Except…from the first moment at that dreadful Meryton assembly, it had been anything but simple. He had seen the spark in her eye, heard the wit that gave no quarter, and felt the connection so inexplicable it had terrified him. He had spent weeks trying to deny it, to find fault, to catalogue her imperfections as a defence against the inexplicable pull she exerted on him.
But every flaw he sought to identify only seemed to bind him closer. Her untrained magic was a puzzle his mind could not solve, yet could not turn away from. Her arguments, which should have been an irritation, became a challenge his mind secretly craved. With every belief she questioned, every convention she defied, he felt another piece of his own defence crumble away. She fascinated him.
He therefore took refuge in the importance of their mission. It was a return to the known world of consequence and duty, a necessary retreat from the bewildering territory of his own heart.
A man of his standing was not to be undone by a pair of eyes, no matter how fine they were.
But even there, his determination had collapsed until he could deny it no more. Their conversation in the carriage today had been proof of that. Caught up in the tide of their sharedelation, for a single, unburdened hour, he had allowed himself the delight of speaking freely with her.
And now, by God, he was even more hopelessly lost than ever. She had lit a fire within him, and all he craved was to bask in the warmth of that spark in her eyes. She was not merely at the forefront of his thoughts; shewashis thoughts, a constant intrusion that reshaped every duty and every decision. He could not close his own eyes without seeing hers, bright and challenging.
The brief, treacherous happiness he had allowed himself was extinguished the moment they stepped into the courtyard. The light in her eyes as she laughed with Richard…it was a different light. A brightness he had not been able to conjure. And she had chosen his cousin’s company. Effortlessly. Happily.
She preferred Richard. The thought was like a lead weight in his chest. Of course she did. His cousin was everything he was not: amiable, charming, uncomplicated.
She was his wife in name, and yet nothis. For a fleeting moment, he let himself imagine a different life, a life unburdened by the Blight, by the Arcane Office, by the fate of a nation. A life where he might have courted her properly in the country walks of Hertfordshire. But the thought was a bitter, self-inflicted wound. In such a world, a man of his station would never have looked twice at a country gentleman’s daughter with no fortune and connections so decidedly beneath his own. Their union was a product of crisis, not of choice. Everything between them was built upon the foundation of a dying England.
“Master yourself. This changes nothing,” he spoke the words out loud, his voice a harsh rasp, as if saying them could will them into truth.
He tossed back the rest of the brandy, the fire of it a poor substitute for the fury he felt at his own weakness. This jealousy, much as he was loath to give such an undeserving emotionname, was a dangerous indulgence. It was a consuming, illogical madness. A constant, aching need.
The Blight had no care for any of it.
With a low snarl of self-disgust, he cast the empty glass into the hearth. But the sharp crack of shattering glass offered no release, only a fresh shame at his own petulance. The gesture was as useless as the feeling it was meant to quell.
“Enough,” he bit out, turning his back on the flames.
Enough.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They agreed, over breakfast and with the greatest of civility, on the necessity of another training session.
Back in the confines of the lesser library, the single beeswax candle stood sentinel upon the polished table between their accustomed chairs, an unlit beacon in the tension that filled the room.
“We will once more attempt the direct merging of our energies. The task before us is one upon which our earlier efforts were inadequate. My hope is that we will find success with our new methods,” said Darcy.
“Let us proceed then,” she said simply. She seated herself, her posture wooden, with hands resting lightly in her lap. Yet beneath the surface of her composure, a quiet unease simmered.
Trying to push the emotion aside, she reached inward and called upon her magic. It rose, a potent surge, yet today it felt reluctant, almost as if tainted by the acrid tang of her disillusionment.
At Darcy’s order, “Now, if you please,” she released it, pushing the torrent of energy outwards, towards the waitingcandle, towards the invisible, receptive channels of his will.
She felt his magic meet hers, that almost physical quiver of contact. But where before there had been an almost effortless merging, an almost intuitive harmony, today there was resistance.
The candle flame flickered, once, twice, a pathetic, abortive spark, then died, leaving only a wisp of smoke to curl mockingly in the air. A second attempt yielded the same dispiriting result. And a third.
A heavy silence descended, thick with failure and unspoken recrimination.
“It would appear,” Darcy said at last, “that the elemental power you are projecting this morning lacks its usual balance. The principles of arcane theory apply here. They require focused intent and a receptive, stable conduit. My directive efforts are met with an energy that is actively unsettled.”
“Unsettled?” she said, not appreciating the aim of his critique. “Or perhaps the directive efforts lack focus.”
The line of his mouth remained implacable. “My own focus, I assure you, is entirely towards the critical task at hand.”
“So the failure is mine alone, then?” she murmured.
“I apologise if it appears I seek to apportion blame. This situation demands objective analysis. We have failed at what should be a simple magical exercise. I, for one, find this deeply concerning.”
