“The great Fitzwilliam Darcy, felled by a duel over a woman he considers beneath his touch. How mortifying this must be for you.”
His breathing remained shallow but steady, his eyes firmly closed. The smallest flutter of his eyelashes caught her attention.
“Can you hear me, I wonder?” Elizabeth leaned closer, studying his face for any sign of consciousness. Finding none, she straightened with a bitter smile. “Of course not. How convenient. You seem to have a talent for avoiding difficult conversations.”
A knock on the door interrupted her monologue. The surgeon entered, carrying his leather case.
“Miss Bennet, I trust our patient remains stable?” His voice was kind but distant.
“His breathing is steady, though his skin feels warm,” Elizabeth reported.
“The fever is beginning, as expected. It will worsen before it improves.”
“Will he survive it?” The question escaped before Elizabeth could prevent it.
“That depends on your diligence. And on his will to live.” The surgeon’s eyes met hers directly. “Your feelings are irrelevant to his recovery. He needs cool compresses when the fever rises, regular cleaning of the wound, and water or broth whenever he can swallow. The first forty-eight hours are most critical.”
“I understand.”
“I have left laudanum for the pain. Three drops on his tongue when he shows signs of waking. Not more than every four hours.” The surgeon paused at the door. “Miss Bennet, may I speak frankly?”
Elizabeth steeled herself. “Of course.”
“Whatever the circumstances that brought you to this role, I urge you to set aside your personal grievances. Mr. Darcy’s life may well depend on your care.”
“You need not concern yourself with my ability to fulfill my duties,” Elizabeth replied coldly. “I am quite capable of separating my feelings from my responsibilities.”
The surgeon’s expression remained neutral. “Very good. Then I bid you good day.”
As the door closed behind him, Elizabeth returned to Darcy’s bedside, examining his pallid features.
“Did you hear that, Mr. Darcy? My feelings are irrelevant.” She replaced the compress on his forehead, her fingers inadvertently brushing against his hair. The dark strands were softer than she had expected.
“Did they matter to you when you denied your proposal? Did you care how I would feel when you suggested I carry Wickham’s child?”
Elizabeth dipped a clean cloth in warm water and began cleaning the dried blood from his neck. His skin was already warm with developing fever, and she tried to ignore how the intimate task made her acutely aware of the breadth of his shoulders.
“I could tell you all manner of things now, couldn’t I? And you would be powerless to respond. What a novel experience—to speak without interruption, without judgment, without your perpetual frown of disapproval.”
His labored breathing was her only answer.
She supposed she could grow to enjoy this one-sided conversation. She could subject him to all sorts of abuse, and he would be powerless to rebuke her.
She moved to check his bandages, gently pulling aside the linen to examine the wound. The skin was inflamed and hot. She soaked a clean cloth in wine spirits and dabbed the area.
Darcy’s face tightened with unconscious pain. His breath caught, a small sound of distress escaping his lips. Elizabeth hesitated, her hand stilling. She had not expected him to react, had not anticipated how the sight of his pain would affect her.
“I suppose even you do not deserve to suffer.” She gentled her touch. “My mother believes you fought the duel for my honor. But what honor is there for you to believe I could have any association with Wickham? I’m curious when and where you suppose this alleged liaison was to have occurred.”
A knock on the door announced Caroline Bingley, who entered without waiting for permission. “Miss Eliza, I thought I might relieve you for a short while. You must be exhausted.”
Elizabeth smiled thinly. “How thoughtful, Miss Bingley. But I assure you, I am quite capable of fulfilling my responsibilities.”
Caroline approached the bed, her gaze lingering on Darcy’s face with poorly disguised longing. “He looks so pale. Has there been any change?”
“The fever is rising, as predicted. But his breathing remains steady.”
“Poor Mr. Darcy.” Caroline sighed dramatically. “To think he should be reduced to such a state, and over such a misunderstanding.”
