So for the first time since arriving at Pemberley, her mind considered their failures at training in a different light, oneunclouded by churlishness and anger.
His power was immense, disciplined by years of training and by an iron will. Her power was equally potent, she suspected, but utterly untamed, an almost sentient thing that resisted all attempts at conventional direction, often with explosive results.
Like the incident with the water. His request for a ripple had resulted in a drenching deluge. He sought to impose order on her energy, and it had rebelled.
But what if, she mused, her mind latching onto a new thought, what if the approach was entirely wrong? What if, instead of him trying to teach her control, a task that seemed as doomed as teaching her mother not to gossip, they approached it as atrue unionof complementary forces?
He possessed the structure, the discipline, the framework. She, the raw, abundant energy. Could it be that simple?
The idea, once formed, felt startlingly, intuitively right.
A glance at the ornate mantel clock confirmed the lateness of the hour; its gilded hands trudged steadily towards midnight. Sarah, her maid, had long since been dismissed, and Elizabeth felt a near certainty that Darcy, too, had retired. To seek him out now, at such an unseemly hour, was tantamount to insanity, an egregious breach of the icy protocols that governed their cohabitation.
And yet, the idea, now that it had taken root in her mind, possessed a desperate urgency. It could not,would not, wait for the cold, rational light of morning.
She could scarcely present herself at his door in her nightgown, or even the relative modesty of a dressing gown; the mere thought sent a flush of unbecoming heat to her cheeks. With a haste born of her newfound, and probably reckless, resolve, Elizabeth searched her dressing room for a simple dress, one whose fastenings she could manage without assistance. Sheundid the neat plait of her hair and pinned it up in a knot at the nape of her neck.
Then, after flinging a heavy shawl around her shoulders, she determined to act.
The candle in her hand cast long, dancing shadows on the papered walls as she entered her sitting room.
Theirsitting room, though she had never before allowed herself to think of it as such.
There, her gaze fell uponthedoor.
She had known of the door’s presence since her arrival at Pemberley. She was in the mistress’s chambers, and he, the master’s. They had separate bedrooms, separate dressing rooms, but they shared one sitting room which connected their two spaces.
In practice, however, by some unspoken agreement, Darcy had never once crossed its threshold since her arrival. The door to his bedchambers had remained firmly, almost aggressively, closed these past few, interminable weeks.
She did not even know if it was locked.
Under the flickering light of her candle, with only the barest glow of moonlight filtering through the window, she found herself uncertain whether the door looked more intimidating now, in the dead of night, or by the unforgiving light of day.
Before her courage could desert her entirely, before the whispers of propriety, of fear, of the almost certain likelihood of a disdainful rebuff, could dissuade her, she swiftly crossed the room. Drawing a nervous breath, she raised her hand and knocked twice, the sound echoing with an alarming loudness in the stillness of the sleeping house.
For nine very frantic beats of her heart, there was no response. Then she heard footsteps on the other side of the door, purposeful footsteps, moving closer, closer.
And in an instant, her nerve, so recklessly summoned, abandoned her completely.
A wave of panic washed over her. She turned as if to flee, to retreat back to the safety of her own chambers, to pretend it had all been a mistake, there had been no knock, it was just a sound of the night.
But the door opened. Just a crack, at first, a sliver of warmer, brighter light spilling into the dimness of the sitting room.
Gathering the scattered remnants of her courage, Elizabeth forced herself to face him.
Through the opening in the door, she could see the cheerful fire still burning in his room. Her gaze, drawn by the light, registered the substantial, masculine furnishings of the room behind him, before it snagged, with a sudden, almost physical jolt, upon Darcy himself.
It appeared he had already changed into his nightshirt, a soft linen that hinted at a vulnerability she had never before witnessed. Though, she noted, he must have hastily thrown on trousers, and even his boots. His waistcoat, too, was in place, though not fully buttoned, as if donned in some haste.
And he wore no cravat. And Elizabeth found herself swallowing, a strange tightness in her throat, as her gaze, against her will, against every engrained instinct of propriety, was drawn to the unexpected sight of his bare neck.
“Is something amiss?” Darcy asked, his voice pitched low, though it still seemed entirely too loud and too close in the deep quiet of the night.
Thankfully, his expression, though undeniably wary, held no trace of any other assumptions, clandestine or unseemly, that he might have made. The thought nevertheless made a fresh wave of heat rise to her cheeks and she quickly said, “I had a theory to discuss with you. A matter of some urgency, I believe.” Shegestured, perhaps a little too emphatically, towards the sitting room that lay between their chambers. “Can we speak now?”
He subjected her to a long, searching look, seeming to probe the very depths of her intent. Elizabeth held her breath, bracing herself for a dismissal. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, he acquiesced, stepping fully into the sitting room and closing the door to his own bedchamber behind him.
Elizabeth, her legs still feeling strangely unsteady, seated herself on the edge of the sofa, the one nearest the darkened hearth. Darcy, after casting a brief, almost curious glance at the flickering candle she had placed aside, made a small gesture towards the cold fireplace.
