The offer caught Elizabeth off guard. After their last encounter, she had expected continued coldness rather than this unexpected solicitude.
“That is… most considerate of you,” she said cautiously.
Darcy merely nodded, stepping forward to position the umbrella over both of them. The arrangement necessitated closer proximity than Elizabeth would have preferred. His arm nearly brushed hers, and the scent of him brought unwelcome memories of their night at the Red Lion.
They set off toward the house in silence, their steps carefully measured to accommodate his still-unsteady gait. The first heavy drops of rain began to fall, pattering against the umbrella with increasing insistence.
“The storm appears to be moving faster than anticipated,” Darcy observed, his gaze fixed ahead.
“An astute meteorological observation, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied before she could check her tongue.
To her surprise, something like amusement flickered across his face. “You find my conversation lacking in substance, Miss Bennet?”
“On the contrary,” she said, feeling a dangerous spark of their old verbal sparring returning. “I find weather a most illuminating topic. One learns so much about a person from their approach to discussing it.”
“Indeed? And what does my comment reveal about me?”
Elizabeth considered him, unable to resist the opening. “That you are a man who prefers to state the obvious rather than risk venturing an opinion that might be contradicted.”
The words escaped before she could temper them with diplomacy. She had spent too many days watching him, too many nights dreaming of him, too many hours balancing her knowledge of the man he had been against the stranger he had become. Exhaustion had worn away her careful defenses.
Darcy did not appear offended. “A shrewd assessment. Though perhaps incomplete.”
“In what way?”
“Perhaps I state the obvious because I find myself increasingly uncertain of what is obvious and what is merely assumed to be so.” His voice had lost its customary crispness, taking on a quality that reminded her painfully of their intimate conversations at the Red Lion. “My injury has left me… less confident… in my perceptions than I once was.”
The admission, so uncharacteristic of Darcy’s usual reserve, caught her heart in a quandary.
Something melted inside her at the sight of this proud man revealing such vulnerability. Her fingers itched with the desire to reach out, to draw his head to her shoulder as she did when William woke frightened in the night.
A bolt of lightning flashed, followed by the resounding boom, and the sky opened in earnest. Rain poured down with sudden violence, turning the path to treacherous mud in moments.
“We must hurry,” Darcy said, moving closer to shield her. The umbrella shook in his hand, and Elizabeth noticed he was not carrying his cane.
The rain forced a faster pace than she was comfortable. Elizabeth winced at the pronounced limp in Darcy’s step, growing more staggered as they reached the house. Despite his pain, he insisted onholding her arm, and when she stumbled in the mud, he caught her waist and drew her against his side.
“Are you well?” he asked, his voice strangely rough.
All she could do was nod. She wouldn’t hurt his pride by asking his condition.
“Steady.” His voice burred low in her ear. “We’re nearly there.”
They reached the kitchen entrance, bursting through the door into the warmth and light. Mrs. Honywood exclaimed in horror at their drenched state, immediately calling for towels and hot tea.
“You should change immediately,” Darcy said, his voice still laced with concern—for her, although not himself. “Lady Eleanor would not forgive me if you were to catch cold.”
“I am not made of sugar, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied, water dripping from her skirt onto the flagstone floor. “I assure you, a little rain poses no threat to my constitution.”
“Nevertheless,” he insisted, handing his umbrella to a waiting footman in exchange for his cane, “dry clothes would not go amiss.”
“Your leg, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, her eyes moving to where he leaned heavily on his cane. “You shouldn’t have?—”
“It is nothing,” he cut her off, suddenly uncomfortable with her concern.
“Here now,” Mrs. Honywood bustled forward with towels. “Miss Elizabeth, dry yourself before you catch a cold. Mr. Darcy, sir, you must change immediately.”
Elizabeth felt the urge to wrap a towel around the man she’d known as husband for a night, but of course, propriety forestalled her.
