Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but before she could speak, he straightened fully, the mask of composure sliding back into place. “Forgive me. I have spoken too freely.”
She smiled faintly. “You have said nothing that requires forgiveness, Mr. Darcy. Only that which invites understanding.”
She saw the faint workings of his throat and the clenching of his jaw in the moonlight. A long, indrawn breath, and then a slow exhale. “Indeed. Then… perhaps you will humor me some while longer, Miss Bennet.”
“If it pleases you, sir. I have nowhere else to be.”
The edge of his mouth turned up. “I sent her to stay with a family in Bath for the winter—people I trust and respect. It seemed the best decision for her. But tonight, I received two letters that have made me doubt myself.”
“What did the letters say, if I may ask?”
“The first was from my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he said. “And my sister’s other guardian, I might add. He wrote to urge me to consider Georgiana’s own wishes, which he implied I have… neglected to account for. The second was from Georgiana herself. She…” He paused, his voice catching briefly. “She sounded… rather unhappy.”
Elizabeth’s heart softened at the quiet anguish in his tone. “And you regret your decision?”
“I do.” His admission was blunt, his gaze fixed on the darkened garden below. “Georgiana depends on me entirely. Her letters, her confidences—they often reveal more than she intends. I believed I was acting in her best interests—still, I believe that. I think it would be profitable for her to gain some experience in the world. Shemustlearn to be comfortable in company, and such a thing takes practice.”
Practice?And this, coming from the man who never gave himself such trouble? Elizabeth could hardly restrain the burst of laughter that threatened. But she sobered just in time. “Doesit?” she asked instead, hoping desperately that he did not hear the thick irony in her voice.
“Naturally. And this would have been a prime opportunity for her, but now… now I am not so sure.” He turned to face her. “She is unhappy. No, it is more than that. She sounds positively desolate. How is she to… to…” He stopped, his hand clenching in the air. “Forgive me. You have no context. I suppose this makes little sense to you.”
Elizabeth stepped closer, though unsure why she did so. “Mr. Darcy,” she said gently, “it is clear to me that you care deeply for your sister. Whatever doubts you may have, your concern alone speaks volumes.”
Darcy lifted his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers. “Concern is not enough if it leads to mistakes. She trusted me to know what was best for her. If I have failed her yet again…”
“You have not failed her,” Elizabeth interrupted. “You acted with the information you had at the time, and it is clear you are willing to listen and adjust. That is no failure, Mr. Darcy. That is care.”
He regarded her for a long moment. “You speak with a certainty I do not feel,” he said at last.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Certainty is a luxury I rarely afford myself. But I do believe, Mr. Darcy, that your sister is fortunate to have someone who takes his responsibilities so seriously.”
A shadow of gratitude passed across his face, and he inclined his head slightly. “Thank you, Miss Bennet,” he said. “I do not often confide in others, but tonight… I find your perspective unexpectedly welcome.”
Her breath caught briefly, surprised by the candor of his words. For a moment, the usual battle lines between them blurred. The silence between them stretched, heavy and charged, wrapping around her like the night itself. The starsabove were unrelenting in their brilliance, sharp pinpricks of light that felt too distant, too indifferent to the storm inside her.
The wager—how utterly absurd it seemed now!—mocked her, a shallow, meaningless endeavor that could not survive the raw humanity she had just glimpsed. This was not the Fitzwilliam Darcy she had crafted in her mind—the cold, haughty figure she had so eagerly battled against, all for the pleasure of thwarting him once the victory was hers. What she saw tonight was a real man, one with feelings that were on the verge of breaking, his control brittle and barely holding.
Whatever he was most of the time, tonight at least, he was not arrogant; he was human, carrying a weight so personal, so crushing, that it pulled him into himself. And she had been toying with him—mocking him—while he stood there unraveling. Shame coiled hot and tight in her chest, but beneath it, something deeper stirred: the aching realization that she had misjudged him completely.
When Darcy finally spoke again, his voice was low and rough. “I should let you retire, Miss Bennet. The hour grows late.”
Elizabeth nodded, sensing the conversation had reached its natural end. “Good night, Mr. Darcy,” she said softly. “And… I hope you will not be too harsh on yourself. Even the best of brothers must learn as they go.”
His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he inclined his head. “Good night, Miss Bennet.”
As he stepped back inside, Elizabeth turned toward the garden once more, the cool air soothing her flushed cheeks. Her resolve to unsettle him had vanished entirely, replaced by something far more complicated—and far more troubling.
The fire had burnedlow in the grate, casting flickering shadows across the walls of Darcy’s room. He stood by the window, arms folded tightly across his chest, his gaze fixed on the moonlit grounds below.
Elizabeth Bennet.
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair as if the motion could dispel the image of her standing on the balcony. Her words had been gentle, her voice warm with genuine concern, and it had disarmed him completely. How had she managed it? How had she reached into a part of him he thought fortified beyond intrusion? He had been so careful—so determined to keep her at arm’s length—and yet, tonight, she had breached every defense without effort.
And it had been… comforting.
He turned from the window, pacing the length of the room, his boots muffled by the thick carpet. The events of the day turned over in his mind, each moment more vexing than the last. She had been irreverent, impertinent, maddeningly witty at the pianoforte. She had toyed with him, caught him off guard, and delighted in his discomfort. And yet, when she had spoken to him tonight—when she had offered him solace with that piercing sincerity—it had felt as though she truly saw him. Not the man society revered or envied, but the flawed, burdened soul beneath. The one whose existence he worked so hard to deny.
He despised how much he had let her affect him.
