As they had done more and more often of late, his thoughts wandered toward Elizabeth. Would she be disappointed that he had solved the second riddle? He could not blame her if it were so — not knowing how much Strathalt House might mean for the Bennet’s future.
Poor Georgiana. Her position was a difficult one, for she had already come to care deeply for Elizabeth, even to depend on her as she would a beloved older sister. It would be dreadful indeed if such a source of support and companionship were lost. Yet perhaps it must be so, for in the end, one must win, and one must lose. How could Elizabeth help resenting Georgiana, if her brother gained the inheritance that might have been such a material relief to her sisters and herself?
At that thought, Darcy shook his head. He half-thought he would rather lose the final challenge and the inheritance with it if it would save the budding friendship between his sister and Elizabeth. That was madness, surely, and yet the thought was inescapable.
And she would be safe. You would not have to fear for her after Mr Bennet’s death, knowing that she might rely on Strathalt House.
Darcy reproved himself for the errant thought. Surely it was not his place to think about what she might do. As he was then nearly back at the house, Darcy slowed his pace, stalling far enough away that no one would see him. His kilt and shirt weredamp from changing out of his wet clothes and having no towel available to dry his body first. His hair was still dripping onto his shirt and wetting his back. He must have looked like a drowned rat by now. He had much rather not be seen by anyone in such a state, for it was almost more than dignity could bear.
How his father would have hated to see him so. He hardly knew what he would have hated more — his dripping wet hair, or the kilt he wore. Neither fitted the image of the perfect son and heir to Pemberley.
If his late father had a besetting sin at all, it was surely that of pride. Of course, he had a right to be proud, for to all the power and glory of Pemberley and the Darcy name, his father had added wisdom, generosity, responsibility. His judgement had scarcely ever erred, except in the question of how far one George Wickham ought to be trusted.
Surely that meant that if Darcy was contemplating going against his father’s instructions, he was contemplating folly. His own imperfect judgement ought not, could not be substituted for that of the late Mr Darcy. His thoughts warred within him, and he was transported to a memory of himself as a boy, standing in front of his father’s great mahogany desk in the study.
“Your one calling in this life, Fitzwilliam, is to increase your family’s holdings and protect our name. Your great-great-grandfather from the time of the Norman invasion was able to raise himself from a humble knight to a landed gentleman. He built this house and estate up from the ground, and it has taken countless generations of hard work to make it what it is today.” His father had got up from the chair behind his desk and paced near the hearth, fixing him with his eyes as though willing his young son to understand the importance of his lecture. “It is up to you to continue that legacy. That is why I am so hard onyou at times. It is all for the betterment of the family. Do you understand?”
Darcy had only been eight when he had first heard the speech. And it had been drummed into him ever since, until the day of his father’s passing. Bettering the family did not include marrying below his station, certainly not a woman with no dowry or connections. His father would not have accepted alternative inducements, not even that Elizabeth was intelligent and compassionate, that she cared about Georgiana as she would one of her sisters, that she had the most mesmerising eyes he had ever seen…
Elizabeth was unlike any woman he had ever met. She was unassuming and kind, but spoke her mind with an intelligence and prowess that he could only call thrilling. But what did any of that matter if he won the wager and inherited Strathalt House? Surely the loser could not help but resent the winner.
Restlessly, Darcy stood up and strode towards the house. He knew he should not think of Elizabeth at all, and yet, he could not help himself. He sighed and raked a hand through his damp hair.
Startled by a sudden gasp, Darcy stopped dead in his tracks. As though his thoughts had conjured her, she was there, standing at the bend of the path where it curved around a thicket of bushes, and staring at him as though — well. As though he were soaking wet and wearing a kilt, of all things.
Elizabeth!
Chapter 13
Elizabeth sighed as she walked along the rambling paths of the garden. Inclement weather had kept her indoors early that morning when she would have gone for her walk. Thankfully, the rain had let up as the day went on, giving her a chance for some fresh air. She had spent the morning with her father in the parlour, discussing the riddle, but she could not focus. Surely the clue was from some written work, but Elizabeth could not seem to pull it from her memory.
It was maddening. Not only that the answer seemed to rest just out of reach of her mental faculties, but that Mr Darcy was causing her so much distraction as to render her useless to her father.
She had thought the fresh air and change of scenery might help her in solving the puzzle, but she found her thoughts still pulled toward Mr Darcy. Frustration boiled in her chest. What was wrong with her? She should not be thinking about a man of his station. True, her father was a landed gentleman, but the Bennets were far indeed from Mr Darcy’s level of wealth and consequence. Certainly he could never see them as equals. Of that, she had no doubt.
Elizabeth turned down a bend in the pathway and started back toward the house, not realising where she was rambling,and not really caring where she ended up. Her heart was so drawn to the landscape that even getting a little lost in the Highlands would have been a pleasure.
At the sound of a man’s strong footsteps on the gravel path ahead, Elizabeth looked up and smiled, expecting to greet Mr Campbell. But the friendly words on her lips turned into a startled gasp at what she saw there.
Elizabeth blinked several times, wondering if she could trust her eyes. It seemed rather unlikely, for if they did not lie, then the handsome man before her was Mr Darcy. Moreover, it was not Mr Darcy as she had seen him before, starched, proper, and proud, but Mr Darcy with his hair as wet and ruffled as though he had fallen into a pond, and wearing nothing more than a kilt and shirt. She would never have dreamt of seeing Mr Darcy in such a get-up, especially with a shirt open wide at the neck, revealing a glimpse of his bare chest.
She looked away, feeling herself blush. Even more embarrassing than catching Mr Darcy in such a state of dress was how very attractive he looked in it. The man could wear a potato sack and still be handsome, she thought with frustration. Did he not know how very difficult he was making it to think of him only with proper distance and respect?
With an effort, Elizabeth clung to her self-control. It would not do to let him suspect her thoughts, for it could only mortify them both. “Mr Darcy, good morning,” she said cheerfully, and privately congratulated herself on the steadiness of her voice.
“Miss Bennet,” he blurted out. “I — I beg your pardon for my dishabille. I was not expecting to meet anyone in the gardens.” He looked away, as though unable to meet her gaze. And was that a hint of a flush on his cheekbones?
Somehow, his embarrassment helped to ease hers. “Did you fall into the loch?” Elizabeth inquired curiously. His hair was quite wet, and there were dribbles coming down the side of his face. Oddly, it only made him look more handsome — vulnerable, in a way — more approachable. “We seem to keep running into each other like this.”
Truly, Elizabeth? You attempt to ease the tension, and say such a thing as that? You have made it considerably worse.
At least Mr Darcy did not seem offended. “Yes, quite a happy accident, I would say,” he replied. He smoothed down his shirt as though attempting to make himself more presentable, but it was a difficult feat in his current condition. “Allow me to explain. I found the second key.”
As if this would explain his state of undress. Her heart sank, and she looked down at her hands. “And so you fell into a pond, I assume?” she asked.
“Oh, no. It was at the bottom of the loch. I dived in to retrieve it,” Mr Darcy said, seeming as flustered as she was. “That is, it was secured inside a chest, which was at the bottom of the loch.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “How did you–? Whatever would have possessed Mr Campbell to put it in the water?” She ran through the riddle in her mind, and then understanding dawned. “I see. How stupid of me. I should have known it was from ‘The Lady of the Lake’. It is such a new piece that I have not had time to put it to memory.”
