His focus broke as he glanced at her, the line of his mouth twitching into a genuine smile. That small lapse was all it took; when he released his magic, his aim was off, and the ball missed its final target by a hair’s breadth.
“It would appear I failed to account for the variable of distraction in my calculations,” he said drily.
“Then you must amend your calculations,” Elizabeth countered as she stepped to the table, “for I shall endeavour to be no less a hindrance to your efforts.”
Her spotted ball flew forward on a clean path, striking red, then white in a perfect cannon. She gave a startled laugh, her own astonishment evident as an irrepressible smile lither features. Aided by the generous handicap, the game was somehow hers.
“Well played. You are full of surprises, Elizabeth,” Darcy said, his voice carrying an inflection that was entirely new to her. It was a sound that seemed to convey both an admiration and amusement, and she knew not what to make of it.
Time seemed to slow as their eyes met across the felt of the table. Her heart gave a small, hopeful lurch as she searched his gaze, looking for a glimpse of something more.
But it was not there. Darcy held her gaze for a polite beat, then broke it, turning his attention back to resetting the balls on the table, and Elizabeth felt a hollow ache settle where the hope had been.
The wardstone resisted him.
It should have been a simple thing. For centuries, Pemberley’s wardstones had imposed a gentle order upon the land, filtering the wild currents of raw magic, ensuring the seasons turned as they should, the soil remained true, and his people remained safe from unpredictable surges. It was a task of maintenance, of discipline, a task for which his own talents were perfectly suited.
Which made his current failure all the more infuriating.
This should have been straightforward, a measured infusion of his own controlled power into the ward’s weakening supply. Yet every time he reached for his magic for this simple task, his thoughts drifted.
Georgiana’s pale face, Wickham’s betrayals. And beyond them, Newcastle, a city of ghosts, a responsibility so vast andterrifying it allowed him little sleep. Yet it was the thought of Elizabeth, and her apology, the almost-kiss that still sent fire through him, that truly tormented him.
He replayed their billiards game, treasuring the memory of easy camaraderie, but his mood soured when he contrasted how easily those moments came with Richard. With his cousin, her light was unburdened; with him, every shared smile felt as fragile as a thin sheet of ice.
And so he knew he must tread carefully, never revealing the weight of his own heart. Maintaining this distance when he yearned for more was torture, but a torture he would endure. He had seen the result of his arrogance once before, in her scathing rejection of a love she did not want. He would not make that mistake again. He would not impose his heart where it was not welcome. If this distance was all she wished for, then he, in his love for her, would accept it.
He would accept even though it came with the quiet death of his legacy. The mere thought of heirs was a firebrand to his strained control, for his mind did not conjure an image of a child, but instead the image of the woman who would bear one. Andthatthought was an agony above all else.
Besides, he reflected bitterly, there was little sense in pondering a future for his line when England’s own was so gravely in doubt.
This will not do.Darcy set his jaw grimly. He had resolved not to think of her, and yet it was all he was doing. The wardstone sputtered again, its light dimming with a pathetic fizzle, as if in direct rebuke to his fractured concentration. The chill from the ground seemed to seep into his bones, a cold reminder of the price of his distraction.
Frustrated, he stepped back, closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his hands against them, trying to force theseunwanted thoughts from his mind. He needed to focus. This was his duty; he would not fail in it.
A soft footstep behind him broke his concentration. He turned, his guard instinctively snapping back into place.
Elizabeth stood at the edge of the oak wood, her presence a vibrant warmth in the cold, colourless landscape. He had been so absorbed that he had not even registered her approach until she was just a few feet away.
“Elizabeth, I must beg your indulgence for a moment. This particular ward requires utmost concentration.”
A vain hope,he thought,when her presence scattered his thoughts so completely.
“Of course,” she said softly, her voice calm as she pulled her cloak tighter around herself. “Pray, do not mind me. Take all the time you require.”
Darcy found that he almost wished she had come to argue; that, at least, was an interaction he understood. He was the Master of Pemberley, yet he could not command the simple beat of his own heart when she was near.
Fighting against the impulse to stare at her, he turned back to the stone, the heat of her gaze on his back making his hands feel clumsy. He made another attempt to channel his magic. The wardstone’s light flared erratically for an instant, then sputtered and died, almost completely. A sigh slipped from him before he could stop it.
He could feel Elizabeth step closer. “A boundary ward?” she asked.
“I am attempting to reinforce it,” he replied, his gaze determinedly fixed on the stone. “This ward protects the lower fields.”
“Has the stone said something to offend you?”
“No?” The absurdity of her question made him blink. He hastily added, “I beg your pardon?”
“You are glaring at it. Rather fiercely, too.”
