His gratitude was so unexpected it left her momentarily breathless. At first she could only stare at him, her heart contracting with a tenderness that was almost painful.
He held her gaze, his own now clear and steady, full of a quiet kindness.
And in that quiet, she realised just how much she wanted more. More than his gratitude. More than his simple amity. She wanted the raw sincerity and unexpected tenderness she hadglimpsed in his study. She wanted to hear the deep baritone of his voice soften when he spoke to her, to feel the controlled strength in his touch linger for a moment longer than necessary. Most of all, she longed for the resolution of that single, breathless moment when he had leaned closer, the kiss that had been a breath away from happening.
She wanted, quite simply, proof. Proof that the vulnerability she had glimpsed last night was the sober truth of his heart, and not a falsehood lent to him by the alcohol. She needed to know that some small measure of his regard had survived the destructive force of her words in the carriage.
But the man she had glimpsed in the firelight seemed to have retreated with the dawn. The man before her now offered only the cool, safe light of friendship. He was courteous, kind, and entirely guarded. If he still felt any ardour for her, his expression betrayed nothing of it.
And she should have expected nothing less. How could any man, after the things she had said, possibly continue to show his heart openly? She had met his vulnerability with viciousness; she had practically demanded this withdrawal. His careful amiability was the direct consequence of the rejection she had so forcefully delivered.
In many ways, this was even worse than antagonism. It was a constant reminder of everything he was and everything she could not have. The disappointment was a cold, heavy feeling that settled in her stomach.
If his friendship was all he had left to offer her now, she resolved to accept it. She would play the part of the contented friend, offer her wit and her smiles, and pretend that their easy camaraderie was enough. She tried not to think of how every shared laugh would be a bittersweet echo of the connection she now craved. To be so near to him, to be granted the light of hismind and the honour of his company, yet be barred from the warmth of his heart, felt like an unbearably cruel fate.
It took a conscious effort to gather herself, to find refuge in a smile. If this was the part she was now doomed to play, she would at least play it with a certain style.
“Well, Mr Darcy,” she said, her voice regaining a trace of teasing, “this newfound civility in the lesser library will hardly do, will it? The books, I suspect, are holding their breath, anticipating a resumption of hostilities. We shall quite disappoint the room if we do not, at the very least, engage in one small argument before the day is out.”
He gave a wry smile — her heart ached to see it — and said, “By all means, madam. Name the topic.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wickham had departed Pemberley the previous day, escorted to the edge of the estate by a grimly satisfied Colonel Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth had not enquired as to what, if any, parting words had been exchanged. Wickham now carried whatever desperate hope he could glean back towards the blighted north.
Georgiana, however, remained, an almost spectral presence at Pemberley. A healer, summoned post-haste, had pronounced her condition grave but expected that with careful nursing and much rest, she would recover. The Blight’s insidious touch, he had murmured, had weakened her constitution, but the relative cleanness of Pemberley offered a chance for recovery. Hired nurses attended her day and night. Mrs Reynolds and their cook outdid themselves providing sustenance, tempting her weak appetite with all her favourite foods.
Darcy, Elizabeth knew, avoided his sister entirely. He had made no effort to see Georgiana, had offered no word of comfort or enquiry after her health. His sense of betrayal was too deep.
It was Elizabeth who visited Georgiana daily, her heartaching for her newest sister. Their conversations were carefully curated, lighthearted excursions into the realm of fashion plates and silly novels – anything to distract Georgiana from the shadows of her past and the disapproval of her brother. Elizabeth also knew that Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it a point to sit with his young cousin daily, his cheerful presence a welcome reminder that she still had family who supported her.
Day by day, Georgiana began to improve. The harrowing cough lessened, a delicate colour returned to her cheeks. She gained enough energy for short walks, usually escorted by the colonel, and coordinated to avoid any interaction with Darcy.
This avoidance cast a strange tension over the otherwise recovering household. Elizabeth found herself restless under the weight of so much unspoken.
So when she heard a clack of ivory striking ivory echoing in the corridor, Elizabeth saw an opportunity to approach.
The door was ajar. The servants must have only recently opened the room again; the air still held the pleasant scent of the wax used to polish the wood. She paused in the doorway, enjoying the unexpected sight of Darcy at leisure.
He was alone, leaning slightly over the green expanse of the table. Upon it rested three balls: two white and one red. There was no cue in his hands. He had discarded his coat and was dressed in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, with his cravat slightly loosened. She did not immediately announce herself, intrigued as she was by the study in contrasts before her: the relaxed informality of his dress against the intensity of his focus. So lost in this unexpected sight, she took a step further into the room. He straightened almost immediately.
“Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth stepped fully into the room, her gaze sweeping from his hands to the three balls on the table. “I have not seen billiards played without a cue before.”
“I use a cue when I play with others,” he replied. He turned back to the table, and with a gesture that was both elegant and understated, he directed a whisper of will from his fingertips. The plain ball clipped the spotted ball with just enough force to send it disappearing neatly into the side pocket.
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “You use air magic to play.”
“You seem surprised.”
“You must own, sir, that you have not previously displayed any partiality for idle amusement.”
Darcy raised an appraising eyebrow at that, but offered no reply. He simply took his next shot.
As she watched the balls settle, a dozen serious topics vied for attention, but her curiosity, a far more welcome companion, won out. She determined that their graver duties could be set aside for a time. It would be a pleasing respite to, for once, engage in a contest that carried no stakes beyond the game itself.
“May I try?” she asked.
