The use of his full name—particularly the middle name, Fitzwilliam—caught Darcy’s attention. It seemed a peculiar choice for a woman in Elizabeth’s circumstances. Had she named the boy after a benefactor? Fitzwilliam for Aunt Eleanor’s maiden name? Had she known the confusion that it could engender?
The thought was disquieting for reasons Darcy could not articulate.
William continued his protest, apparently unimpressed by appeals to gentlemanly dignity. His face had flushed an alarming shade of red, his small fists clenched in rage at the injustice of being denied immediate access to sheep.
To Darcy’s surprise, Elizabeth did not attempt to physically restrain the child or raise her voice. Instead, she seated herself comfortably in the grass beside him and began to speak in a calm, quiet tone.
“I understand you’re disappointed,” she said. “You wanted to see the sheep, and I said no. That feels very unfair to you.”
The boy’s wails diminished slightly, though his expression remained mutinous.
“The sheep are being counted and sorted today,” Elizabeth continued. “It’s important work, and the shepherds need space to do it properly. If a little boy ran among the sheep, they might become frightened and run away.”
William hiccuped, considering this information. His sobs subsided to sniffles as he pointed toward the sheep pens with a questioning expression.
“Tomorrow,” Elizabeth confirmed. “If you can be a good boy for the remainder of today.”
William held up his hands and she picked him up, cuddling him with a kiss on his forehead.
An image flashed across Darcy’s memory. Kissing her forehead, a rain-soaked night. Promising…
He almost reached for Elizabeth, but Pullen smoothly stepped forward. “You’ve been working all morning, Miss Elizabeth. Let me take Master William back to the house for you.”
Elizabeth transferred her son to Pullen with ease, and the child accepted the change without protest.
“There now, young master,” Pullen said with easy affection. “Shall we see if Mrs. Honywood has baked those biscuits you favor?”
A surge of something hot and unpleasant coursed through Darcy’s chest as he watched the exchange. What was this feeling? This sudden, irrational urge to step forward and reclaim what was not his to claim? William was not his child, Elizabeth was not his responsibility.
This was unworthy of him—these base emotions had no place in the mind of a gentleman. Jealousy? Of his own steward? Preposterous. He was Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, not some lovesick boy nursing wounded pride over a woman’s attentions. He had never been prone to such sentimentality, even before his injury.
Darcy became suddenly aware of Elizabeth’s fine eyes watching him. Heat rushed to his face as he stood frozen, uncertain whether to remain or retreat, unwilling to appear either cowardly or improper.
In that instant, he knew two things with equal clarity: that he did not know her at all, and that not knowing her felt like a mistake he had made once and was making again.
He touched his bare right hand with his left, a foolish, private gesture, and the question Georgiana had laid in him flared anew.Where is your signet ring?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE STORM REVEALS
Elizabeth stoodin the doorway of the lambing barn, watching charcoal clouds gather on the horizon. The distant rumble of thunder heralded the approach of a storm that had been threatening all afternoon. She ought to return to the house immediately, but fatigue kept her rooted to the spot, reluctant to muster the energy such a journey required.
The past three days of breeding preparations had left her bone-weary. The ewes had been sorted into groups, the rams checked for fitness, and endless records updated to track bloodlines and breeding patterns. Though she found satisfaction in the work, the physical toll had been considerable. Elizabeth could not recall the last time she had slept properly—each night bringing dreams of Darcy that left her more exhausted than before.
She rubbed her eyes, willing herself to focus. A particularly insistent ewe had required her attention, delaying her return to the house. Now the storm approached with alarming speed, and she had neither umbrella nor proper coat to shield her from its fury.
“Miss Bennet.”
The voice startled her. Elizabeth turned to find Darcystanding a few paces away, an umbrella in one hand. His expression was unreadable, his posture formal despite the rustic setting.
“Mr. Darcy,” she acknowledged, trying to mask her surprise. “What brings you to the barn?”
“Lady Eleanor mentioned you were still here. She expressed concern about your return journey, given the approaching storm.”
Elizabeth glanced at the darkening sky. “Her concern was not misplaced, it seems.”
“Indeed.” Darcy shifted slightly, his discomfort evident in the rigid set of his shoulders. “I have brought an umbrella. Allow me to escort you back to the house.”
