“Yes, sir, I appreciate your hospitality. Very much, in fact, but I have been away from her two hours already,” she said. “If she wakes and finds herself alone—”
Darcy set his pen down, then hesitated with his hand still resting on the desk. Rising now would draw notice. Remaining seated after she left, and the party called on him for entertainment would draw more. He weighed the balance and found neither side comfortable.
“I shall retire as well,” he said at last. The words were ordinary enough to pass without comment. He paused, then added, as though the thought had only just occurred to him, “I mean to take an early ride. I will see Miss Bennet to the stair.”
It was the smallest courtesy. Entirely defensible. And yet he was aware, even as he spoke, of the faint resistance in himself, as though some other part of him had hoped the moment might pass without requiring decision.
Miss Bennet turned toward him, surprise giving way to gratitude. “Thank you, Mr Darcy. I should not wish to trouble anyone.”
Bingley brightened immediately. “That is very kind of you, Darcy. Miss Bennet, you see? We all wish your comfort, whatever you require. Do let us know if we can do anything, please.”
Miss Bingley’s reply came a fraction too quickly. “You need not inconvenience yourself,” she said. “The stair is hardly perilous, and you have had a long day.”
Darcy rose. The chair legs marked the floor with a soft complaint. “It is no inconvenience.”
He did not look at her as he spoke it. He did not need to. The justification was sufficient; the form was observed. If his patience had worn thin, that was his own affair.
Darcy offered his arm, and Miss Bennet accepted it with quiet relief. They passed into the hall together, the warmth of the drawing room giving way to cooler air and the hush that followed evening’s retreat. The lamps had been lit along the passage, their light steady, unremarkable. Nothing in the house appeared out of order.
He told himself this twice.
Brutus was still guarding the stair. The dog sat squarely on the rug before the first step, his great head lifted, his body aligned with the stair as though he had been placed there deliberately. He did not rise at Darcy’s approach. He did not wag. He watched.
Darcy halted.
Miss Bennet’s hand tightened briefly on his sleeve. “Oh,” she said, and then, more softly, “I did not know he was here.”
“He should not be,” Darcy replied.
“He is a verylargedog, sir. Is he quite safe?”
“Quite safe.” Darcy snapped his fingers. “Brutus. Here.”
The dog’s ears shifted, but he did not move. Darcy felt the faintest stir of irritation. “Comehere.”
Brutus looked at him—held his gaze a moment longer than habit allowed—then turned his head slightly, not toward Darcy, but toward the stair.
Darcy’s mouth tightened.
“Brutus,” he said again, with more authority. “Heel.”
The dog remained where he was. His tail struck the floor once, a single heavy sound, neither greeting nor defiance. He merely extended one paw and licked it as if in meditation.
Miss Bennet drew a breath. “Perhaps he is injured?”
“He is not injured,” Darcy said, and then stopped himself. He could not say what the dog was, only what he was not.
He stepped forward. Brutus did not bare his teeth. He did not growl. But the dog rose to his feet, slowly and deliberately, and placed himself fully between Darcy and the stair.
Darcy froze.
This was wrong. Brutus had never barred his path. Never. The dog had been trained to yield, to obey, to trust instruction over instinct. Darcy had raised him with care, with consistency, and he had never needed to test this.
Miss Bennet shifted beside him. “Mr Darcy—”
“Stay,” Darcy said quietly, though he did not know whether he meant the dog or the lady.
He studied Brutus more closely now. There was no agitation in him. No alarm. Only attention. The kind of attention a sentry might give to a gate.
