“My apologies, Mr. Darcy.” She looked up at him, embarrassed.
He smiled broadly. She was stunned, again, at how handsome it made him.
“No harm done, Miss Elizabeth,” he told her, holding out his arm. “But in future, I recommend you allow me to retrieve your books.”
She sighed a little, and his smile disappeared, like the sun behind a cloud.
“Are you well?” he inquired, and Elizabeth saw that he was still holding out his arm. She took it.
“I am very well,” she told him. As he steered her from the room, she cried, “My books!” She blushed. “That is, your books.”
Elizabeth watched his eyes twinkle and wondered that she had ever considered him humorless. He turned slightly to show her the volumes he had tucked under his other arm.
“You think of everything, sir,” she said brightly.
“I did not think to search for you atop my bookshelves, madam,” he replied drily.
“Well, I should not like to be predictable,” was her pert response.
He shook his head as he opened the door to her room and stood aside for her to enter. “I would never accuse you of such.”
She stepped inside, and he followed. Elizabeth marveled, not at how all restraints of propriety between them had utterly collapsed, but how at ease she felt without them. They should not have been alone; Mr. Darcy certainly should not have been in her chambers under any circumstances. As proper as Mr. Darcy had always been in Hertfordshire, she would have expected he would see her safely to her room and then immediately withdraw. Instead, he lingered. She considered herself a proper young woman—she ought to be scandalized by the liberties Mr. Darcy was taking. Yet she was not. She was instead grateful, for had they not been thrown together in this odd way, she would never really have known him. She had to remind herself of the irony. Just as she wished to learn more about him, it had become impossible that she ever should.
Though Elizabeth warned herself that this golden season of privacy could not last, she thought there was little harm in storing up pleasant memories for a time in her life when they would likely be scarce. There was no way forward other than marriage to a man she did not know or to enter service. She would not make a good governess, for she spoke only French and her playing was proficient but not exceptional. Perhaps she might be a good companion for an elderly woman.
That was her future. For now, she would give herself leave to enjoy this friendship with Mr. Darcy. Her heart sank when she thought of how much time she had wasted.
“Oh,” she cried impulsively, “how I wish I had never heard your slight at the assembly!”
Mr. Darcy’s complexion paled.
Good God, she heard me!Darcy thought, exceedingly shocked. He had in truth forgotten that the woman he had insulted that night was Elizabeth. She had meant nothing to him then, other than an object for his derision—it might have been any woman sitting in her place. He did recall that he and Miss Bingley had spent their first fortnight in Hertfordshire exchanging criticisms of the society near Netherfield Park, including Elizabeth. In all fairness, it was no wonder Miss Bingley had been so dismayed when he had allowed himself to notice the beauty of Elizabeth’s fine eyes.
He frowned. Again, he wondered whether it was possible that Miss Bingley, seeing his admiration for Elizabeth, had somehow contrived to ruin her reputation? Was this entire debacle Miss Bingley’s revenge on them both? How could she have managed it? No, he thought. It could not be her. At least, not her alone.
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said contritely, breaking into his thoughts, “I must apologize for speaking out of turn . . .” She averted her eyes, and he did not like the pallor of her complexion.
“Why are you offering me an apology?” he exclaimed, aghast. He shut the door behind him. “I am ashamed to admit that I did indeed utter that gross falsehood, Miss Elizabeth. You must know that I . . .” He stumbled to a halt and briefly squeezed his eyes shut. “I think very highly of you.”
He opened his eyes. What he had said . . . it was not a lie, but it was certainly not the entire truth. Elizabeth did not raise her head. Gently, he added, “Miss Elizabeth, please look at me.”
She lifted her chin and her eyes sought his. Darcy was reminded of their confrontation at the Netherfield ball, and his heart contracted painfully. It was a gesture she made, he realized, when she was distressed but refused to be cowed.
“I heard what you said to Mr. Bingley that night, sir,” she told him. “And I did not hesitate to repeat it to others. In fact, I made a joke of it.”
Without thinking, he moved closer.
Elizabeth drew in a deep breath. “I . . .” She shivered.
Worse and worse. Elizabeth was barely out of her sickbed. She might still relapse. “Please,” he said, leading her to a chair. “Let us sit.”
She obeyed. He took a blanket from the foot of the bed and spread it over her lap, then placed a chair across from her and sat down himself.
“I made a joke of the insult, I made a joke of you,” Elizabeth explained in a rush. “I am ashamed of myself, Mr. Darcy,” she told him before he could gather his thoughts.
He stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Why would you be ashamed?” Not that he relished being made sport of, but truly, it was nothing more than he deserved. Darcy knew that if a man had dared say such a thing about Georgiana, he would never have let it stand.
She made a small, exasperated sound. “Because despite all evidence decrying it just now, I am a lady. I ought to have comported myself better. I overheard you insult me to one person. I compounded the error by insulting you directly to all my friends!”