Harrowe watched him closely. “I offer the only thing that’s ever counted.”
Darcy looked up.
“The Lady,” Harrowe said. “Not the role. Not the verses.Her.You said yourself she were at the centre of it all. Mayhap you were right.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “You think toinspecther?”
“I only want to see whether what’s happenin’ now answers to what was once set down.” He broke off, then continued more carefully. “If I’m right… then what it takes from you ain’t where it breaks.”
Darcy’s pulse hammered painfully against his throat. “Then what is?”
Harrowe hesitated. It was the first time he had done so.
“It must be given,” he said at last. “Not forced. Not proved by harm.”
Darcy stared at him. “You speak in riddles.”
“Caution,” Harrowe corrected. “And I can’t say more ‘til I see her.”
Darcy closed his eyes. The image rose at once—Elizabeth in the morning room, hands folded, gaze trusting still, despite everything he had done to unmake himself. The hollow ache answered it immediately, sharp and insistent.
“You may not alarm her,” Darcy said.
“Wouldn’t dare. But you’ve got to let me see her. Today.”
Darcy’s hand went to the bellpull. He hesitated only once—long enough to feel the weight of the decision settle fully into place—then rang.
The sound echoed down the corridor like a summons neither of them could take back.
Chapter Forty-Three
Elizabeth did not waitto be asked to sit.
She remained where the footman had left her, just inside the threshold of the study, hands folded together so tightly her knuckles ached.
The man before her was nothing like she had expected. Harrowe was built broad and solid, shoulders hunched as though he had learned early to duck beneath low beams. His coat had seen better days. His boots bore the scuffs of long walking rather than polish. And yet the words he used—when he found them—came weighted and careful. The accent did not match the scholarship, which amused her. And she could not help but wonder what her father would make of the man.
He had been staring at her since she entered.
Not rudely. Worse.
With the fixed, intent regard of someone who had found a long-sought answer and was afraid it might vanish if he blinked. Almost like some sort of misplaced worship.
Elizabeth shifted her weight. Her gaze slid, unwillingly, toward the desk.
Darcy sat behind it, one hand braced against the arm of the chair as though the act of remaining upright required constant negotiation. His face had gone a shade lighter since she last saw him. A fine sheen of sweat traced his brow and darkened the linen at his collar. He did not look away when she met his eyes.
He did not smile. He watched her as though she were the only fixed thing left in the room.
Harrowe cleared his throat. “Miss… Bennet?”
She looked back at him at once, grateful for the interruption. “Sir.”
He flinched faintly at the formality, then inclined his head. “You’ll forgive me if I speak plain. Time is not—” He stopped, as if trying to decide whether he dared say the words. “Time is not likely to be kind where you’re concerned.”
Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. “I find that is often the case.”
Darcy’s weight flexed against the chair until it squeaked.
