You must live. Not for me, but for those who love you.
The words echoed in his mind with startling clarity. Had she honestly said that? Had Elizabeth Bennet, who claimed to hate him, fought through the night to preserve his life? The evidence of her care lay warm against his chest.
I’m not a failing. I’m Elizabeth Bennet. I’m not a regrettable affliction. I am worthy.
Shame washed over him with devastating force. Those words—if they were real, if his fevered mind had not conjured them, cut deeper than Wickham’s bullet. To hear his arrogance reflected through her pain, to understand how thoroughly he had wounded her while believing himself the injured party…
Darcy tried to swallow, his throat raw and parched. How long had he been unconscious? Hours? Days? Time seemed malleable, unreliable. He remembered fragments of her voice, snatches of conversation that might have been dreams or delirium or devastating truth.
I was but a fool, and if you die, it was because I couldn’t hold my tongue.
She blamed herself. Elizabeth, who had every right to leave him to face the consequences of his pride, believed his near-death was her fault. The injustice of it made his chest burn with something fiercer than fever.
He should wake her. Their position was scandalously improper, no matter the circumstances that had led to it. And yet, he was oddly reluctant to disturb this moment.
When had anyone looked so peaceful in his presence? When had he ever felt such… contentment was not the right word. Elizabeth Bennet had never brought him contentment. But something about her warmth against his side, the trust implied by her unguarded sleep, made him hesitate.
Elizabeth stirred against him, a small sound escaping her lips as she shifted slightly. He felt her breathing change, quickening as she rose toward consciousness. He should close his eyes and feign sleep to spare them both the awkwardness of the moment to come. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do.
But he could not look away, transfixed by her lashes fluttering as awareness returned. She stiffened suddenly, her body going rigid as she registered her position against his chest. For a heartbeat, she remained perfectly still, as if hoping it was merely a dream from which she might yet awaken.
Slowly, carefully, Elizabeth lifted her head from his chest. Her hair was disheveled, her dress wrinkled beyond repair, and her face was marked by exhaustion. But her eyes…
Her gaze met his, and the world stopped.
Darcy stared at her, caught in a moment of bewildering contradiction—grateful for her care yet resentful of her past actions; acutely aware of her as a woman yet constrained by propriety; wounded by her betrayal yet moved by her evident exhaustion on his behalf. He could not have named what passed between them, only that it held the weight of all that had transpired and all that remained unresolved.
Her lips parted slightly, perhaps to offer some explanation, some apology for their improper position. But no sound emerged. Her cheeks flushed crimson, the color spreading down her neck, yet she seemed unable to look away from his gaze.
What did she see in his eyes? Darcy wondered. Gratitude? Confusion? The unwelcome turmoil unsettling his usual composure? Or perhaps she saw the pain that radiated from his shoulder, setting his teeth on edge even as he tried to maintain his dignity.
With excruciating slowness, hindered by weakness and pain, Darcy lifted his arm from around her. The movement sent daggers of agony through his injured side, but he kepthis expression carefully neutral, unwilling to add his physical suffering to her emotional discomfort.
Elizabeth scrambled backward immediately. She nearly fell from the edge of the bed, steadying herself against the bedpost with one hand.
“I… I must have fallen asleep,” she said. “Your fever… it was very high. I was monitoring—” She broke off, pressing her hands to her cheeks as though to cool them.
Darcy tried to respond, to offer some assurance that would ease her embarrassment, but his throat was parched, and his tongue felt like lead. The best he could manage was a small nod, which sent fresh waves of pain crashing through his skull.
“You should not attempt to move,” Elizabeth said. “I should… refresh myself. The surgeon will want to examine… I should call for…”
She could not complete a sentence, moving toward the door like a woman fleeing a fire.
At the threshold, she paused without turning back. “I am… that is, I am glad you are awake. That you are… better.”
The door closed behind her with a soft click that echoed in the sudden emptiness.
Darcy exhaled slowly, finding himself surprisingly bereft at her departure. Her presence had been strangely comforting.
And yet, her words during his fever suggested regret on her part as well:
I should not have trusted Wickham.
I should not have made a jest out of your proposal.
Perhaps there was blame enough for both of them in this unfortunate affair.
The shame of that realization burned hotter than his fever had. He had wounded her deeply, not through intention but through carelessness. Through pride. Through a failure toconsider how his words would sound to someone who did not share his perspective.
