“I beg your pardon, I was talking to Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said, “Would I mind what?”
“If we went up to your room. Colonel Fitzwilliam was admiring the situation of the house, and I was just explaining that from your window, the woods look especially picturesque.”
“By all means. It would be cruel of me to keep such a charming view to myself.”
Mrs Gardiner and Miss Lydia remained downstairs, for they had seen the view before. The rest of the party followed Mrs Millhouse up two flights of stairs to a room on the west side of the house.
Darcy could not help but feel conscious, walking into Elizabeth’s bedchamber, albeit not on his own. It was absurd to do so, for this was no different to Mrs Reynolds showing strangers around Pemberley; the tour she gave invariably included one or two of the bedrooms. But this wasElizabeth’sprivate space. Where she wrote her letters, where she slept, where she dressed. Where she was the person he most dearly wished to know: herself, without any of the impediments of society.
He tried not to appear interested in anything but the view, though as the others gathered around the window, his gaze would wander—to the writing slope on the table in the corner; the dusky pink pelisse hung on the back of the door; the slippers discarded untidily under the bed; the small pile of books on her bedside table. He felt a jolt of pleasure to espy, lying next to them, the stone he had given her during the picnic on the beach.
He scarcely dared imagine what it meant that she still had it. Perhaps she merely found it interesting.Perhaps it augured something far more significant. He glanced at her, and found her watching him.
“You kept it,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” was her only reply, other than her shy smile and the faint blush of colour on her cheeks.
“What think you to this, then, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam asked, waving him over to join him at the window. He stepped aside to give an unhindered view of the hillside.
Darcy took one look and baulked. It was not just near to the area in which he had been running; it was the exact path. He stifled a groan and schooled his features into a smile to conceal his dismay. Of all the places he could have chosen to come, panting and sweating, as he forced his sorry corpulence into some semblance of healthfulness, it had to be the hill directly below Elizabeth’s window!
“A fair prospect, eh?” Fitzwilliam asked. “It reminds me of Pemberley with this unbroken view of the woods. Do not you agree?”
Darcy mumbled his agreement and retreated from the window. Elizabeth had fallen into conversation with Georgiana and did not seem particularly interested in what he thought of the view. He sincerely hoped this meant she had not observed him at his exercise, but consternation nevertheless rendered him stupid. He sat in silence when they returned to the parlour, preoccupied with trying to convince himself that, if Elizabethhadseen him running, she would surely have remarked upon it.
“Pemberley overlooks woods, does it?”
He looked up. Elizabeth was leaning slightly towards him over the arm of her chair. There was no secret amusement in her eyes, only worry. The rest ofthe party had separated into smaller groups—even Georgiana, for whom the visit had ostensibly been arranged, had defected to Miss Lydia and Mrs Forster for conversation—leaving Elizabeth and him alone. He sat straighter, feeling like a churl for having been so inattentive.
He answered cautiously, not wishing to seem puffed up or arrogant. “The house is very handsomely situated amongst wooded hills and natural water courses—and the odd cave. I am told my sixth great-grandmother chose the spot.”
“It sounds wonderful,” she replied. “No wonder you prefer it to a sea view.”
“I prefer Pemberley to every other place in the world, so it is an unfair comparison, really. It rains just as often, though.”
She laughed lightly. “Lady Preston warned me that it rained a lot in Brighton. How right she was.”
“I am sorry you are ill,” he said gently.
She looked up at him in surprise. “It is hardly your fault!”
“I hope it is not. I should not have pressed you to go onto the balcony.”
“You were not to know it was going to rain. Or that I would wrench the handle off the door.” She wrinkled her nose ruefully—an astonishingly charming expression. “I am sorry I got angry. You did not deserve it. I was feeling unaccountably defensive.”
“And I am profoundly sorry that, yet again, I gave you good reason to be angry with me. I beg you would believe that it was not my intention to belittle you at the card table. Only to protect you. Saye can be relentless where wagers are involved.”
She huffed a small chuckle. “Yes, that much was made clear when he asked me to throw the game.”
“I confess, I was surprised you agreed to do it.”
“Why? Do you think I am too good for such hijinks? You mistake me for Jane, in that case.”
“No, I…” He grimaced wryly, regretting mentioning it, but he had said too much to withdraw now. “I was surprised you agreed to scheme against your friend. I thought you held Mr Hartham in higher esteem.”
She cocked her head and regarded him for a moment, the laughter now back in her eyes and amusement dancing at the corner of her mouth. “Well, naturally I told him of his lordship’s intentions. He agreed, because he supports my wild inclinations. Perhaps it is love after all.”
Darcy was not sure what he had hoped she would say. That she enjoyed the idea of scheming against Hartham? That she hated the man and had no qualms in throwing a game that might cost him hundreds of pounds? She was not that sort of woman, and he knew it. It was one of the many reasons he loved her. Still, he could not bring himself to be pleased that Hartham should be the recipient of her compassion.
