Heaven help him, he wanted to kiss her.
The wanting was so sudden, so fierce, that he had to fight to keep himself still. Every instinct screamed at him to close the distance between them, to cup her face in his hands, to taste the mouth that had haunted him with what he had lost.
Her gaze dropped to his lips, her breath catching. He heard it—a small, sharp intake that told him she was aware of what could be building between them. And then, she said, “Thomas should be waking from his nap. He will be overjoyed to see his Da.”
Darcy drew a breath. Then another. The fire in his blood subsided slowly, banked but not extinguished.
“Then we should not keep him waiting.”
He bent to retrieve her basket—the remnants of her tea, the journal she had been reading—and straightened to find her watching him intently, as if she had pictured another outcome. But he had promised he would not push, and like she had shown him with Thomas, love was patient.
“Mrs. Darcy?” He tucked the basket over one arm and offered her the other.
She stood, smoothed her skirts, and for one terrible moment, he thought she would step back and preserve the careful wall between them.
Such a small thing—a lady’s gloved hand resting on a gentleman’s arm, the most proper of gestures, performed a thousand times in a thousand drawing rooms across England. And yet Darcy felt it like a vow.
It was not forgiveness, nor the return of love. But it was a touch, like Thomas giving his horse to his Lizba.That love is both patient and kind. Not easily angered, keeping no records of wrongs. Protects, trusts, hopes, and lasts.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MERELY A FRIEND
George Wickham’spresence at Pemberley was rather like a raincloud at a garden party—unwelcome, persistent, and impossible to ignore. Elizabeth schooled her features into polite unconcern, though the prospect of sharing breakfast with him, feigning ignorance of their history, threatened to turn her stomach. She imagined Georgiana already waiting in the breakfast room, innocent and unsuspecting, and wished herself anywhere but there.
Darcy, too, appeared to be avoiding the breakfast room, and so, Elizabeth contented herself with listening to his movements in the adjoining chamber. She was grateful he had sought her out on his return from London—that they had spoken in the pavilion without Wickham’s presence.
Something had shifted after she had returned the brass key—the one that unlocked the cabinet holding Lady Amelia’s documents. For once, her curiosity took no root. Some secrets, like sleeping dogs, were better left alone. She would not unleash her words, nor allow her opinions of Darcy into her life. There simply was no need.
The thud of boots and the decisive click of the door announced Darcy’s departure. Only when his footsteps hadfaded did Elizabeth summon Clarice for tea and toast, as if nourishment might clarify what Darcy’s presence only muddled. She was not angry—at least, not in any way she could name. He had handed her the keys to Pemberley, let his gaze linger with a tenderness she could neither accept nor refuse, yet spoke not a word about marriage, forgiveness, or even the reasons she had been angry, because at this moment, she was not entirely sure whether those reasons were right.
Through the window, she watched him cross to the stable yard, dressed for riding though it was barely past eight. Perhaps he was off to see Mr. Blythewood regarding the papers Wickham must sign. He did not nurse headaches and linger in bed, and neither should she.
She closed her eyes, and the memory rose unbidden—last evening, after the pavilion, when she had taken his arm and walked beside him toward the house. The nursery door had stood ajar, and Thomas had looked up from his tin soldiers with such desperate hope that Elizabeth’s heart had cracked.
When he spied Darcy, he had not run to him. That was what struck her most vividly. Another child would have launched himself across the room, begging to be lifted and chattering noisily. But Thomas stood, frozen, as though afraid that movement might shatter the vision before him.
It was Darcy who crossed the distance and knelt on the nursery floor. Heedless of his good coat, he opened his arms, and Thomas walked into them slowly, carefully, as though approaching something precious and breakable—and then his small arms had wrapped around his father’s neck, and his head had dropped to Darcy’s shoulder, and his eyes had closed.
Just quiet. Just holding on.
They had stayed that way for a long, long moment—longer than any two-year-old should be capable of stillness. Darcy’s hand moved slowly up and down the child’s back, his own eyesclosed, his face holding such brokenness that Elizabeth finally understood what this man had been carrying alone. Grief for a son he was not allowed to acknowledge by a woman who did not concern herself.
Elizabeth was not that woman, and found herself unable to condemn a man for concealing wounds he had never chosen. Darcy had not sought rejection, nor the shadow of illegitimacy, nor the necessity of deception. The lies remained, but so did his longing for a family—first with Thomas, and now, perhaps, with her.
She opened her eyes. The stable yard was empty now; Darcy had gone. But the memory lingered, warm and aching, and she did not know what to do with it.
She ought to be downstairs, reviewing menus, confirming the seating arrangement, and performing all the small rituals expected of a mistress with a dinner party looming. Mrs. Reynolds would soon begin to wonder, and Wickham could not be avoided indefinitely. If fortune smiled, the solicitor would secure Wickham’s signature, and he would vanish by morning.
She dressed sensibly in the dove grey silk Clarice had laid out, hastily securing her hair beneath pins before stepping out into the corridor. Her first stop would be the stillroom, where she would allocate the stores of preserves, pickles, cordials, and spices for the dinner party.
Elizabeth found Mrs. Reynolds already there, consulting her ledger.
“We are lower than I thought,” the housekeeper said by way of greeting. “The dinner will require additional lavender cordial, and I am not certain we have sufficient stores.”
Elizabeth held her hand out for the ledger. “I can complete the inventory, Mrs. Reynolds. Then we can sit together and allocate the budget to replenish the supplies.”
“Very well then. I must speak to Cook regarding the fish and game,” she said. “But I shall send Hannah to assist you.”
