"Darcy! Miss Elizabeth! Come see these roses. Are they not magnificent?"
The moment broke. Mr. Darcy turned away, and Elizabeth released a breath she had not known she was holding.
They rejoined the others and continued their walk, the four of them together now. Mr. Bingley kept up a steady stream ofcheerful conversation, pointing out every shop and landmark with the enthusiasm of a man determined to impress the woman he loved. Jane smiled and responded with her usual gentle grace.
And Elizabeth walked beside Mr. Darcy, acutely aware of every step, every glance, every word he spoke.
By the time they returned to Camden Place, her mind was in turmoil.
She had expected to feel anger when she saw him again. Resentment. Perhaps even contempt.
Instead, she felt something far more dangerous.
She felt drawn to him.
And she had no idea what to do about it.
***
The gentlemen took their leave shortly after their return, promising to call again soon. Mr. Bingley's promise was directed entirely at Jane, while Mr. Darcy's—though more reserved—seemed to encompass them all.
As the door closed behind them, Elizabeth found herself staring at it, much as she had the night before.
"Well," Mrs. Gardiner said, coming to stand beside her. "That looked like a pleasant walk."
"It was," Elizabeth said quietly.
"And Mr. Darcy was attentive?" Jane said.
Elizabeth turned to look at her sister. "What do you mean?"
"Only that he seemed quite determined to ensure you had a good view of Bath. I noticed he pointed out a great many landmarks."
"He was being polite."
"Mmm." Mrs. Gardiner's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Yes. I am sure that is all it was."
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. What could she say? That she had noticed the same thing? That Mr. Darcy's attention had been marked enough to unsettle her?
"I am going to rest before luncheon," she said instead. "The walk was more tiring than I expected."
"Of course, dear."
Elizabeth escaped to her room, her mind still churning with questions that had no answers.
What was Mr. Darcy doing? Why was he being so kind, so attentive? Did he still have feelings for her, or was this simply the courtesy one would show to any acquaintance?
And more troubling still—what did she want the answer to be?
She sank onto the edge of the bed and pressed her hands to her face.
She had been so certain of everything in Kent. So sure of who he was and what he represented.
But now—now she was certain of nothing. Not even of Mr. Wickham’s claims, though she still wondered why Mr. Darcy would not speak of them.
The only thing she had begun to know with any certainty was that she was not nearly so indifferent to Mr. Darcy as she had once believed. And that realisation frightened her more than anything else.
EIGHT
