“Thank you, Jamison.” She took the letter with fingers that trembled only slightly, and Jamison withdrew with his customary discretion.
Elizabeth broke the seal and began to read.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FORCING HIS HAND
Early in the morning,Darcy sharpened his quill and dipped it into the inkwell.
Elizabeth—
Forgive me. You offered more than I deserve, and I found I could not take what I have not yet earned the right to claim.
The words blurred before him. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, as if he might banish the tremor from his fingers by sheer force of will. Three meager sentences, when she merited volumes—sonnets whispered by candlelight, and the truth laid reverently at her feet.
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state…
The sonnet would not leave him. He had read it to her last night, his voice cracking on the curse, her eyes watching his mouth rather than the page. She had kissed him afterward, had offered herself with alluring words, and whispered,I will be waiting.
And he had stood before her door for a full hour without finding the courage to knock and go through.
This is no reflection upon you, he continued, although words could not convey how he had longed to draw her into his arms,to consummate that fiery love that burned so ardently.The fault lies entirely with me…
And so it was, for he could not untangle the lies that barred him from accepting the gift he most desired and least deserved. She had given without knowing, and he suspected her anger, once awakened, would burn twice as fiercely for having been deceived.
Crimson wax pooled beneath the flame, and Darcy pressed the unmarked seal, pointedly omitting the proud Darcy crest, as though anonymity might redeem the cowardice of sending his wife a note in place of himself.
He pushed back from the desk and drifted to the window. From this vantage, he could survey the path Elizabeth preferred, winding past the rose garden and down to the stream where Thomas conducted his earnest excavations for treasures. She was not likely to walk this path today, yet he watched all the same, as if the mere act of looking might summon her into being.
Haply I think on thee, and then my state, like to the lark at break of day arising…
The sonnet again. He could not escape it. He had chosen it for her because it said what he could not—that she had redeemed his disgrace, lifted the loneliness that had been pressed down for years. That she filled that aching void of rejection—of not ever being enough.
Yet she did not know the shape of the burden he bore. Until she did, he could not claim her, nor make her truly his, while this lie gaped between them like an open wound.
You want her to choose you,a quiet voice observed.You want her to know everything and choose you, anyway. Because everyone else who has known you has turned away.
Amelia had refused him—not once but three times, each refusal gentler than the last, each one a blade nonetheless.I love you, Fitzwilliam. But I will not be owned. Not even by you.
And now Elizabeth had offered herself without reservation, her generosity eclipsing anything he had ever known. She had come to Pemberley as a bride acquired by arrangement, mothered a child not her own, and bestowed affection where none was owed. She kept no secrets, locked no doors, but waited behind an open one while he stood motionless, certain he would lose her the instant she learned the truth.
Stop.He pressed his palms flat against the windowsill.You cannot know what she feels until you are honest with her. You cannot ask for her love while offering her lies.
A soft knock disturbed the noise of his thoughts. Jamison entered with the gravity he reserved for early mornings. “You rang, sir?”
Darcy handed over the sealed paper. His fingers did not want to release it. “To Mrs. Darcy. When she wakes.”
“Very good, sir.” A pause. “Mr. Blythewood sent word. He will arrive before noon.”
“And Viscount Drake?”
“His lordship will arrive by one o’clock.”
Darcy gave a curt nod. The day stretched before him—hours of waiting that would feel like years. “I shall take breakfast in my study. I do not wish to see anyone.”
Jamison withdrew, and Darcy returned to the window. The east lawn lay empty. Elizabeth had not yet appeared, or if she had, he had missed her. Perhaps she remained in her chamber—avoiding him or collecting her things, ready to call a carriage after being so thoroughly humiliated.
He could not complete the thought. Could not imagine Pemberley without her, or Thomas calling for his Lizba and finding only empty rooms and the cold solitude he had inhabited before she brightened their lives. For he had not known, until she came, how lonely he had been and how much he yearned tobe chosen, despite his flaws, his mistakes, and the ruin that lay at his feet.
