Page 65

She tried again—left side, then back, then a flurry of pillows and covers. The fire blazed too high, the bed stretched too wide. Charlotte, ever practical, always brought a ponderous volume to bed; she likely had the Plutarch now, though Mr. Bennet professed to find it diverting. Elizabeth contemplated the trek down shadowed corridors lined with ancestral portraits, only to turn to her right and squeeze her eyes shut in defeat.

She missed him.

No, not Plutarch or his cronies, Livy and Herodotus—although she had heard Darcy mention the latter with a wry fondness.

She missed Darcy the way she missed a familiar sound she had grown accustomed to, or the touch of a warm shawl wrapped around her shoulders. He was either out riding in the dark or awake in a scratchy inn bed. Perhaps he, too, left a philosophical treatise in his chamber for nights when dreams did not come.

The fire in her grate had burned down to embers, and the room held a chill that made her reach for her wrapper before she quite knew what she intended to do with it. Darcy would not mind if she borrowed a book. He never locked the connecting door, and he had not remarked on it when she had gone in search of a seal with the Darcy crest. And then, the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that she would go to his room because her own bed was too large and empty. Her own scent of lavender and rose water no longer calmed her. His pillows would carry the same faint ghost of sandalwood and clean linen that she had noticed when he held her in the library—when they had waltzed in the small dining room.

His hand at her waist. The firelight catching his face. The moment the dance slowed, he looked at her, and she saw the wanting in his eyes and felt it answer in her own body, a warmth that started low in her belly, climbed through her ribs, and settled on her lips.

She had thought he would kiss her, but he had not. And she had gone upstairs and lain in this very bed staring at this very canopy, wanting him to have kissed her. She hadn’t slept that night either, tossing and turning with a ferocity that shocked her.

She would go for a book. Any book, and no one would know. She did not even have to step out into the corridor. And perhaps, she would rescue an obscure volume from his next “fire sale,” now that she had four thousand pounds. Perhaps he kept a list of potential sales in his chamber or had already removed a volume designated for the dealer.

Her heart beating like pounding horse hooves, she lifted the candlestick from her bedside, lit the taper from the grate, and tiptoed to the connecting door. She was being silly, as no one was around to challenge her, but she pressed her ear to the solid wood, hearing nothing but the pulse thundering in her ear, and slowly, ever so carefully, turned the knob.

The door swung open on well-oiled hinges without a creak or squeak. She stepped inside, her footfalls muffled on the heavy carpet. The candlestick in her hand shook, and she set it on his dresser. The room was cold, the fire banked so low it barely glowed. His bed was massive, a four-poster hung with heavy damask curtains, partially drawn and piled high with blankets. She didn’t have such heavy drapery over her own bed, and she didn’t think to ask why.

Perhaps his bed would be more comfortable. She would press her face to his pillow and breathe in the scent of sandalwood and soap and whatever particular alchemy of warmth his body left in the linen. She would pull his counterpane around her shoulders and sleep, or try to sleep, in the place where he slept, because the distance between them had become a physical ache. He had scarcely spoken to her alone since Charlotte arrived, preferring to lurk behind newspapers, and absent himself for estate business.

She drew the bed-curtains back to climb in, and her hand pulled back the counterpane before she even registered the warmth.

Darcy lay on his side. Elizabeth dropped the counterpane as if it were hot coals and clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her cry, her breath catching. He had one arm tucked beneath the pillow, his face slack with exhaustion, his dark hair tumbled across his forehead in a way that made him look younger and less defended than she had ever seen him. His nightshirt hung loose over his chest, revealing the hollow of his throat and the slow rise and fall of his chest, dusted with what looked like soft, downy hair.

She ought to leave. She ought to retreat to the door, close it silently behind her, and pretend this had never happened, pretend she had not seen him like this, vulnerable, unguarded, and achingly beautiful in the candlelight. She could slip back to her own room, and no one would ever know she had been here, and in the morning she could greet him at breakfast with perfect composure and never mention the way her heart was pounding against her ribs or the warmth spreading through her limbs or the desperate, impossible desire to climb into that bed beside him and never leave.

But her feet refused to move, and she bargained with herself. One more minute. He appeared utterly exhausted, his eyelids fluttering in a dream, no doubt still chasing wolves and protecting sheep. She was mesmerized by the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the sound of his deep breathing. And she found she could not look away, not even for a book about to be put on sale.

She would not disturb him. She would back away slowly, pick up the candlestick and quietly shut the door, and neither of them would mention it in the morning, mainly because he was asleep and she was mortified. But instead of backing away, she leaned over him, taking in his scent, earthy and male, of fields and roads, and desire.

His eyes opened, and Elizabeth gasped, which caused him to blink and her to freeze—caught in the candle’s wavering glow, her wrapper hanging loose from her shoulders and her hair tumbling down her back. His half-lidded eyes, moist with sleep, moved uncomprehending from her face to her nightgown, and then traveling up from her shaking hand back to her eyes.

“Elizabeth.” His voice was rough, barely more than a murmur, and hearing her name on his lips made her quiver as she wished to melt into the carpet and disappear.

“I thought you were gone.” The words emerged before she could stop them, breathless and foolish. “Mrs. Reynolds said you rode out to find Georgiana, and I could not sleep, and I thought—I was looking for a book.”

“A book,” he repeated.

“You mentioned setting volumes aside for sale. I thought perhaps you kept a list, or had removed something from the library that I might wish to rescue. I did not expect to find you here, and I apologize most sincerely for disturbing your rest. I shall leave immediately if you wish me to go.”

She was babbling. She knew she was babbling, could hear the nervous rush of her own voice filling the silence, and she could not seem to stop. Darcy pushed himself up on one elbow, and the movement made his nightshirt gape further at the collar, while Elizabeth fixed her gaze firmly on the carved headboard.

“Georgiana is safe.” His voice was steadier now. “Richard found her at an inn near Derby. Her carriage threw a wheel, and she and Mrs. Annesley are waiting for repairs. The Ashworths did not travel with them, which is a relief. They should arrive at Pemberley within a day or two.”

“Oh, oh!” The relief was so sharp that she shivered, pulling her arms around herself. “I am so glad. You must have been terribly worried. I shall leave you to your rest, then. I only came to steal a pillow,” she said, and the laugh that followed was shaky and not entirely convincing. “I was going to lie in your bed and breathe your sheets. I did not mean to disturb you, sir.”

“I returned because… well, my horse Achilles threw a shoe and…” His mouth curved, and she couldn’t help but draw her gaze to his lips and the way he looked at her, like she was a soothing landscape, or perhaps the boisterous seaside, and something softer, more vulnerable. “I missed you, Lizzy.”

“You? Me? But you barely spoke to me these last few days, and, well, I am the one who missed you.” She felt like shaking sense into him. “I wanted to rip that Gazette from your fingers and throw myself at those infernal ledgers. It is infuriating.”

And this time, he did smile, crookedly. “I apologize for not sending word when I returned, but you and Miss Lucas were laughing so hard, I did not wish to interrupt. If this is infuriating, then I will aim to be more pleasing.”

She gestured at his bed, his room, and his rumpled self. “And now, I am caught snooping in your bedchamber like a disobedient maid, and you shall make sport of me—only do not tell anyone. They won’t believe you, Mr. Darcy.”

“Why is that? Is it so hard to believe that my wife regularly invades my private chambers?”

“Oh.” She stomped her foot now, heat blazing from head to toe. “I am furious about this mishap, because a fortnight ago I did not even like you, and now I cannot sleep without⁠—”