“Only because you persist.” She rather liked that about him.
There was the faintest hint of amusement in his expression.
Elizabeth looked away, her gaze settling upon the indistinct line of trees beyond. “I would prefer,” she said slowly, “to have choices.”
Darcy did not speak.
“To determine my own course,” she continued. “To act without consideration of what I cannot do.”To marry and have children. For my mother to see me as something more than her poor girl.
“And what you can?”
She hesitated. “I do not always think of that first.”
Darcy’s voice softened. “You ought to.”
Elizabeth turned back toward him. “I have learned otherwise.” There was a firm weight to the words.
Darcy did not attempt to argue them. Instead, he regarded her with a steadiness that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. “You undervalue yourself,” he said.
Elizabeth gave a small, almost incredulous laugh. “You overestimate me.”
“I do not.” There was no hesitation in his tone.
Elizabeth felt the words more keenly than she wished. “You cannot know that,” she said.
“I can see it.”
Her breath caught. She did not move.
Darcy’s gaze remained upon her, thoughtful, searching, as though he were tracing something not immediately visible. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand.
Elizabeth stilled. There was no abruptness in the motion, no presumption that might have startled her into immediate retreat. His fingers approached slowly, as though granting her time to withdraw.
She stayed.
His hand came to rest lightly against her cheek. The touch was gentle. Measured. Elizabeth drew in a soft breath, her heart striking hard against her ribs. His fingers moved slightly, tracing the faint line just beneath her cloudy eye, where the scar lay almost hidden against her skin.
The contact was brief. And yet it was not. Elizabeth’s hand rose without conscious thought, covering his where it rested against her face. For a moment, she did not know whether she meant to still him or to hold him there.
A sound carried across the path. A voice. She started. The moment shattered. Elizabeth pulled back at once, her hand dropping, her breath uneven. The space between them returned too quickly, as though it had never been bridged at all.
Darcy’s hand lowered. His expression, when she dared to glance toward him, revealed nothing. “Miss Bennet—” he began. She rose before he could continue.
“We ought to return,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
Darcy stood as well. He did not reach for her again. They walked back in silence.
The others had not noticed their absence. Lydia was still engaged in animated discussion, Kitty no less so, and MissBingley appeared thoroughly occupied in describing some detail of her attire. Jane turned her gaze towards Elizabeth as they drew nearer, her demeanor one of focused attention, yet she remained silent.
Elizabeth managed a composed smile. The house came into view. Relief and something else—something far less welcome—settled within her. Once inside, she did not linger. “I believe I shall retire,” she said, turning toward her mother. “I have a headache.”
Mrs. Bennet’s concern was immediate. “You must take greater care. I warned you the air might not suit you. My poor girl—”
Elizabeth inclined her head, offering farewells and what reassurance she could before withdrawing. The words followed her only faintly as she made her way upstairs, the familiar path requiring little thought even as her mind refused to settle.
Her chamber door closed behind her. For a moment, she stood where she was. Then she crossed to the bed and sank down upon it, lifting one arm to rest across her eyes as though to block out what she could not escape. The memory returned at once. The warmth of his hand and the steadiness of his voice. The certainty in his words. Elizabeth drew a slow, unsteady breath.
This was foolish. More foolish than anything she had yet allowed herself to consider. She had believed herself secure in her understanding of her future, resigned to a life that required acceptance but not sacrifice of the heart. She had been mistaken.
