“No, that will be all.” Darcy dismissed him with a nod, studying his reflection with critical eyes.
His reflection appeared tolerably civilized—the pallor of illness had faded, his eyes had regained their customary clarity, and his valet had managed to restore some semblance of order to his person. Yet beneath this veneer of respectability lurked a profound unease that no amount of careful grooming could address.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet had nursed him through his illness. Alone. In his private chambers. For the better part of three days and nights.
How could Aunt Eleanor have allowed such impropriety?
A lady—regardless of her compromised circumstances—attending to a gentleman in such intimate conditions representedprecisely the sort of scandal that destroyed reputations and necessitated hasty marriages or social exile.
His memories of the illness remained fragmented—disconnected images, sensations, and words that refused to form a coherent narrative. Dr. Harrison assured him this was to be expected, that fever often produced delirium with no basis in reality.
Yet certain impressions persisted. The cool touch of a hand against his brow. A voice murmuring words of comfort when terror seized him. The scent of lavender and rosemary that had somehow kept him tethered to the world when darkness threatened to claim him.
Elizabeth Bennet. A woman who never left his thoughts by day and dreams by night.
That he had been unconscious throughout most of the ordeal provided no mitigation whatsoever. If anything, his helpless state made the situation more damning, not less. The intimacy of a sickroom, the necessary physical ministrations, the hours spent alone with a man not her husband—these were breaches of propriety that would have scandalized society had they occurred in London rather than in the rural seclusion of Yorkshire.
Darcy had questioned his aunt extensively about the circumstances, learning that Dr. Harrison had been attending multiple storm victims and could not spare a nurse. Miss Bennet apparently had experience tending to her father’s frequent indispositions and had volunteered her services. All perfectly reasonable explanations that did nothing to diminish his sense of having perpetrated an unconscionable violation of propriety.
“She saved your life,” Lady Eleanor had informed him with characteristic directness. “Her competence likely prevented more serious complications.”
Hence tonight’s dinner. A formal, proper setting in which to address the delicate matter of compensation.
The small dining room had been prepared according to his specifications. Candles rather than lamps, the best silver,wine already breathing in crystal decanters. The intimate setting would permit private conversation while the presence of servants ensured propriety. Miss Bennet would be able to speak freely without fear of embarrassment before a larger audience.
“Brother!” Georgiana’s voice interrupted his thoughts as she entered his chambers without ceremony. “You requested dinner in the small dining room with Miss Elizabeth?”
“I did,” he confirmed, turning from the mirror. “There is a matter of some importance I wish to discuss with her.”
Georgiana’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What manner of matter?”
“That is between Miss Bennet and myself,” he replied, uncomfortable with his sister’s uncharacteristic directness. She had changed during his absence, developing an assertiveness that occasionally startled him.
“She has requested my presence,” Georgiana announced, watching his reaction closely. “She feels it would be improper to dine alone with you.”
Irritation flashed through him. “Does she indeed? After spending three days in my bedchamber, she suddenly develops scruples about propriety?”
The words escaped before he could check them, and he immediately regretted their petulance. Georgiana’s eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise at his uncharacteristic display of pique.
“I apologize,” he said stiffly. “That was ungentlemanly of me.”
“She saved your life, Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana said quietly. “Dr. Harrison said your seizure could have been fatal without her immediate intervention.”
“So I’ve already been told.” He checked the tightness of his cravat. “Then I am doubly obligated to express my gratitude. And my concern for how her reputation might suffer from such intimate association with a gentleman not her husband.”
Georgiana made a strange sound—half laugh, half distressed exclamation. “You needn’t worry about that. Aunt Eleanor has ensured the household’s discretion.”
“Nevertheless, there are proper ways to address such situations.” Darcy straightened his already impeccable cuffs. “If Miss Bennet wishes for your presence, then of course you must join us.”
Georgiana studied him with an intensity that made him inexplicably nervous. “What exactly do you intend to discuss with Elizabeth?”
The use of Miss Bennet’s Christian name startled him, another sign of the unexpected intimacy that had developed between his sister and the fallen gentlewoman.
“Merely a matter of proper acknowledgment,” he replied carefully. “For services rendered during my illness.”
“Services rendered,” Georgiana repeated the words flatly. “You speak as if she were hired help rather than a gentlewoman who risked her health to save yours.”
“I am well aware of Miss Bennet’s birth and breeding,” Darcy said, his patience wearing thin. “Which is precisely why I wish to address the matter in a manner befitting her station, reduced though it may be by circumstance.”
