“I shall send word,” Elizabeth managed through chattering teeth. “Go. You are dripping on the carpet, and Mrs. Reynolds will never forgive you.”
His mouth curved, just slightly and just enough, and then he was gone.
“Madam is chilled,” Clarice observed, her tone neutral and professional as she unfastened the buttons on Elizabeth’s sodden clothing. “The bath is nearly ready.”
The bath was bliss itself, the steam rising with the scent of herbs, coaxing the knots from Elizabeth’s shoulders. She slipped beneath the surface, eyes closed, and let the warmth revive her bones, which she had begun to suspect might never be warm again. Her thoughts, unmoored, drifted back, inevitably, to the dim barn and all it contained.
He had kissed her. Or rather, that elusive detail snagging like thorns in her mind, she had kissed him. He had asked permission, and she had plainly seen the yearning etched upon his face; he had remained utterly still until her silent consent gave him leave. And then she had leaned in and bridged the space and pressed her lips to his because he needed her to want him.
Like a small creature, she thought, startled by the comparison. Like Thomas, who would not give his wooden horse to anyone who reached for it, but had pressed Captain into her hands because she had waited, had let him come to her, had shown him she would not grab.
The notion would not be dislodged: perhaps Darcy, so often seized for his name and fortune, had learned to offer others the same courtesy he himself had been denied. He had never presumed, had arranged separate rooms at every inn, and had permitted her to lock the connecting door without so much as a raised eyebrow. For all the chill in her bones and the ache in her neck, she had permitted the kiss because he had not grabbed.
The significance was too large to hold, so she slipped beneath the water and concentrated on getting warm. Except the water had cooled and thunderclouds rolled in, lashing the windows with rain, and Elizabeth emerged from the bath chilled despite the crackling fire at the hearth and the woolen dress Clarice draped over her.
She wrapped herself in a shawl and sat at her writing desk, her pen dipping into the inkwell. Her journal remained open before her. She had penned the date and nothing else. Her thoughts scattered like startled starlings, and her brow was hot. The tickle in her throat was troubling, and Elizabeth swallowed the developing ache, ringing for tea.
Minutes later, the door burst open, and Georgiana swept in with a tray balanced precariously in her hands. “I could not wait another moment. Fitzwilliam has been pacing the corridor like a caged animal, and Mrs. Reynolds keeps muttering about physicians, and I simply had to see for myself that you had not expired in the bath.”
“As you can see, I am entirely unexpired.” Elizabeth’s voice came out rougher than she intended. She cleared her throat, which proved a mistake, for the tickle became a scrape and she had to press her lips together to keep from coughing. “Merely damp and somewhat underdressed for receiving visitors.”
“I am not a visitor but your sister.” Georgiana set the tray down, rattling the cups and saucers. “And you look dreadful.”
“Your flattery quite overwhelms me.”
“I mean it kindly.” Georgiana perched on the edge of the settee, her eyes bright with barely contained curiosity. “Now tell me everything. Jamison says you were caught in the most tremendous storm, that the sky opened up like something Biblical, and we all saw Fitzwilliam carry you up the stairs as though you weighed nothing at all. Hannah is already composing ballads.”
“Hannah should find a more productive employment for her imagination.” Elizabeth accepted the cup of tea Georgiana pressed upon her, wrapping her fingers around its warmth. Her hands, she noticed distantly, were trembling. “The afternoon was rather less romantic than your sources suggest. Having ruined my riding habit, been chilled to the bone, and spent an hour in a hay barn that smelled distinctly of horse, I can assure you the experience lacked a certain… polish.”
“But a hay barn!” Georgiana clasped her hands together, undeterred. “In a storm! With lightning flashing and rain hammering down! I cannot even imagine Fitzwilliam in such a setting, for he is always so composed and proper. Did he quote poetry? Please tell me he quoted poetry. The mysterious London love affair must have been terribly romantic if he carried a torch for so many years, and I simply cannot fathom my brother being romantic unless I hear evidence of it firsthand.”
“I regret to inform you that no poetry was quoted.” Elizabeth took a sip of tea and regretted it immediately, for her throat protested the swallowing, and the warmth that should have been soothing felt instead like burning embers. “We discussed the weather, the horses, and the extremely judgmental barn cat who witnessed the entire non-poetic proceedings.”
“A barn cat!”
“I have named her Boadicea. She rules the hay stores with an iron paw and surveyed us both with the disdain of a queen observing peasants who have wandered uninvited into her throne room.”
Georgiana’s face lit with delight. “Boadicea, the warrior queen of the Iceni who defied Rome itself! Oh, that is perfect, for I have been reading Tacitus and his account of that rebellion was absolutely thrilling, though I suspected he rather exaggerated the Romans’ heroism. Did you know she had burned Londiniumto the ground? There was apparently a layer of red ash still visible in excavations.”
“I did not know.” Elizabeth smiled despite the growing ache behind her eyes. “Though I suspect our Boadicea’s ambitions are rather more modest. She seemed primarily concerned with protecting her territory from interlopers who dripped on her hay.”
“Then I shall bring her tribute, a ribbon perhaps or some cream from the kitchen. One must honor a warrior queen properly.” Georgiana reached for the teapot to refill Elizabeth’s cup, her enthusiasm undimmed. “But you still have not told me the important part. What did you and Fitzwilliam talk about? An entire hour in a barn, and you expect me to believe you discussed nothing but weather and livestock?”
The room tilted slightly. Elizabeth blinked, steadying herself against the settee’s arm, and took another sip of tea—too fast, too hot. The liquid scalded her raw throat, and she sputtered, the cup rattling against the saucer as she dropped it.
“Elizabeth?” Georgiana’s voice sharpened. “You have gone quite pale.”
“I am merely—” But the cough that had been building finally escaped, rough and barking, and Elizabeth pressed her hand to her chest as though she could contain it through sheer will. Her eyes watered, and the room continued its gentle revolution around her.
Georgiana was on her feet in an instant, her hand flying to Elizabeth’s forehead. “You are burning! Fitzwilliam! Fitzwilliam, come quickly!”
“There is no need to—” Elizabeth began, but her protest dissolved into another cough, and then the doorway darkened, and Darcy entered, still in his riding clothes, his face tight with concern.
“What has happened?”
“She is feverish.” Georgiana stepped back as her brother crossed the room in three swift strides. “She was perfectly fine a moment ago, and then?—”
But Darcy was not listening. His hand replaced Georgiana’s on Elizabeth’s forehead, his palm cool and steady against her heated skin, and Elizabeth found herself leaning into the touch despite every instinct that told her to sit up straight and insist she was perfectly capable of managing a slight chill.
