“My sister?”
“And if you happen to be in the room, you of course may remain.”
Darcy smiled and nodded, holding her gaze for a moment longer before finally letting his eyes drift closed. Perhaps it would not be so bad, living at Pemberley with the Bennets, so long as Elizabeth was by his side.
When she left the room, Fitzwilliam reappeared almost immediately, his expression carefully neutral. “I take it I am forgiven, then?” he asked lightly.
He opened one eye just enough to meet his cousin’s gaze. “No.”
Fitzwilliam chuckled. “I will be. You cannot stay angry with me for long.”
“I believe I can.”
“Rest well, cousin.”
Darcy grunted. “I shall, as soon as you stop barging in and out of my chamber.”
“More irritability from you! I must tell Georgie that you are on the mend at last.”
“Do not allow her in here,” Darcy warned, his voice faltering.
His cousin folded his arms over his chest. “Do all that Mrs. Simmons says, then, and I shall not.”
Mrs. Simmons hummed something soothing, and before he could say anything else to Fitzwilliam, Darcy fell into a restful sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Darcy propped himself up against the pillows and stared out the window. After several cold weeks it was finally snowing in earnest, fat flakes spinning lazily past the glass on their way to the ground. His body ached, but the only pain that truly troubled him was the sharp sting of impatience.
He flexed his fingers, frowning when they still trembled. This fatigue was intolerable. He needed his strength. Every day spent in this bed felt like a personal affront, and the knowledge that he could not stand long enough to dress and walk downstairs, let alone travel to Longbourn, gnawed at him. He had a promise to secure from Elizabeth, but even before that, a discussion to hold with Mr. Bennet. Elizabeth had assured him that she would stand by him, but he needed her to know the whole of it before she committed to a life together. He could not—would not—remain abed while the most important matter of his life awaited resolution. He tossed the covers back.
Just at that moment, the door opened and Fitzwilliam strode in, followed by Georgiana, who smiled at him and held up a book. Apparently, she meant to read to him.
Darcy braced himself for their inevitable scolding.
“You look determined,” Fitzwilliam remarked, glancing at the bedclothes and raising an eyebrow. “I do hope it is not because you are planning something foolish.”
“Foolish would be remaining here a moment longer. I must go to Longbourn. Elizabeth deserves the security of a proper proposal and her father's blessing.” She had been here for days, tending to him. They must marry. And he needed to know what the future held for himself and his bride. He could not remain here in suspense any longer.
Georgiana approached the bed, her brow furrowed. “Brother, it has only been three days since your fever broke. You are not yet well enough. You could hardly walk to the drawing room, let alone endure the journey to Longbourn. And in the snow, too . . .”
“I appreciate your concern, Georgiana, but I must go.”
Fitzwilliam folded his arms. “And what do you imagine will happen when you fall over on their doorstep? That will hardly inspire Mr. Bennet’s confidence in your ability to care for his daughter.”
Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I have no intention of ‘falling over.’ I will manage.”
“Manage?” Fitzwilliam asked bluntly. “Is that the sort of impression you wish to make? That you can manage not to swoon like a damsel in one of those novels Miss Bennet was on about?”
His cousin knew just how to provoke him. Darcy began a retort, but Georgiana interrupted.
“You must trust us, Fitzwilliam,” she said, her solemn expression giving him pause. “Elizabeth will wait for you. Sheknows your intentions and will be upset if you risk yourself now. If you are concerned about her presence here, her mother approved, and she was chaperoned at all times. I am sure she has already explained this to Mr. Bennet.”
Darcy frowned. “She should not have to explain. That responsibility lies with me.”
“Then put all of this energy into your recovery, and it will not take long at all before you are able,” Georgiana said sensibly, her voice quiet but unyielding. “If you ignore your health now, you risk far more than a delayed proposal. Elizabeth would be terribly unhappy if you suffered a relapse, particularly if out of some imagined anxiety for her.”
Was it imagined? That was precisely what he needed to know. Darcy’s frustration simmered just beneath the surface. They were right, of course. He knew it. Yet the knowledge brought him no comfort.
