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She caught the back of a chair and waved him off. "Stand still, Mr. Darcy."

"Miss Elizabeth..."

"I am your hands. We have a bargain. Stand still."

He stood still.

Elizabeth had never buttoned a man's waistcoat. She had buttoned her father's greatcoat when she was small, and that was all. She took the first button between her fingers and found the hole. Her knuckles brushed the linen of his shirt. Beneath it, she could feel the warmth of him, and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

It was not steady for long.

She did the second button, and the third. Her face was level with his collarbone. She could feel his breath on her hair. Neither of them said a word. The only sounds were the fire and the small click of each button going home.

At the top, she stopped. His shirt still lay open at the throat. "Your collar," she said. Her voice came out wrong. She cleared her throat. "I cannot tie a cravat. But I can fasten your collar, if you like."

"Yes," he said. It was barely a word.

She reached up. The hollow of his throat was right there beneath her fingers. She felt him swallow. She fastened the collar button slowly, because her hands were not quite steady either.

Then she looked up, and he was looking down at her. His eyes were very dark.

"Elizabeth," he said.

He had not used her name alone since the night of the fire.

Somewhere in the house, the dinner bell rang. She stepped back so quickly that she nearly fell.

He caught her with his forearm across her back and held her until she had the chair again. "Thank you," he said.

"Do not thank me." She did not dare look at him. "You are in my debt."

He took his supper in the library that night. At two o'clock she found the tray still on the table, barely touched. He had managed the bread and none of the rest.

"You have not eaten," she said.

"The fork is beyond me tonight. My hands are worse than they were."

"Then I shall feed you."

"You shall not."

"I shall. Sit down."

He sat. She drew her chair close and cut the cold chicken small and held out the fork. He looked at it for a long, resentful moment. Then he opened his mouth and took it.

It was the strangest thing she had ever done. It was also, somehow, the most intimate. She fed him the chicken, piece by piece, and then bread with butter. He ate in silence, watching her. Her face grew hotter with every mouthful.

A little of the sauce was left at the corner of his lip. Without thinking, she reached up and wiped it away with her thumb.

He went utterly still.

Her thumb rested against his lower lip. It was warm, and softer than she had imagined. She had not known she had imagined it. She felt his breath catch against her skin.

She took her hand away. "There," she said. Her voice was not her own. "Now you are fit to be seen."

He only looked at her, and kept looking, until she picked up Cowper with shaking fingers and began to read.

In the morning Jane came in with the breakfast tray and sat down on the end of the bed. She looked at Elizabeth for a long moment. She set down the teacup and folded her hands. She glanced at the door, and lowered her voice. "Lizzy," she said gently. "You like Mr. Darcy."