Darcy had come tothe library intending to think.
The dinner conversation still echoed in his mind—Elizabeth Bennet’s quick wit, the arch of her brow when she challenged him, the way her lips curled, half in jest, half in defiance. It unsettled him, how easily she lingered in his thoughts. He had retreated here with the intent to bury himself in a book, to distract his mind with the precision of well-crafted words, but every line he read dissolved into her voice.
Darcy turned another page, the faint rasp of paper breaking the library’s quiet. He shifted slightly in his chair, letting his eyes skim the lines of text. The fire in the hearth glowed faintly, the warmth diffusing into the stillness of the room.
Then he heard it—a soft rustle, a step too light to be mistaken for one of the footmen. His hand paused on the edge of the book as he listened, his senses narrowing in on the sound.
Elizabeth Bennet stood within the glow of the firelight, her shawl loose around her shoulders as though she had paused mid-thought. Her gaze swept the shelves and furnishings with quiet purpose before landing on him. Surprise flickered across her features, but it faded quickly, leaving only that unmistakable spark of self-possession he had come to expect from her.
“Oh! Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy rose, setting the book carefully on the chair behind him. “Miss Elizabeth,” he replied, inclining his head. “I was not expecting company this evening.”
Her pause lingered just long enough to quicken his pulse. “Nor I,” she admitted, her fingers tightening over the edge of her shawl. “The maid assured me the gentlemen had retired, or I would not have intruded.”
“Not at all,” Darcy said swiftly. “This is Sir Thomas’s library. It is yours to use as much as mine.”
She nodded, but her expression was cautious, her lips pressing together as if unsure whether to stay or retreat. Darcy found himself hoping—foolishly, desperately—that she would stay.
“May I?” she asked, gesturing toward the shelves.
“Of course.”
He watched as she moved toward the nearest row, her fingers brushing lightly over the spines of the books. She hesitated at one, tilting her head as she read the title. “My father has a volume like this.”
“Does he?” Darcy’s voice sounded far too formal, even to his own ears. He stepped closer, unable to help himself. “He must have an impressive collection.”
Her lips curved faintly. “Impressive in size, certainly—especially when one compares the number of books to the number of shelves in his library. But I suspect you might find his tastes a bit… eclectic.”
The humor in her tone sent a flicker of warmth through him. He studied her profile, the delicate line of her jaw, the way her lashes swept down as she considered another title. There was a quiet grace about her, a strength that only made her beauty more arresting.
“I imagine there is something rather charming in that,” he said.
She glanced at him then, her brow lifting in surprise. “You would think so?”
He felt the corner of his mouth lift—unbidden, and so uncharacteristic of him that he almost startled himself. “I would.”
For a moment, he simply watched her—the light play of her fingers over the book spines, the faint crease beside her mouth when she caught him gazing at her. He could feel the heat of the dying fire at his back, but it was nothing compared to the awareness that hummed through his limbs just in watching her. He knew he should step away, retreat to a safer distance.
And yet… he stayed.
At last, she pulled a title from the shelf and turned to face him, her gaze dropping to the book in his own hands. “What were you reading, Mr. Darcy?”
He glanced down, realizing he still held the volume. “An essay on goodwill and charity. One I have read many times before.”
“You do not strike me as someone who revisits books often. Am I wrong?”
“You are not,” he admitted. “But there are certain works worth returning to. Familiar words can offer new insights, depending on the reader’s state of mind.”
She drew a step closer, tilting her head to see the title of his book. “And what is your state of mind tonight, sir?”
Darcy hesitated, holding his book up for her inspection even as he groped for words. Joseph Addison’sThe Spectator—he had been both pleased and utterly unsurprised to discover it in Sir Thomas’s library. “There are nights when sleep eludes me, Miss Elizabeth. This is one of them.”
She read the book’s title, her gaze softening with obvious recognition. “A restless mind can be a burden, I suppose. What keeps yours so occupied?”
Darcy turned his eyes to the fire, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face. “Obligations, mostly. Business, yes, but that is but a piece of it. The responsibilities of maintaining my family’s estate, of seeing to its tenants and lands… they are unending, though I mostly manage them through my steward these days. It is still a duty, but one I accepted willingly when my father passed.”
She studied him carefully. “And yet, I hear something more than mere duty in your tone. You said before that not all memories of your family home are pleasant—that you have kept away because of that. But you still miss your family home, do you not?”
