“My heart won’t ever leave you.”
Something in her tone must have reassured him, for his grip relaxed. Elizabeth took the opportunity to gently disentangle her fingers from his.
“A kiss,” Darcy murmured, his eyes holding hers with fevered intensity. “Before you go.”
Elizabeth froze, acutely aware of every person watching this intimate exchange. Granting such a request would be utterly improper, yet refusing him in his desperation seemed cruel.
The colonel stepped forward. “Miss Bennet, perhaps it would be best if?—”
“I understand,” Elizabeth said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. “I shall withdraw of my own accord.”
She rose from the bedside, gathering what dignity she could. She found Georgiana’s concerned gaze and addressed her, “Miss Darcy, I have kept detailed notes of your brother’s condition these past days. You will find them in that leather-bound volume. Perhaps they may be of some use to the physicians.”
Georgiana nodded. “Thank you, Miss Bennet. Truly.”
“He must be bled immediately,” Mr. Johnson cut in. “The delay has endangered him exceedingly. The ill humors must be removed.”
“I’ve brought my physician.” Lady Catherine ushered in a silver-haired woman, introducing her as Mrs. Porter. “We shall not bleed my nephew. Mrs. Porter’s poultices will draw out the infection without further weakening him.”
“Elizabeth,” Darcy called again, his voice rising in distress. “Don’t go.”
She paused at the threshold, holding his gaze as a promise. “Rest, Mr. Darcy. I shall return when you are better.”
“Come, Lizzy,” Jane murmured, guiding her out into the corridor. “You’ve done all you can.”
The door closed behind them with a finality that echoed in her chest.
“What if these are his final moments? What if I never see him conscious again?” Elizabeth asked her sister.
“You care for him, Lizzy. More than you once did.” Jane wore a pinched smile. “But now, it’s time to go home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE RETREAT
Elizabeth staredout the window of their borrowed carriage, blinking back tears as Netherfield Park and Mr. Darcy’s sickroom disappeared in the distance. Beside her, Jane sat rigid with barely controlled distress, her usual serenity shattered by the magnitude of their disgrace.
Elizabeth’s chest felt as though it had been carved hollow. Lady Catherine’s accusations echoed in her mind:fortune hunter, harridan, manipulator of fevered men.Worse still was the memory of Darcy’s desperate face as she was dragged from his bedside—fevered, calling her name, believing her his wife.
His wife.Even now, the phantom pressure of his lips against hers made her tremble. That kiss—tender, desperate, burning with fever and something deeper—had been her first. And perhaps her last, if he did not survive.
“I abandoned him.” The admission pained her.
“You did no such thing,” Jane countered gently. “Mr. Darcy is in capable hands with his family. Your presence had become a point of contention that could only harm his recovery.”
Elizabeth nodded, knowing the truth of Jane’s statement, but her heart ached, and worry overtook her. “What if they bleed him? What if?”
“You must trust Lady Catherine has Darcy’s best interest,” Jane said. “She is his mother’s sister, after all.”
“And she used his mother’s memory to hurt him,” Elizabeth said. “I wanted to…”
Their carriage lurched and slowed to a stop. Elizabeth looked out the window at a line of heavy wagons blocking the road. Men shouted directions as they maneuvered the unwieldy vehicles toward Netherfield’s gates.
“Are those ice wagons?” Elizabeth asked the driver.
“Aye, miss. It seems Mr. Bingley sent for ice from every house in the county. Must be paying a pretty price for it, too.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Ice for Darcy’s fever. Bingley had spared no expense to save his friend’s life.
