But he had said,Love.
“You—” She could not finish the sentence. Could not find the words to ask what she needed to ask.
“I do.” He held her gaze, those liquid eyes beholding her like she was a treasure he did not know he had unearthed. “I will not press you for a declaration. I only ask you to consider that your confession changes nothing, as I am still your husband.”
“But I do not deserve?—”
A wry smile ghosted his features. “Maybe not, but perhaps we stumbled into something we both deserve. Each other.”
He led her to the connecting door and cupped her face in his hands—gently, so gently, as though she were something precious and breakable—tilting it upward. His thumbs brushed the dampness from her cheeks, his breath unsteady, his eyes searching. Then he bent his head and pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering there. “Sleep, dear Elizabeth. Tomorrow, all will be clear.”
He released her and stepped back, his gaze still steady on hers, almost unbearable in its openness, waiting for her to close the door.
She did not know how long it took her to cross into her bedchamber, watching him wait for her answer, his face flickering in the candlelight.
What if I still love you?he had asked. And she felt it, the grace he had given her.
And the answer bubbled up as she closed the door.What if I do too?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE BARGAINING CHIPPED
Darcy surveyedthe documents Blythewood had so meticulously arranged, each awaiting George Wickham’s signature. Three in all: the first, a confession of the false signature on the registry, with a promise to set matters right; the second, a formal renunciation of any claim to Thomas William Wickham, soon to be properly entered as Thomas William Darcy; and the third, a letter of credit, its bounty to be unlocked only upon Wickham’s safe arrival in Bombay. Colonel Powell, ever the architect of expedience, had orchestrated the India commission, secured the passage, and would see to the funds, leaving Wickham little room for his customary evasions.
Darcy expected no resistance. Wickham had already boasted to all who would listen of his willingness to repair the grievous error—purely, of course, for the honor of the Darcy name. Yet, as ever with Wickham, generosity arrived with a bill attached.
Darcy, for his part, had risen early and even submitted to the ordeal of breakfast with his brother and sister. Wickham, in high spirits, entertained Georgiana with tales of India, lamenting only that his ship had been forced to turn back—mainmast trouble, he claimed, though Darcy suspected the real misfortune had been the discovery of creditors onboard. Still, Wickhampronounced it a stroke of fortune, bestowing upon Georgiana a smile so dazzling it might have melted the polar ice masses, for now he could assist Fitzwilliam in his legal distress. Was it not, he insisted, the most diverting of adventures?
Georgiana laughed with delight while Darcy said nothing, stirring cream into his cold cup of coffee.
A hurried knocking caught Darcy’s attention. It was too early—the meeting was not for another quarter hour—but Wickham might arrive first with a Christmas list of demands, eager to establish the terms before the solicitor could intervene.
Darcy rose from his chair and opened the door with more force than warranted.
Elizabeth stood in the corridor, her cheeks flushed and hand raised. She wore a light blue silk that caught the morning light, her dark hair swept up in a simple style. She looked up at him with those fine eyes, causing him to almost forget the documents on his desk.
“Is something wrong?” The words came out too sharp. “Has something happened?”
“I thought I might join you.” Her lips curved with spirit, with the same brightness he had seen the night before when she laid that ring on his desk and dared him to judge her.
She stepped past him into the study, her skirts brushing his leg, and moved to the window where she surveyed his desk. “These are the papers?”
“Yes.” He closed the door, still a step behind her presence. He would have spared her the ugliness of these negotiations, particularly after all she had confided of their earlier acquaintance. Wickham, he knew, would see Elizabeth as a lever to be pulled. “My brother and the solicitor will arrive presently. Do you require answers? Pray, do not trouble yourself; I believe he will prove amenable to our plan.”
“Your brother will see this as a game,” she said. “He has no doubt calculated your position and the amount you are willing to pay, and he will naturally ask for more.”
“To which I have safeguards.” Darcy tapped the letter of credit. “You do not need to concern yourself, dear. I shall report back to you as soon as the documents are signed.”
“I, however, wish to be present when he does,” Elizabeth replied, standing in his study as though it were her own, chin lifted, shoulders squared, every inch ready for battle, and in her resolve, quite beautiful.
“You are courageous.” He moved to stand beside her, his hand brushing her sleeve as he reached for the documents. “The registry will be set right with his confession, and the renunciation will allow me to claim Thomas as my own. The India arrangements are secure: the letter of credit is valid only upon his arrival, and Colonel Powell will see the first funds go to his commission. Once that is done, the East India Company’s bankers will manage the rest.”
“Clever.” Elizabeth’s eyes glittered as she looked up at him from studying the documents. “How long will the signing take?”
“Half an hour. Perhaps less, if he proves sensible.”
Her glance was sidelong, amused. “And if he does not prove sensible?”
