But this Mr. Darcy—this man walking beside her in the Bath morning—was different.
"Speaking of Bath," she said, seeking firmer ground, "I did not know you had property here."
"I inherited estates in about ten towns," he replied. "I have acquired two additional properties in other locations as well. It can be a considerable amount of work to manage them all."
"I imagine so. Do you travel to each of them regularly?"
"As often as duty requires. Though I confess I prefer Pemberley to anywhere else."
"You must miss it when you are away."
"I do." His voice softened. "But sometimes distance is necessary. For reflection, if nothing else."
Elizabeth glanced at him, but his expression had turned inward, as though he were thinking of something—or someone—far away.
They walked on through the streets of Bath, passing elegant townhouses and well-dressed pedestrians. Mr. Darcy pointed out landmarks—the Assembly Rooms, the Pump Room, the Royal Crescent in the distance. Elizabeth listened, asked questions, and found herself unexpectedly at ease.
There was no tension between them now. No awkwardness. Just two people walking together, speaking of ordinary things.
It should have been comforting.
Instead, Elizabeth felt strangely unsettled.
She had spent so long thinking of Mr. Darcy as her adversary, as the man who had insulted her and wronged those she loved. But how could she sustain that view when he spoke so openly of his mistakes? When he walked beside her without pride or pretension?
She had never been nervous around him—not in Hertfordshire, where she had thought him merely disagreeable, and not in Kent, where anger had burned away any other feeling.
But now—now she felt something she could not name. A fluttering in her chest whenever he looked at her. A heightened awareness of his presence beside her. An inexplicable desire to know what he was thinking.
It was disconcerting.
Ahead, Mr. Bingley and Jane had stopped to admire a flower seller's display. Mr. Bingley purchased a small bouquet and presented it to Jane with such obvious delight that Elizabeth could not help but smile.
"He is very much in love with her," Mr. Darcy observed.
"Yes. And she with him."
"I am glad of it. Truly." He paused, then added more quietly, "I hope they will be very happy."
"As do I."
They stood watching the happy couple for a moment longer. Then Mr. Darcy turned to Elizabeth.
"May I ask you something, Miss Elizabeth?"
Her heart gave an unexpected leap. "Of course."
"Are you—that is—" He seemed to struggle for words, which was unlike him. "Are you content in Bath?"
It was such a simple question, yet she found it difficult to answer.
"I am," she said at last. "More content than I expected to be."
"I am glad."
Something in his tone made her look up at him. His eyes were fixed on hers, and in them she saw something that made her breath catch—a warmth, a tenderness, that had no place in the regard of a man who had once called her connections a degradation.
But before she could speak, Mr. Bingley called back to them.
