Chapter Eighteen
Longbourncameintoview,a welcome sight after the tumult of the afternoon.
Darcy had half a mind to mount his horse at once, return to Netherfield, and spend the remainder of the day attempting to forget the utterly infuriating conversation he had just endured.
He had almost admitted too much.
Too much truth. Too much of himself.
Elizabeth had tricked him into it, of course. She had pressed and prodded, and before he knew it, she had nearly unearthed secrets he had no intention of revealing.
And worse still, she had made him laugh afterward. As if he could forget—as if all could be wiped away and the impossible might be made possible.
Well. It did not matter now.
He was here. He had ensured her safety. His duty was fulfilled for the day. He would leave—
But something caught his eye. A rider.
Coming from the direction of Meryton at a determined pace.
Darcy’s gaze sharpened. He slowed his steps, the hairs on his neck prickling.
A messenger.
Bingley, beside him, glanced up in mild curiosity but said nothing. Elizabeth and Jane Bennet had slowed, murmuring something to each other as they approached the house. They had not yet noticed the rider.
Darcy had.
He stepped forward, his pulse beginning to thrum.
The messenger reached the drive at the same moment they did. He drew his horse to a halt before them, dismounting swiftly. He was a young man, dressed plainly but tidily, the unmistakable leather satchel of a courier slung across his chest.
“Begging your pardon,” the man said, nodding first to the ladies, then to the gentlemen. “I was sent to deliver this for Miss Bennet.”
Jane Bennet stepped forward instinctively, but the man glanced at his letter once more. “Are you Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”
Darcy went utterly still.
Elizabeth blinked. “For me?”
The man nodded, extending the letter.
Jane, clearly unaware of anything amiss, smiled. “Why, Lizzy, you seem so shocked! Indeed, I am surprised you have not had more letters before now.”
Bingley chuckled. “Yes, surely your family must be anxious for news of you.”
Darcy barely heard them. His focus was on the sealed note in the courier’s hand.
The letter was creased. Slightly smudged.
The courier held it out, his expression one of complete disinterest. Just another errand to be completed.
Elizabeth reached for it, her fingers brushing the edge of the page before Darcy’s hand moved faster, intercepting it before she could take hold.
She startled, looking up at him with wide, questioning eyes. “Mr. Darcy—”
He barely heard her. His focus was locked on the creases and folds, his pulse slowing, thudding in his ribs. The paper was slightly roughened from handling, the edges damaged, the wax seal broken with no attempt to mend it. Someone had read this. And then, there was the handwriting.
