They stood frozen for another heartbeat, the air between them thick with everything unsaid.
Miss Bingley looked ready to combust.
The walk continued.
Elizabeth found herself lingering at the back of the group, her thoughts churning. She could still feel the ghost of Mr. Darcy's lips against her knuckles. He had wanted to kiss her. She had seen it in his eyes, felt it in the tremor of his hand. And she?—
She had wanted him to.
It meant nothing.
The warmth still tingling across her knuckles disagreed.
She was adjusting her shawl, having fallen several paces behind the others, when a quiet voice spoke beside her.
“Are you chilled, Miss Elizabeth?”
She looked up to find Mr. Darcy standing nearby, his expression uncertain, as though he was not entirely sure he should have spoken.
“Only a little,” she admitted. “The wind has a bite to it.”
He nodded slowly, seeming to struggle with something. “The path curves ahead, and there is a spot where the trees block the wind. If you wished to pause for a moment—that is, if you—” He stopped, looking frustrated with himself. “Forgive me. I am not skilled at?—”
“At what?”
“Conversation. The easy sort that others manage without effort.” He met her eyes, and something in his expression made her breath catch. “I find myself wishing to speak with you, but the words do not come as they should.”
Elizabeth stared at him. It was, perhaps, the most honest thing he had ever said to her.
“You seem to be managing well enough at present,” she said softly.
“Do I?” A flicker of something that might have been hope crossed his face. “I confess I cannot tell. I am... not accustomed to uncertainty.”
“No, I imagine you are not.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the winter woods hushed around them. The rest of the party had moved ahead, their voices fading into the distance, leaving Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy alone among the frost-covered trees.
“Your mother seems well,” Mr. Darcy offered, clearly grasping for safe topics. “And your sisters.”
“They are, thank you. Mama is convinced Jane will be engaged by Christmas. She has been measuring the Netherfield windows for curtains.”
Mr. Darcy's lips twitched. “Has she indeed?”
“I exaggerate. But only slightly.”
“Your sister and Bingley do seem... well suited.”
Elizabeth glanced at him, surprised by the admission. “You think so? I feared you might have had reservations about the match.”
Something shifted in his expression. Was it discomfort, perhaps? Or regret? “Your sister's regard for Bingley appears genuine. And his happiness is evident to anyone with eyes.”
“That is... generous of you.”
“It is merely accurate.” He paused. “I am learning that accuracy sometimes requires revising one's initial impressions.”
Elizabeth did not know what to say. This was not the Mr. Darcy she had met at the assembly—proud, dismissive, certain of his own superiority. This was someone else. Someone uncertain and earnest and unexpectedly vulnerable.
Someone she liked more than was wise.
