“What would you call it?” she asked, matching his lighter tone.
“Revelation.” The single word carried such weight that Elizabeth felt her knees weaken.
He continued, his voice strangely intimate, “You have shown me what I did not know I was missing. Whatever comes of these investigations, whatever your true identity proves to be, that gift cannot be taken away.”
They stood in companionable silence, the night air cool against Elizabeth’s flushed cheeks—two people balanced on the edge of an acknowledgment that could change everything, held back by circumstances neither could control.
“There is something else I must tell you,” Darcy said, his voice reluctant. “The message from Lambton this evening concerned George Wickham. He has taken lodgings at the White Hart Inn and brought along a clergyman.”
Elizabeth felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening breeze. “I see. So Martha Wickham’s plans are proceeding apace.”
“He is not to be trusted. I hesitate to expose what he’d done, but suffice it to know, he had tried to compromise another young heiress.”
Elizabeth lowered her gaze, realizing Darcy’s discomfort had to do with Georgiana.
“I’ll take your warning,” she replied. “It seems that multiple parties have designs upon my situation, while you alone remain disinterested?” Elizabeth asked, unable to resist the gentle challenge.
Darcy met her gaze directly. “I have a significant interest in the outcome, Miss Bennet, as you well know. There may yet be solutions that serve both justice and… other considerations.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened as she grasped his meaning. The careful phrasing, the way he was looking at her…
“I am not accustomed to requiring protection, Mr. Darcy,” she managed, though her voice was not quite steady.
“I am aware,” he replied, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Your independence is… quite remarkable. Nevertheless, the offer stands.”
Elizabeth found herself unable to form a suitable response. That Darcy, whose inheritance she threatened, whose home she might claim, would pledge himself to her seemed beyond all rational explanation. Unless?—
She cut the thought off abruptly. Speculation would only lead to conclusions she was not prepared to face, not with so many unresolved questions still hanging between them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A STORM-TOSSED PROPOSITION
Dawn had barely breachedthe horizon when Darcy abandoned all pretense of attending to his correspondence. The papers before him—tenant agreements, crop projections, investment opportunities—represented the mundane responsibilities that had defined his existence before Elizabeth Bennet’s arrival at Pemberley. Now the neat columns of figures blurred before his eyes as his thoughts returned, with maddening regularity, to Elizabeth Bennet.
Or Elizabeth Rose Darcy.
He paced before the window, watching as morning mist curled around the ancient oaks. Sleep had proven elusive, his mind plagued by the events of yesterday’s dinner. Mrs. Bingley’s arrival, her veiled insinuations about Rose, and her obvious scheming to push Charles toward Elizabeth revealed a pattern too deliberate to ignore. Add Martha Wickham’s dramatic confrontation at Blythewood’s office and George Wickham’s arrival in Lambton, and the pieces arranged themselves into a concerning tableau.
A soft knock interrupted his brooding.
Stevens, one of the footmen, appeared. “Begging your pardon,sir, but Mrs. Reynolds asked me to inform you that Miss Bennet appears to have left the house.”
“Left? When? Where?”
“Perhaps half an hour ago, sir. She was seen walking toward the south path, dressed for outdoors but unaccompanied.”
The south path led to Rose Cottage. Of course it did. Darcy bit back a curse.
“Have Maximus saddled immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Today was Martha Wickham’s final day at Rose Cottage—the last opportunity to search the place without interference from any new tenants. It made sense that Elizabeth would seize this chance for a search.
What troubled him was not her destination but her solitary departure. Had she deliberately avoided him? After their moment of connection on the terrace, he had thought—hoped—they had reached an understanding.
Maximus sensed his urgency, stepping out smartly as they took the familiar path. The morning air carried the promise of rain, and Darcy hoped Elizabeth brought a cloak. Was he protecting Elizabeth or pursuing her? The line between the two had blurred beyond recognition.
