His gaze lingered. Not searching her face so much as taking her in as she stood there—barefoot, shawl about her shoulders, her pulse still too near the surface.
“You have found the back stair? Not… er… avoiding anyone?” he asked.
“No.” Her fingers tightened briefly in the wool at her throat. “I was walking.”
“You seem to take a great deal of pleasure in walking.”
There was no rebuke in his voice. Nor ease. He looked as though he were listening for something she could not hear.
She swallowed. “I… Mr Darcy, please do not tell them.”
“Them… who?” His brows drew together. “That you are out of your room?”
“Not because I am well,” she said quickly. “I am not—not entirely. But I needed to know whether I could move about without…” She stopped, vexed by the failure of words. “Withoutitreturning.”
He studied her then, openly. “‘It?’”
Elizabeth cleared her throat. There was a sudden, unreasonable heat rising beneath her skin, a discomfort that had nothing to do with modesty and everything to do with being seen too clearly. She did not care to explain herself further.
“I will return to my room, without putting anyone out,” she said. “I promise. I only wished to test myself.”
“And you have done so. With… positive results, I trust?”
“Yes.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked instead at the book in his hand, adjusting his grip as though it required attention. Elizabeth followed the motion without meaning to, then caught herself and looked away.
At last, he inclined his head. “Then it would be best to go back the way you came. Miss Bingley claims that steps as light as a cat would rouse her if too close to her room.”
Relief loosened her all at once, sharp enough to leave her faint. She did not trust herself to speak again. She turned and climbed, conscious of him behind her until the passage curved and his presence fell away.
At her door, she paused only long enough to ease it shut. The quiet of the room rushed back upon her, too sudden after the stair, and she stood there a moment with her hand still on the latch, drawing breath as though she had climbed farther than she had.
She pressed her forehead briefly to the wood, willing the sensation down, irritated by its persistence. This was foolish. She was not ill. She had not imagined what she felt. And yet—
Longbourn rose in her mind at once: the familiar rooms, her father’s voice, her mother’s anxious attentions. The thought brought no comfort. Only a sharp, unreasoning certainty that if she went home now—if she placed herself again within those walls—whatever had begun to impose itself upon her would not lessen, but worsen.
She swallowed hard.
From the adjoining room came the faint rustle of movement—Jane turning in her bed, perhaps, or stirring toward wakefulness. The sound decided her. Elizabeth crossed the room at once and slipped beneath the covers, drawing them close as though they might hold her in place.
The door shut behindhim with enough force to make him jump in his skin.
Darcy halted, hand still on the latch, listening for any sound that might follow—footsteps, a startled voice, the scrape of a servant roused by the disturbance. Nothing came. The corridor remained hushed, the house settling back into its accustomed quiet as though it had not noticed him at all.
He released a breath and crossed the room in three long strides.
The candle on the escritoire guttered as he passed, stirred by the wake of his movement. He caught it, steadied the flame, and only then became aware that his heart had not yet resumed a sensible pace.
Not fear, he told himself sharply. Irritation. Startlement. The natural consequence of being roused from uneasy thoughts and encountering a young lady wandering where she ought not to have been.
Brutus padded in behind him and stopped. Darcy glanced back.
The dog did not go to his cushion. He did not circle before settling. He stood just inside the threshold, broad head lifted, gaze fixed—not on Darcy, but on the closed door.
Darcy frowned. “Enough,” he commanded. “There is nothing there.”
Brutus did not move.
