“Truth between us is… welcome,” she said. “Then I shall stay.”
“Thank you,” he replied, equally direct.
Something subtle shifted in her expression—not quite forgiveness, but perhaps the possibility of it. The flush remained on her cheeks, lending her a vulnerability that struck him more powerfully than any carefully crafted appearance ever could.
“I shall inform Mr. Bingley of your decision,” she said, gathering her composure around her like a shield. Yet beneath that familiar reserve, he caught a glimpse of something new—something that might, given time and patience, grow into understanding.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A PINCH OF POETRY
The scentof fresh linen mingled with the faint medicinal smell of spirits of wine as Elizabeth pushed open the door to Darcy’s sickroom, balancing a stack of books against her hip.
“I see you’ve brought half the library,” Darcy observed from his propped position against the pillows. His voice was stronger today, though the shadows beneath his eyes betrayed his restless night. “Are you determined to improve my mind during my convalescence, Miss Bennet?”
“I doubt that’s possible, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied with a quirk of her brow. “Your opinion of your own understanding is already so secure.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Touché.”
Three days of tending to his wound had established an unexpected rhythm between them—a cautious dance that occasionally slipped into something less formal, more reminiscent of their verbal sparring from months ago.
“Your fever returned last night,” Elizabeth said, setting the books on the bedside table. She approached to press the back of her hand against his forehead—their established ritual. His skin was cooler this morning, though she noticed his breath catch slightly at the brief contact.
“I prefer discomfort to confusion,” he said, anticipating her suggestion about laudanum. “The medicine makes my thoughts imprecise.”
“Heaven forbid your thoughts should ever lack precision,” she replied dryly. “Though your sister would never forgive me if I allowed a fever to carry you off while I slept.”
“My sister doesn’t know I’ve been shot,” Darcy replied, then frowned. “I instructed Colonel Fitzwilliam to keep the matter from her until we know the outcome.”
“The outcome being whether you live or die?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, Mr. Darcy, while under my care, only one outcome is permitted.”
His lips twitched again with that almost-smile. “I would not dare defy such explicit instructions, Miss Bennet.”
She turned to the small table where she kept her supplies, measuring spirits of wine into a bowl for his morning bandage change. “I’ve brought books, as you requested yesterday. Something to occupy your mind besides cataloging your various discomforts and staring at the ceiling.”
“A thoughtful gesture,” he said, his tone softer than she was accustomed to hearing. “What selections have you deemed suitable for an invalid?”
She gestured toward the books. “Gibbon’sDecline and Fall of the Roman Empire, which I recall you were reading during your previous stay at Netherfield.”
“You noticed that?” Darcy asked, sounding surprised.
“I notice many things, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied, setting the book aside. “Though I confess I sometimes draw the wrong conclusions from my observations.”
Something shifted in his expression at her tacit acknowledgment of past misjudgments. “As do we all, Miss Bennet.”
She continued through the stack. “I’ve also brought other literary works, Milton, Homer, and as a last resort, should boredom become truly unbearable, a volume of contemporary poetry.”
“Poetry?” Darcy’s eyebrow rose fractionally. “I was under the impression you did not consider poetry the food of love.”
“Nor do you, if I recall correctly,” Elizabeth countered, pleased he remembered their past conversation.
“Indeed. Though perhaps we should give the poor poets a chance to change our minds.”
“How magnanimous of you, sir.” She selected the volume of poetry and settled into the chair beside his bed, feeling strangely at ease. “Shall I read, or would you prefer to select something yourself?”
“Pray, read whatever strikes your fancy. I find myself curious about your taste in verse.”
Elizabeth opened the book, flipping through the pages until she found a particularly florid piece. “Very well, though I warn you—my selections may be made with an eye toward amusement rather than edification.”
