Flustered, he excused himself from the table earlier than propriety might dictate, the need to dispatch his letters outweighing social niceties. The room had grown uncomfortably warm, and a slight shiver passed through him despite the heat. He attributed this contradiction to the drafty hallway as he made his way to the estateoffice where he knew Graham Pullen would be reviewing the morning’s work assignments.
He would ask the steward to post the letters by express rider. The sooner he determined Miss Bennet’s situation, the sooner he could rectify the harm done to her.
But how? By demanding the errant clergyman make her his wife?
Heaven forbid, and yet, the only other alternative was unthinkable… and entirely too tempting.
As Darcy laid his aching body down to rest, he closed his eyes and tantalized himself with visions so improper they could only be attributed to his growing fever. Elizabeth Bennet at Pemberley, her fine eyes brightening its somber halls. William toddling through the gardens, safe under his protection. The three of them forming a family not of blood but of choice—a ridiculous fancy born of illness and loneliness.
He imagined introducing her as his wife, watching society’s shock transform to grudging acceptance as his name shielded her from further harm. He pictured teaching William to ride, to fish in Pemberley’s streams, to carry himself with the dignity befitting… befitting what? The son of a country parson’s cast-off mistress? Or he could claim him… forgetting all proprieties. If William Collins denied the responsibility, all the better.
“Addle minded,” he muttered, pressing his palm against his throbbing temple. His physician had warned that his head injury might leave him susceptible to such fancies—delusions that felt more real than reality itself. This inexplicable draw toward Elizabeth and her child could be nothing more than his injured head creating connections where none existed.
And yet, he was too weak of a man not to give himself over to such impossible dreams…
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FEVERED BROW
Elizabeth had just finished settlingWilliam for his morning nap when Georgiana burst into the nursery, her face alarmingly pale and her customary composure entirely absent.
“Miss Elizabeth, please—it’s my brother—he’s fallen ill,” she gasped, clearly having run through the house to find her. “His valet found him fully dressed on the floor, burning with fever.”
Elizabeth felt her heart stutter in her chest, even as her mind rapidly assessed the situation with practiced clarity. “Has the physician been sent for?”
“Yes, Lady Eleanor dispatched a footman immediately,” Georgiana confirmed, twisting her hands together in distress. “But many in the village were affected by the storm. We don’t know how long before he can attend.”
“I see.” Elizabeth glanced at William, peacefully oblivious in his crib. “Mary can watch him when he wakes. Take me to your brother.”
She followed Georgiana toward the master’s bedchamber, maintaining outward calm despite the fear clawing at her insides. Darcy had seemed somewhat fatigued the previous evening, but she hadattributed that to his headache and the toll of escorting her through the rain.
“He was fine at breakfast,” Georgiana was saying, her voice thin with worry. “But after the storm… he said his head pained him more than usual.”
Elizabeth nodded, unsurprised. “The change in atmospheric pressure often affects those with head injuries.”
Georgiana glanced at her curiously. “You seem quite knowledgeable about such matters.”
“I nursed my father through several illnesses,” Elizabeth replied. “One develops a certain practical understanding.”
They arrived at Darcy’s chambers, where a visibly relieved Lady Eleanor stood in conversation with Darcy’s valet. The gentleman looked appropriately grave, though Elizabeth detected the slightly panicked expression of a man out of his depth.
“Miss Elizabeth, thank heaven,” Lady Eleanor greeted her. “Fitzwilliam has taken quite ill, I’m afraid. The storm seems to have triggered a reaction in his injured head.”
“May I see him?” Elizabeth asked, already moving toward the bedchamber door.
Lady Eleanor hesitated only briefly. “Yes, of course. You are, after all…” She trailed off, glancing at the valet, then continued more carefully, “You have experience with nursing, I understand.”
Elizabeth appreciated his aunt’s discretion. The household staff had been carefully instructed to treat her as “Miss Bennet” despite their knowledge of her marriage to Darcy. Until he himself acknowledged her as his wife, Lady Eleanor had thought it best to maintain this fiction to avoid any potential awkwardness should his memory never return.
The irony that she was now being ushered into his private chambers—an intimacy permitted only to wives or professional nurses—was not lost on Elizabeth.
The bedchamber was dimly lit, heavy curtains drawn against the morning light. Darcy lay motionless upon the large bed, his faceflushed with fever. He had been dressed in a nightshirt, his hair damp with perspiration despite the cool air in the room.
Elizabeth approached with clinical detachment, years of nursing her father allowing her to suppress her personal feelings beneath a veneer of practical concern. She placed her palm against Darcy’s forehead, noting the alarming heat radiating from his skin.
The fever burned through the fine linen of his nightshirt, and she could hear the harsh rasp of his breathing in the stillness of the room. The air itself seemed thick with the medicinal scent of vinegar and the underlying mustiness that accompanied serious illness.
“He has a high fever,” she observed. “How long has he been unconscious?”
