Elizabeth feltlike a puppet who had lost all its strings as she pulled herself up the wide staircase. The performance, for which she was ill-suited, had come to an end. She had smiled and accepted compliments with the appropriate modesty, stood beside Darcy in the great hall until the last of the carriages had disappeared down the drive.
Afterward, she evaded Darcy’s searching gaze, pleaded fatigue, and made her escape on unsteady legs, spine held as straight as pride would allow, murmuring polite good nights to Wickham and Georgiana as she passed.
Clarice awaited her, efficient and silent, as if the day’s drama had not so much as ruffled her cap. She tended Elizabeth with gentle hands, smoothing away the evidence of strain, brushing and braiding dark hair for the night. Not a word passed between them; Clarice’s eyes remained respectfully lowered in the glass, while Elizabeth regarded her own reflection as if it belonged to a different woman.
“Will there be anything else, madam?”
“No. Thank you, Clarice. That will be all.”
The counterpane was pulled back, the fire stoked, and her pillow fluffed. Clarice departed quietly, with only a whispered, “Good night, madam.”
And Elizabeth was alone, sitting at the window in her nightgown, watching the last of the moonlight silver the gardens below, and tried to remember how to breathe.
He knew. Elizabeth saw it in his eyes when Wickham raised his wineglass and offered that poisoned toast. She read it in Lady Matlock’s eyebrow, what she surmised.
Her husband’s knuckles had gone white, his face taut, his brow furrowed. He had chosen deflection. Had not defended her, which was perhaps for the better. And the moment had passed, and Wickham had won.
Tomorrow, Wickham would face Darcy across a desk where he would sign the papers to correct the fraudulent registry. And Wickham would smile that devastating smile and extract every advantage he could use—including Elizabeth’s secret.
He would wield it and shatter everything—unless Elizabeth blunted the weapon and handed it to Darcy first.
Her knees uncertain, she crossed to the writing desk, bent as though the years had pressed upon her all at once. She unlocked it, lifted the false bottom, and found the signet ring nestled beside Darcy’s note. She unfolded the letter, reading again the lines where he had sworn nothing would alter his regard.
And she had no doubt that what she would tell him tonight would change everything.
She drew a steadying breath and picked up the ring, quieting the tumult in her mind to listen for Darcy’s movements beyond the connecting door. He was speaking to his valet—issuing morning orders, no doubt—then would remove his boots, splash water over his face, perhaps his chest, and…
The weight of the ring, brass, not gold, felt cheap in her hand. She would not think about the empty promises and the smooth kisses, assuring her that once he secured his fortune, he would…
No. Wickham did not signify. Only Darcy, his household, his son, and Pemberley held any consequence now.
Elizabeth closed her fingers around the bit of metal and leaned against the connecting door. She did not know if it was unlocked on his side; she had left hers unlatched, but he had never crossed the threshold. Perhaps he had never so much as touched the handle.
So she listened, heart thundering, debating with herself. Too early, and he would be buried in correspondence, his valet liable to return. Too late, and he would be abed—hardly the impression she wished to give. He might misread her purpose, and his opinion would sink lower still.
She drew her wrapper close and pressed her ear to the door. He was awake—the chair creaked, footsteps paced. What would he do with the dreadful truth? Ought she to have asked Clarice to pack? Would he demand her immediate departure? Perhaps he would escort her to her chamber as one might banish a misbehaving spaniel, and lock the door behind her. He might even exile her from the family wing altogether.
The sounds faded, and panic threatened. He might already be asleep.
Knock,she told herself.Knock before you lose your nerve.
But she had never possessed such courage. If she had, she would have flung the ring into the river and banished Wickham’s kiss from memory.
She could not do it. She could not cross that threshold, lay her shame before him, and await judgment. She could not bear to see his face harden, to watch the fragile warmth between them freeze into the cold bargain she had once accepted.
It was all she deserved. All he wanted—at the beginning. And then, he had to kiss her wounded thumb and carry her up those flights of stairs. And the wanting made the secret heavier with each verse he read, each spoonful of syllabub, and those devastating Darcy eyes—large, expressive, and slightly wet.
She closed her eyes and wished he would come to her. That she could simply hold onto him, lay her head on his shoulder and breathe, as Little Tom did without shame. But she was not deserving. She had accepted a ring and romance from a man she barely knew to escape her refusal of Mr. Collins. And then, she had agreed to marry Darcy without asking the questions she should have asked. She had been a coward every day since arriving at Pemberley, hiding her secret in a locked drawer and pretending it did not exist.
Her candle guttered, dripping wax. The hour was late, maybe too late, and Elizabeth Bennet Darcy was done being a coward. She would let the chips fall where they might. She would not allow Wickham to wedge himself between husband and wife, nor insinuate himself into Pemberley.
And so, her hand rose, and she connected her fist firmly to the wood. And she stood there, heart beating too fast, both dreading he would not come to the door and dreading that he would.
She counted her heartbeats, listening for the footsteps. They paused, and just when she thought he meant to ignore her, the door opened.
Darcy stood in the doorway. His coat was removed, cravat loosened and waistcoat unbuttoned. His hair was in disarray, and those eyes found hers immediately—dark and searching.
“You’re trembling,” he said. “What is it?”
