were his only voice. Besides, he could not imagine Elizabeth allowing him to act like Bingley.
Chuckling to himself, he was annoyed when Miss Bingley approached.
“I must say, Mr. Darcy, you have been tolerant of Miss Eliza’s presumption this week. Not every gentleman would be so patient with a woman who monopolizes his friend’s household for days.”
