Page 63 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

“I trust you more than anyone.” The words came out with more force than he intended, rough after weeks of restraint.

She looked up. Her eyes glistened, and the sight of her did something to his chest that no amount of reasonable planning could remedy. “Then what is it?” Her voice was quieter now, cautious. “I thought we were… friends.”

“We are. We are still.” He exhaled. He did not feel like a very good friend at the moment. “I hope we are.”

Her chin lifted, the careful quietness gone. “Then why?” Her voice cracked on the question, the words tumbling over each other. “Why have you avoided me since that dreadful article? Do not—” She held up one hand as he opened his mouth. “Do not insult my intelligence by denying it. You have taken the long path around the garden every morning. You have refused to dine with us for three nights. You had an urgent letter to write when I brought you tea. So urgent that you could not lift your eyes from the page to acknowledge my presence in the room.” Her chest heaved and her eyes were fury-bright. She was the most extraordinary person he had ever stood before in his life. “For God’s sake—why? Just tell me.”

He reached for her, the need to touch her, to console her, too overwhelming to resist. She stepped forward, her forehead resting against his chest so that the most natural thing was to gently close his hands around her shoulders. “Because,” he said, “I love you.”

The hallway went perfectly still. There was only him and Elizabeth. She looked up at him, her eyes searching. Whatever she sought, she found in his expression, because she rose to her toes and closed the distance between them. Her lips were warm and certain against his.

The first coherent thought Darcy managed was that he was a blasted fool. Thought ceded to sensation: the soft tug of her fingers in his hair, the slight exhale of her breath against his mouth, the way she fit against him as though the space had been designed for her, and now that he knew it, he could not bear to part with her.

He had stood on the deck of a merchant vessel in the Aegean at midsummer and watched the sun sink into the sea in a blaze of copper and gold. He had seen the lantern festival over the harbor at Smyrna, a thousand lights rising into a velvet sky. He had witnessed spectacles that men traveled continents to find, events they described in letters that failed to do them justice.

None of it had prepared him for this. For the quiet, devastating completeness of Elizabeth Bennet choosing him over Pemberley, security, and convenience. Simply him. In a dim hallway with the household noise rising from below and two more days separating him and the truth, she had knocked on his door and chosen him. He drew her closer, and she pulled him tighter, her hands caressing his beard. For one suspended, luminous moment the will, the name, the secret that plagued him, fell entirely away.

“Ah!” A female outcry crashed over them.

They broke apart.

Miss Bennet stood at the top of the staircase, one hand gripping the newel post. If looks could kill, Darcy would be a pile of smoldering ashes on the floor. He stepped to the side, instinctively drawing Elizabeth behind him. Not that it mattered after what her sister had seen.

“Papa!” Jane Bennet turned toward the staircase below, her voice carrying the full length of the house with remarkable efficiency. “Papa, come quickly!”

CHAPTER 35

As quick as a whip, Miss Bennet reached behind Darcy and pulled Elizabeth away from him. “Oh! Jane, that hurts.” Elizabeth spun around, rubbing her free hand over her arm.

Darcy did not know what he would have done had Miss Bennet not let go of her sister right then, but he was grateful she did. He might not have behaved as gentlemanly as he would hope.

Mr. Bennet arrived at the top of the staircase. Such was the urgency in Miss Bennet’s call, he gripped the banister and bent over to catch his breath, having obviously rushed up the stairs. Mrs. Bennet, in her haste, struggled to slow her momentum before colliding into her husband. Had she not been pressed so closely by Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia following behind, shoving each other for a better view, she would have bounced off him and toppled down the steps. Behind them, patiently waiting, her forehead creased with concern, stood Miss Mary.

It was a comical scene, but Darcy did not smile. He did not move.

Standing erect, Mr. Bennet took in the tableau with one, long look: Darcy's agitation, his eldest daughter's accusatory demeanor, Elizabeth’s upset. Something shifted in the old man's face—not yet anger, but it would come. He turned to his wife and younger daughters. “Downstairs,” he said quietly. Darcy rather wished he had shouted.

“But Mr. Bennet, I must know what has⁠—”

“Downstairs, Mrs. Bennet.” He pointed at the stairwell, adding gravity to his command.

Her youngest daughters exchanged wide-eyed glances, their curiosity discouraged from pressing the matter at the rare firmness of their father’s tone. Mrs. Bennet did not argue. Their slippered feet whispered back down the staircase, leaving Darcy to face an increasingly irate Mr. Bennet.

Miss Bennet wasted no time leveling her accusation. “Papa, I came upstairs to fetch my shawl and found them here, outside Mr. Robinson’s bedchamber door. He had his arms around her. She…”Her gaze moved briefly, coldly to Elizabeth. “She did not appear to object.”

“The blame is mine—” Darcy began, interrupted by Elizabeth’s clear voice.

“I did not object because I had nothing to object to. Whatever you believe you saw, Jane, you are mistaken in assigning blame where none exists.” Miss Bennet huffed, a condemning retort no doubt on the tip of her sharp tongue.

“That will do,” Mr. Bennet said. He looked at Jane. “Go downstairs. Keep your mother and sisters occupied. Tell them—tell them whatever you think best. But keep them below.” Miss Bennet, having been denied the final word, was determined to make her displeasure known. Chin firm, she cast Darcy a stern glare before turning her disapproval to her sister. Elizabeth reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. Then she was gone.

The hallway contracted around Darcy. He saw Elizabeth square her shoulders and hold her father’s gaze, and he knew that, once again, she would accept the consequences, this time for his own moment of weakness. The tenderness Darcy felt for her ached, his heart lacking the space to contain the fullness of his regard, his respect, his love.

She would pay for this loyalty. Not because she was wrong but because she would be defending the wrong man under the wrong name. When the truth finally came out, this would be one more item in the ledger of his deception. He could not allow something so beautiful to turn into regret. “Miss Elizabeth, pray allow me to accept responsibility for my own behavior.”

“But I came to you. I practically asked you to⁠—”

“Your father deserves the truth.” He met Mr. Bennet's gaze directly. “Miss Elizabeth came to ask me a question. I answered it. The manner in which I answered it was… impulsive.”