For a moment, he fought a smile, but a small laugh escaped him all the same. “I suppose I am,” he murmured, and then releasing a breath and gathering himself, he turned.
He was not prepared for the sight of her. Windswept and vibrant, with colour high in her cheeks from the cold air, she was so breathtakingly lovely that both thought and speech deserted him. All he could do was gaze upon her and wish desperately to call her his in more than name alone.
“Forgive me,” he said, the words feeling formal and inadequate for the sight before him, “I have been unaccountably rude. Did you require my assistance with something?”
“I was on the path to the Jones farm when I felt a dissonance. I followed it here to you.”
The magical bond between them was a constant current that flowed beneath the surface of his daily thoughts. Her words were like a stone dropped into it, sending ripples of awareness through a connection he had learnt to relegate to the background. He grimaced as he was forced to acknowledge the intimacy he usually tried to keep at a manageable distance.
“This should be a simple reinforcement,” he said, “Yet the ward’s attunement has proven more stubborn than I had anticipated.”
“The stone seems to sense the weight on your mind,” Elizabeth said gently, “Would it help to speak of what troubles you?”
If there had ever been an understatement!His thumb pressed hard against his forefinger, a small, sharp point of pressure invisible to any but himself. Her words seemed an invitation to unburden this thoughts, to allow greater conversation…yet to give voice to the chaos in his own mind, to speak of Georgiana, of Newcastle, of his emotions for her, wasa vulnerability he could not afford at present. Not when he had such an important duty to Pemberley before him.
“I thank you for the offer,” he said instead, making a stiff gesture towards the wardstone, “but to speak of such things now would only fracture my focus further. I cannot do so when it is already failing me.”
He saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes before she concealed it, but Elizabeth did not push him. There was only compassion in her eyes. Darcy drew in another shallow breath, the clean scent of winter air and Elizabeth a dizzying combination that did nothing to steady him as he focused on the stone.
He failed again. Now thoroughly vexed, his breath left him in a tightly controlled exhale.
“It is a pity my own magic is of no use to Pemberley’s wards,” Elizabeth said lightly. “I find my own thoughts areremarkablyorderly today.”
The sound that left him was not quite a laugh, but it was close.
“Still,” she continued, her eyes dancing as she gestured towards the stone, “the chill you are projecting is quite impressive. I believe even the stone is shivering. Is this your intended effect? I thought the goal was to renew the ward, not to usher in a new ice age.”
Her gentle nonsense cut through the dense fog of his frustration, leaving him feeling unaccountably lighter. The desire to answer her challenge was a sudden impulse. He raised a hand and let the warmth he felt for her take form. A sphere of flame bloomed above his palm, its warm light illuminating the space between them.
Elizabeth’s gaze shifted from the magic to his face, and a look of fascination lit her features. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to keep that sparkle in her eyes.
In a rare surrender to whimsy, Darcy sent the flames weaving through the air in a fiery waltz.
“Is that sufficient warmth?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral, though his heart beat a little faster at the wonder he saw on her face. He had put it there.
“Most assuredly it is,” she replied, her eyes still on the fire. She turned to him then, and he was struck by the sudden conviction in her face. “The dissonance I felt earlier is gone. I believe the stone will answer you now, should you wish to try again.”
Her words were more than a simple observation; they were an assurance, a promise of success that he, in his frustration, had not been able to find for himself. A strange feeling settled in his chest.
Deciding to trust her intuition over his own judgement, Darcy let go of the rigid control he had been trying to wrestle over his magic. A different feeling flowed from him as he reached out again. Command was forgotten; thought was set aside. There was only the image of her, of the light in her eyes. It was this feeling that became a persuasive current of power, touching upon the old magic in the stone.
The wardstone responded immediately. Its sullen pulse was replaced by a soft, blossoming warmth. The light settled into a glow that began to radiate outwards, pushing back the damp chill.
Elizabeth drew in a soft breath. “Am I to take it your renowned focus has returned, sir?” she teased.
She was the thought. The only one. The chaos and the clarity, all at once.
The air felt suddenly thin. A strange tightness constricted his throat, and he swallowed, his eyes darting to the ward’s light as a refuge. The truth was a confession he would not make; a lie, however distasteful, was the only recourse.
Praying his features remained a mask, Darcy offered the only answer he could. “Yes,” he said, dissembling desperately, casting for an escape before he forgot himself, “Thank you, it has. I should attend to the other wards; I shall see you tonight.”
He could not trust himself to remain a moment longer. With a stiff inclination of his head that served as a farewell, he turned and walked away, every step an act of will against the overwhelming urge to stay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The question of Newcastle, a thundercloud on the horizon, continued to remain unspoken between herself and Darcy, though Elizabeth sensed it occupied his every waking hour, much as it did her own.
On a crisp morning, the eighth since Georgiana had arrived at Pemberley, Elizabeth sat with her in the morning room, their heads bent together over the latest fashion plates from London, as they discussed the merits of various cuts and materials.
