“Mrs. Bingley can be… formidable in her directness,” Darcy observed, moving to stand beside her at the stone balustrade.
“As can her son in his sudden attentiveness,” Elizabeth replied. “Though his motivation seems less his own than directed by maternal influence.”
Darcy’s lips quirked in what might almost have been a smile. “You perceive much, Miss Bennet.”
“I observe, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth tucked a wayward curl behind her ear, the gesture drawing his attention to the elegant line of her neck. “A survival skill acquired by those with limited means and uncertain position in drawing rooms filled with people questioning their very identity.”
His expression grew more serious as he stepped closer, close enough that she could see the concern etched in the lines around his eyes. “Yet you maintain remarkable composure amid circumstancesthat might overwhelm others. Your humor persists despite trials that would crush lesser spirits.”
Elizabeth glanced up at him, surprised by the intensity in his voice. “Does my refusal to dissolve into vapors astonish you?”
“It humbles me,” he admitted quietly, his gaze never leaving her face. “I find myself wondering how you preserve such grace when faced with difficulties, suspicions, and family complications that would sorely test anyone’s patience.”
A laugh escaped her, bright and unexpected in the night air. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, surely you’re not referring to my dear mama commenting on your china pattern, or perhaps my youngest sister’s tendency to giggle at inappropriate moments? Such earth-shattering trials indeed.”
The corner of his mouth lifted despite himself. “I would never be so ungallant as to specify which complications I meant.”
“How diplomatic.” She turned slightly toward him, close enough now that her skirts brushed against his leg. “Though I suspect you were thinking more of the complication of housing a woman who may or may not be your cousin, who definitely insulted your treatment of widows, and whose family has already begun planning the wedding breakfast?”
“Actually, I’m worried about practical matters—the dangers to your reputation, personal safety, and other considerations should the investigation take a darker turn.”
She tilted her head, noting the way his expression had grown serious, the familiar furrow appearing between his brows. “Though I confess, Mr. Darcy, your thoughts seem rather… grave for such a lovely evening. You have that look of a man expecting disaster at any moment.”
“I have learned that hope can be… dangerous,” he said quietly, his gaze searching her face in the moonlight. “What if your search comes to nothing? What if the truth proves… unwelcome?”
“Are you worried for my sake, Mr. Darcy?”
“More than I should be,” he admitted, the words seeming to escape against his will.
The honesty in his confession made her heart race. “Because you fear I might be your cousin?”
“Because I fear you might not be.” The admission came out rough, unguarded, and he immediately looked as though he regretted the revelation.
Elizabeth stared at him, her mind reeling from the implications. “Mr. Darcy?—”
“Forgive me.” He stepped back, his mask of composure sliding back into place. “I should not have spoken so freely.”
“No.” Elizabeth moved closer, closing the distance he had created. “Please don’t retreat into formality again. Not when we were finally being honest with each other.”
“Honesty,” he said with a rueful smile, “seems to be another dangerous quality you possess.”
“Dangerous to whom?” she challenged. “Surely not to a man of your consequence? After all, what harm could one insignificant young woman possibly do to the master of Pemberley?”
“You know very well the harm you could do.” His voice was low. “You have already turned my world upside down simply by existing.”
Elizabeth felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I never intended?—”
“I know.” His voice was gentle now, full of a tenderness that made her breath catch. “That is perhaps what makes it so… unsettling.”
He unsettled her, too. Elizabeth was acutely aware of everything about him—the way the moonlight caught the silver threads in his dark hair, the clean scent of his cologne, the careful control that seemed to be slipping with each passing moment.
“Whatever we discover,” she said finally, “whatever the truth about my identity or my parents’ fate, I want you to know that I… that this time at Pemberley…”
“Yes?” he prompted when she faltered.
“It has meant more to me than I can properly express.” She looked up at him, her heart in her eyes. “Whatever happens, I shall not forget your kindness to a stranger who brought nothing but trouble to your door.”
“Trouble,” he repeated, a smile tugging at his lips. “Is that what you call it?”
