For a moment he did not say anything more, simply letting her grief settle between them. Then, with a cadence low and measured, and a power that seemed to push back against the shadows of her memory, he said, “I cannot take away your sorrow and I cannot relieve you of your guilt, as much as I wish I could. And yet, there is one truth I can give you: what you have shared with me does not diminish you in my eyes. It does not alter the esteem in which I hold you.Nothingcould. I am not afraid of your magic, Elizabeth. I never have been.”
Elizabeth had expected judgement, or worse, pity. To hear instead this unwavering acceptance and empathy was so disorienting that she had to see it for herself. She raised her head, desperate to find the truth of his words reflected in his eyes.
“I am not afraid of your magic,” Darcy repeated, more firmly, catching and holding her gaze, “I know my words are a poor comfort for such a long-held grief, but I swear that my actions will not fail you. We will not repeat the errors of the past. I will not allow it.” His words were spoken with a quiet, absolute conviction, like the vow that they were.
“I have been so wrong about you,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
It was only then that Elizabeth registered a sensation separate from the leather of the curricle seat. It was a solid warmth, a firm pressure against her own hand. Her mind took a moment to place the feeling. And then it registered. It was his hand. Holding hers.
When had that happened? She could not recall. Had he reached for her as she spoke her fears, or had their hands simply found each other in a moment of shared understanding? Her gaze dropped to their hands, to the sight of his strong fingers clasped securely over hers. Although they both wore gloves, a flush rose to her cheeks, a heat that had nothing to do with the winter air.
As if her sudden awareness had communicated itself to him, Darcy started, a slight, almost convulsive movement, as he, too, seemed to register the presence of her hand within his own. A shadow of his old reserve crossed his features, and he made a move to withdraw his hand, to re-establish the familiar, if no longer comfortable, distance between them.
But Elizabeth, moved by an impulse she did not understand, nor wished to analyse too closely, stopped him. Her own fingers tightened around his, a small, desperate gesture.
“Don’t.” Her whisper was so faint it was almost lost to the wind.
He froze, his gaze snapping back to hers, questioning. The quiet of the glade became suddenly profound, amplifying thesound of her own pulse, the whisper of the wind in the leaves, and the almost audible thrum of the tension between them.
The moment stretched, taut and almost unbearable. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek, his scent – the clean tang of the Derbyshire air, and something uniquely, indefinably,attractivelyDarcy – filling her senses, making her head spin slightly.
And then he kissed her.
It was not a kiss of passion, not a kiss of demand or possession, but a kiss of tenderness. It was the answer she had been desperately, hopelessly longing for. For days, she had searched for any sign that his affection had survived her cruelty, that his regard was not entirely extinguished. This hesitant, almost reverent touch was more than she had dared to hope for.
His lips were surprisingly soft, surprisingly warm, as they met hers. For a single, perfect instant, she allowed herself to melt into the sensation. But just as she did, she felt him go rigid against her, a sudden tensing of every muscle. The warmth vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp withdrawal.
He drew back as if burnt, his hand dropping from hers to grip the reins, his knuckles white. “Forgive me.” His voice was hoarse.
“Forgiveyou?” The words were a breath of pure astonishment. His apology did not match the sense of comfort that had just settled in her heart. In that kiss, she felt the anchor of his strength, a steadfast presence that did not flinch from her darkest secret. To see him now, so stricken and apologetic, was to see a man completely misunderstanding the gift he had just given her. Amid the dizzying surge of emotion, she could not imagine what he was apologising for.
Darcy stared at her. “I…” he started, then stopped, as if the words themselves were a betrayal. He looked away, his jaw tight with the effort of composing himself. “I was wrong totake advantage of the moment, especially when I know — ” He paused, his voice pained. “It was a weakness.”
She reached out, her fingers gently touching his arm, stopping his halting, painful words. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said, “Your kiss was not a weakness; it was a comfort. A most welcome one.”
He seemed to want to speak, to question, but no words emerged. After she had laid her soul so raw, he seemed hesitant to introduce more into such a fragile space.
Finally, awkwardly, he cleared his throat, a deliberate attempt to restore some order. “We should return to Pemberley. I have an appointment with my steward this afternoon. I must not keep him waiting.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, understanding that the conversation could not, for now, go any further, “you must not.”
The journey back was a quiet one, but it was a silence of an entirely different nature. With every sway of the carriage, the quiet was a new and tender intimacy that held her steady, offering her the space she needed to separate the grief of her past from the promise of the future.
As she sat beside him, acutely aware of the mere inches that separated his shoulder from hers, she could feel the warmth radiating from him. She was conscious of his every small movement in the shift of his hands on the reins and the rhythm of his breathing. His reassuring physical presence was a soothing balm to her exposed soul.
When they finally pulled into the stable yard at Pemberley, Darcy brought the horses to a halt but made no immediate move to alight even as the stable boys came forward to assist them.
He turned to her then, his eyes still holding that look of almost fearful wonder. “Elizabeth,” he began, then he seemed to think better of whatever he was about to say, and instead asked formally, “May we speak more this evening?”
“I should like that very much,” she said, offering a tentative smile that she hoped conveyed everything they were not yet ready to say.
With a final look that was a promise in itself, Darcy finally stepped down and came around to her side. He offered his hand to help her alight, and as their fingers touched, a spark, not of magic but of something else entirely, seemed to pass between them despite the barrier of their gloves.
As he escorted her back inside, Elizabeth could taste his kiss on her lips and felt a joyful hope unfurling in her heart.
She had been waiting for the sound of his knock.
Dinner had been an ordeal of delightful agony, a meal spent exchanging charged glances with Darcy while the colonel’s attempts at conversation were lost to them both.
