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“Whatever troubles you,” Darcy heard himself say, “I would share it. Whatever burden you are carrying—I would carry a part of it, if you would let me.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught, her face lifted toward his, and he saw the struggle in her eyes—the desire to speak warring with something else: fear, pride, or uncertainty he could not name.

“It is a matter of my pride.” Her cheeks colored. “Not my safety. Nothing that cannot wait. But I thank you for—” She stopped, and when she spoke again, her voice was rough. “I thank you for asking. And I beg your forgiveness for hiding like a child when I should have trusted you with my fears.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” The words came from somewhere deeper than courtesy. “I gave you cause to doubt whether I wished to hear from you. I gave you two words and a closed door. If anyone should beg forgiveness⁠—”

“Then we shall call it even.” Elizabeth’s mouth curved in the ghost of a smile. “Two cowards who retreated to separate corners of the same house. We shall make a fine pair of guardians for your sister.”

“You said you did not wish to be her guardian.”

“I said I did not wish for the official responsibility.” The smile grew slightly. “The unofficial sisterly meddling I am quite prepared to undertake.”

Darcy’s mouth twitched. After three days of silence, after the weight of Richard’s accusations and the cold terror of watching his marriage slip away, this—this small exchange of wit, this tentative reaching toward each other—felt like water after a drought.

He offered his hand. Elizabeth regarded it, then, after a pause, set her fingers in his palm. Her hand was warm, smaller than memory, and when his closed around hers, she did not withdraw; her fingers curled in answer, almost united.

And then the gallery door opened with a creak that echoed off the painted ancestors, and the tap of sensible shoes broke the stillness.

“Sir.” Mrs. Reynolds stood in the doorway, slightly breathless, her cap askew. “I beg your pardon for the interruption, but a carriage has been sighted on the Lambton road. Bearing the Ashworth crest. They will be here within the half-hour.”

Darcy released Elizabeth’s hand with the slow, deliberate reluctance of a man setting down something he had only just been permitted to hold.

“Have the guest chambers in the west wing prepared,” he said. “And inform Colonel Fitzwilliam that our visitors have arrived early. We will receive them in the drawing room.”

“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Reynolds nodded and turned to Elizabeth. “And Mrs. Darcy, the second set of trunks from Bexley House has arrived. We have placed them in the carriage house for storage.”

“That is good, thank you,” Elizabeth said. “They will be there after our guests have departed.”

Mrs. Reynolds bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, her footsteps quick on the gallery floor.

Elizabeth slipped her hand from his, slow and reluctant, and smoothed her skirts. “I must change. A morning dress will not do for receiving guests.”

“Nor will I manage without a fresh cravat.” Darcy glanced down at himself and realized, with faint horror, that he had been wearing the same waistcoat for two days.

She turned toward the door, and Darcy watched her go—watched the straight line of her back, the determined set of her shoulders. She paused at the gallery entrance, half-turned, the late morning light catching the auburn threads in her dark hair and illuminating the sharp, tired, beautiful planes of her face.

“Fitzwilliam,” she said, the one word wrapping around him like a cloak, making his chest ache.

“Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth.” He wanted to go with her, but the sight of the master and mistress retreating together to their bedchambers while visitors were sighted at the gate would not do. Besides, he had to prepare Richard, Charlotte, and, most of all, Georgiana.

He looked up at his mother’s portrait with the taste of cinnamon on his tongue and the phantom warmth of Elizabeth’s hand still printed on his palm, and thought that Lady Anne, for once, looked rather less disappointed than usual.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

UNITY WITHOUT CIVILITY

The Ashworths arrived to all the ceremony of honored guests, though Darcy’s smile was more a baring of teeth and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s conversation could not be coaxed from hiding. Elizabeth, undaunted, played the gracious hostess, while Charlotte—diplomacy incarnate—proposed that Georgiana display her Broadwood pianoforte to Mr. Ashworth and his sister, thus freeing herself and Elizabeth for a restorative stroll along the stream path.

And thus, Elizabeth settled on the path with Colonel Fitzwilliam on one side and Charlotte on the other. The music-room windows stood open to the April afternoon, and the bright, clear notes of Georgiana’s pianoforte drifted across the lawn while Darcy insisted on turning pages, and Mrs. Annesley brought her needlework to the chair beside the piano, effectively isolating Mr. Ashworth and his sister on the far sofa.

“He is a second son,” Elizabeth said, matching Charlotte’s sensible pace. “He intends to take orders. His sister accompanied him as chaperone. The invitation was irregular, I grant you, but it was not ruinous.”

“Irregular.” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice was pleasant, his tone conversational. “That is an interesting choice of word. Georgiana informed me that you had invited them.”

“As she informed me,” Elizabeth said with a wry smile. “Your cousin wanted to give him an opportunity to be observed, and she found a way to make it happen. I cannot entirely fault the impulse, even if the execution left something to be desired.”

“You speak as though you admire it.”