The faint sounds of raised voices roused Darcy from the haze of his long, strange dreams. His body ached and his mind, though sluggish, began to clear as he strained to make sense of the words drifting into his awareness.
“I will not leave,” said a voice he knew as well as his own.
But how had she come to be here?
“Elizabeth, you must,” his cousin insisted. “It would not do for Darcy to wake and find you here. He would be mortified to learn that I not only allowed you to tend to him but encouraged it.”
Of course Fitzwilliam had tossed his instructions to the wind. But as it was clear she had not been taken ill, he found he could not care. He was glad, very glad, that she was here. She had said something of great importance to him.
“I care not for propriety, Colonel,” Miss Bennet shot back, her words pointed but not unkind. “I shall not leave until I see with my own eyes that he is awake and recovering.” She paused. “I have earned that much.”
Darcy’s heart twisted at her words. Her care, the devotion—they felt too precious to be real, and for a moment, he feared he was still caught in the throes of some delusion.
Summoning what little strength he could muster, Darcy forced his heavy eyelids open. The dim light of early morning greeted him, and as he turned his head, his gaze fell on the two figures near the doorway. Elizabeth, cheeks flushed, stood with her arms crossed, staring up at Fitzwilliam, who looked both exhausted and exasperated.
“Elizabeth,” Darcy croaked, his voice weak but clear enough to cut through their argument. He had more right to use her Christian name than his cousin did.
Both heads turned sharply toward him. Elizabeth’s face softened instantly, relief flooding her expression. Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, looked as though he had been caught stealing biscuits from the kitchen.
“Cousin,” Darcy said hoarsely, his voice gaining a modicum of strength. “You are in very deep trouble.”
Fitzwilliam’s mouth opened and closed as he struggled to respond, but Darcy ignored him, turning his attention to Elizabeth. Slowly, he lifted a shaking hand and extended it toward her.
She moved swiftly to his side, her small hand slipping into his. It was warm, strong, and real.
“You are awake,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly as she spoke. “You gave us all quite a fright, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy swallowed. “I do apologise. It seems I have caused no small amount of work for everyone.” He glared at Fitzwilliam, who tossed up his hands in mock surrender.
“You are welcome,” his cousin said dryly. “Though it appears my efforts are not appreciated.”
Elizabeth bestowed a quick smile upon him. “Thank you, Colonel,” she said, then turned her attention back to Darcy.
“I shall return, Darcy.” Fitzwilliam yawned before he left the room, leaving them alone with an older woman who sat near the corner with a knowing smile and two busy knitting needles.
Darcy shifted slightly, his fingers tightening around Elizabeth’s hand. “Did I dream it?” he asked quietly, his dark eyes searching hers. “I think . . . I believed I heard you say you loved me. Was it real, or nothing more than something my addled mind conjured?”
Her lips turned up into a soft smile, her bright eyes—were those tears gathering? “It was very real, Mr. Darcy, and entirely true.”
His breath caught as he studied her face. “I would offer for you this instant,” he said, his voice low and full of emotion, “but I cannot even stand to ask you properly.”
Elizabeth’s laugh was a soft, musical sound, and full of affection. “Nothing about this has been particularly proper,” she teased, her gaze warm. “Though I did have a married woman with me at all times while I was in the sickroom.”
“That is true,” he said thoughtfully. “You are entirely compromised. I am afraid there is nothing for it now.”
She was so surprised by the jest that the laugh she attempted to suppress came out sounding like the snort of a horse. Hercheeks flushed as she clapped her hands over her mouth. “Forgive me.” She shook her head at him.
“But you will marry me?”
“If you ask me nicely.”
It was his turn to chuckle, but he felt his eyes growing heavier. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“You need only thank me by listening to Mrs. Simmons and getting well,” Elizabeth replied softly. “Now that you are back with us, I will have to return to Longbourn.”
He nodded, fighting to remain awake until then.
“Sleep,” she urged, her voice a soothing balm. “It is the best thing for you. And your reward for obeying Mrs. Simmons will be that I shall call on your sister in the drawing room here at Netherfield that much sooner. With my mother, of course.”
