I might have accepted you had you spoken to me as if I mattered.
The memory of their eyes meeting upon her waking returned to him. That moment of connection, of seeing each other without pretense or pride. What had she seen in his gaze? And what had he seen in hers?
Not hatred. Not in that unguarded moment. Something else entirely… something more promising.
Darcy closed his eyes, surrendering temporarily to the weakness that pervaded his body.
I might still hate you…
Her voice echoed in his memory, haunting him even as he drifted back toward sleep. But now he focused on a different word, one that offered a slender thread of possibility.
Might.
She might still hate him. But there remained the chance, however small, that she might not.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MEASURED DISGRACE
Elizabeth supposedthere were worse ways of waking up than pressed against Fitzwilliam Darcy’s bare chest, lulled to sleep by his thundering heartbeat. She supposed she could have drooled, and maybe she did. She leaned against the closed door of her bedchamber and tried to calm her galloping heart. What must he think of her?
She had fallen asleep on his chest.
Not merely near him, not simply in a chair beside his bed, but sprawled across his person like…
Elizabeth groaned aloud, pushing away from the door on unsteady legs. There was no comparison, no precedent for such impropriety. She had slept with her cheek pressed against his bare skin, her hand curled beside her face, her body half-draped across his as though they were…
No, she would not complete that thought.
Worse than the position was the moment of awakening. When she’d opened her eyes to find him watching her, his arm protectively around her shoulders. His dark eyes had met hers, and neither had pulled away. Correction, he was an invalid. And she, like a lost lamb, had stared into those deep, dark eyes and had lost all her words.
The moment had stretched, like spun silk, and she hadn’t been able to pull away, not until he very painfully and stiffly removed his arm.
She couldn’t bear to imagine what he thought.
Elizabeth pushed away from the door and crossed to a small mirror above the dressing table, wincing at her reflection. She looked like a madwoman. Her hair had escaped its pins entirely, tumbling in a wild disarray around her shoulders. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, stark against the pallor of her skin. And there, on her cheek, was a faint red mark where she had pressed against… his body.
If she was disgraced before, she was doubly, no triply so now. Beyond ruined. No longer a lady. Destined to be hidden in the attics or serving in hospital wards.
A duty she had chosen, she reminded herself as she dipped her hands into a wash basin. A bargain she had struck willingly to protect her sisters’ futures.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Elizabeth?” Jane’s gentle voice called. “Are you awake?”
Elizabeth smoothed her hands over her crumpled dress—a useless gesture given the state of her appearance. “Come in, Jane.”
Jane was fresh-faced and lovely in a pale blue morning dress. Her cheeks were pink, and her hair was pinned neatly. She set down a bundle of clothing and crossed to Elizabeth’s side.
“I’ve brought you fresh things. Mama sent a morning dress and clean linen. You look exhausted. Was Mr. Darcy’s night very difficult?”
“His fever broke near dawn,” Elizabeth replied. “He has just woken.”
Jane studied her sister’s face intently. “Then why do you look so distressed? Has something else occurred?”
Elizabeth turned away, busying herself with examining the clean dress Jane had brought—her own blue morning dress, not Caroline’s servant’s garb. “I may have… that is to say… I fell asleep in a rather compromising position.”
“Oh? Where?”
