She passed it to him, the edges slightly crumpled from being stuffed inside her reticule. “It is in French. I can read French, but this—this is nonsense. Some kind of code.”
He glanced at the letter, then back up at her. “You did seal it rather well. I would never imagine it had been opened.”
She lifted her shoulders. “One of my few talents.”
“Well, what did it say?”
She wetted her lips and recited, “Le corbeau chante à minuit. Les fenêtres sont fermées mais le vent est fort. La clé ouvre la porte qui ne doit pas être vue.”
His eyes narrowed faintly. “You may be able toreadFrench, Miss Elizabeth, but your accent is deplorable. I could hardly make out a word of that.”
She slanted him a wry look and a mock pout. “Some people did not have the finest masters. I interpret it to mean: ‘The raven sings at midnight. The windows are closed, but the wind is strong. The key opens the door that must not be seen.’ Obviously, it is some sort of code, do you not think?”
The light in his eye dimmed from amused to concerned. “This is more serious than I thought,” he murmured. “If they are using coded correspondence, it means they are taking great pains to conceal their intentions.”
Elizabeth’s skin prickled at the implication. She thrust the key and the letter toward him as though they might burn her. “Then take them. I don’t want them. Find out what they are for, who they belong to—but I want nothing more to do with it.”
For a moment, Darcy seemed hesitant, as if accepting them would bind him to something he had not fully considered. But seeing the fear flicker in Elizabeth’s eyes, he relented, tucking the items into his coat. “This does not mean you are safe,” he warned. “Someone knows you had these, Miss Bennet.”
“And what, precisely, would you have me do to prove my innocence? How can I convince anyone that I am entirely ignorant of these plots?”
Darcy opened his mouth, but no words came out. His eyes searched hers, something unspoken flickering there, until finally, the words tumbled from him without thought or filter.
“Marry me.”
Elizabeth froze. The room seemed to contract around her, the ticking clock on the mantel suddenly loud in the oppressive silence. She gaped at him, her lips parting as if to respond, but no sound emerged. She tried again, and again, but the words refused to form.
Darcy, realizing what he had said, shut his eyes as though pained by his own words and waved a hand in a futile attempt to erase them from existence. “I did not mean that—literally,“ he muttered, though his face betrayed far more than his words could conceal. A flush crept up his neck, coloring his usually composed features. “I simply meant to imply that… well… that a more formal arrangement between us might appearadvantageous… under the circumstances.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, but he plunged ahead, his usual eloquence slipping further from his grasp. “Not that I presume you would… that is, I did not intend to suggest thatyouwould desire such an arrangement,“ he stammered, the words tripping over each other in his haste to correct himself. “Merely that… from a practical standpoint, given the, ah… the precarious nature of your situation, it might offer a degree of, well, security.”
Her lips twitched, but Darcy was too engrossed in his own floundering to notice.
“Of course, I recognize that such a proposal—no, not a proposal—such a suggestion might seem… abrupt,” he continued, his hand rising to tug at his cravat as if it were suddenly too tight. “But the notion of an engagement, however temporary, could serve to—ahem—dissuade any further suspicions about your involvement in this… unfortunate matter.”
Elizabeth took a step closer, watching him struggle with barely concealed amusement. He was so rarely anything but composed, so unfailingly precise in his words, that seeing him now—disheveled in spirit if not in dress—was oddly endearing.
Darcy, realizing he was spiraling, stopped abruptly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am making a hash of this,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Elizabeth’s smile finally broke free. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his cheek, the unexpected softness of the gesture silencing him instantly. His breath caught, and he went perfectly still, his eyes widening as though unsure whether to retreat or lean into her touch.
“I have no intention of marrying you, Mr. Darcy,” she said softly, her thumb grazing along the faint line of stubble that shadowed his jaw. “You are stuffy and stubborn and opinionated—and not atallmy type of man.”
Darcy let out a breath, though whether from relief or disappointment, Elizabeth could not say. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, though his eyes never left hers.
“But,” she continued, her smile growing, “you are also rather sweet. And I would not mind dancing with you again.”
For a moment, he simply stared at her, as though his mind was struggling to reconcile her words with the warmth of her touch. Then, slowly—almost reluctantly—the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile, small and hesitant, and almost boyish, but genuine.
“You will have the opportunity,” he said, his voice low and roughened by the tangle of emotions still tightening his throat. “We will be expected to dance again tomorrow evening, at Lord and Lady Matlock’s ball.”
Elizabeth laughed and stepped back just enough to study him. “I already have the invitation… and a new gown that mysteriously appeared in my room this morning.”
His smile deepened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Silver, I believe? With hints of lavender when the light strikes it just so?”
She pursed her lips and tilted her head. “And how would you know that, sir?”
“Call it a hunch. I look forward to seeing you wearing it.”
