“No apology necessary, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, her voice musical and well-modulated—the voice of a gentlewoman, not a farmer’s wife as he had assumed. “We understand that… circumstances… have made many things unfamiliar to you.”
“Ah.” Darcy found himself continuing to look at her, aware that his scrutiny was becoming improper yet unable to look away. There was something about her features, the way she held herself, that commanded his attention despite his better judgment. He forced himself to turn to Lady Eleanor. “I was not aware you had connections in Hertfordshire, Aunt.”
“The connection is more recent,” Lady Eleanor replied with careful neutrality. “Through mutual acquaintances.”
The woman avoided his gaze, giving him an opportunity to study her without seeming to pay her inordinate attention. She was handsome, no doubt, but in a wild, unrefined manner, like a Yorkshire goat, hardy with more strength than her size would suggest. Her sister, Mary, appeared properly reserved, but the one with the child, Elizabeth, caused the most unsettling sensations in his chest despite her obvious moral failings. How could his aunt possibly countenance such a woman’s presence in his household? An unmarried “Miss” with a child, installed as what appeared to be the housekeeper of Bellfield Grange?
And then, Georgiana tickled the child’s feet and the boy belted out in laughter—easy laughter that made him feel strangely drawn to the sound despite himself. And the woman, Elizabeth laughed, her voice rich with amusement.
“Perhaps the young master favors the Bennet side in temperament,” she said lightly. “We tend to laugh more freely than some families of greater consequence, though perhaps with less dignity.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Darcy said, suddenly needing to escape this confusion, “I should like to retire to my chambers. The journey has been fatiguing.”
“Of course,” Pullen said quickly. “Your rooms are prepared, sir. If you’ll follow me?”
Darcy nodded and moved through the parlor, walking directly past Elizabeth Bennet and her child. As he did, he found his gaze drawn once more to her face, lingering a moment too long. She met his eyes with a directness that both startled and inexplicably pleased him, before he recollected himself and looked away.
What was he missing here?
“Your chambers are this way, sir,” Pullen directed, leading him up a narrow staircase.
The room prepared for him was large and airy, with windows overlooking the rolling hills beyond. A fire had been lit against the September chill, and his traveling cases had already been brought up.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” Pullen asked.
“No,” Darcy replied, then, remembering his manners, added, “Thank you.”
Left alone, Darcy sank into a chair by the window, pressing his fingertips against his temples. The headache that had become his constant companion since the injury pulsed behind his eyes. He closed them briefly, seeking relief that did not come.
When he opened them again, his gaze fell on the scene below. Elizabeth Bennet stood in the garden, her child toddling unsteadily beside her, one small hand clutching her skirts for balance. As Darcy watched, the boy took several independent steps before tumbling onto the grass. Instead of crying, he frowned—a particular expression of annoyed determination that struck Darcy as oddly familiar.
Elizabeth laughed and helped the child to his feet, her face transformed by her smile. The sight stirred something in Darcy—a feeling so acute it might have been his heart crying.
He watched her longer than propriety should allow, studying thegraceful way she moved, the animated expressions that crossed her features as she spoke to her son. Despite his disapproval of her situation, he could not deny that there was something compelling about her—a quality that demanded attention.
Darcy turned abruptly from the window, disturbed by his own thoughts. What was wrong with him, to be so fixated on a woman whose moral character was clearly questionable? Perhaps his extended confinement had affected his judgment more than he cared to admit. He had been too long without proper society if he found himself drawn to observe a fallen woman with such inexplicable interest.
He would be polite to the Bennet sisters, respectful to Pullen, and attentive to his aunt and sister. He would give no indication of his confusion, his frustration, or the strange pull he felt toward a woman he could not recall ever meeting.
And he would certainly not allow himself to watch her from windows like some lovesick youth. He was Fitzwilliam Edmund Darcy of Pemberley, and whatever else his injury might have taken from him, it would not take his dignity or his sense of proper conduct.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BETWEEN PRIDE AND PATIENCE
Elizabeth awoketo William’s cheerful babbling from his crib beside her bed. The September morning light streamed through the curtains she had neglected to close properly the night before, illuminating her son’s face as he stood gripping the railing, bouncing with impatience for her attention.
“Good morning, my little gentleman,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice despite the leaden weight in her chest. “Have you been conversing with the birds again?”
William grinned, displaying his small collection of teeth. “Mama up!” he commanded, his imperious tone so reminiscent of his father that Elizabeth’s heart contracted painfully.
His father. The man who had looked through her yesterday as if she were part of the furniture—or worse, an unwelcome intrusion into his properly ordered world. The man who now inhabited Fitzwilliam Darcy’s body but shared none of the tenderness, none of the regard that had bound them together during that fateful storm.
She chided herself for the foolish hope she had nurtured these past months—that somehow, despite Lady Eleanor’s warnings about his memory loss, Darcy would see her across the garden andinstantly recognize his wife. How ridiculous she had been, running headlong across the heather like a heroine in a gothic, expecting him to sweep her into his arms with sudden recognition dawning in his eyes.
“Patience, sir,” she replied, swinging her feet to the floor. “Your mother requires a moment to collect herself before facing the day’s battles.”
And battles they would be, she had no doubt. If yesterday’s brief encounter had demonstrated anything, it was that Darcy’s injury had stripped away whatever softening of character had led him to love her in the first place. What remained was the proud, dismissive man she had first met at the Meryton assembly—except now armed with even stronger prejudice against her, given the evidence of her “fallen” state in the form of William.
