She tried to picture him in the drawing room of her father’s London townhouse, sipping brandy with bored peers and refusing to dance. It was a laughable image. He did not belong there any more than she did.
And yet…
He had become such a fixture in her life in two short weeks that she hardly knew how to breathe without him. Her gaze lingered on the hair tumbling over his brow. The loosened cravat. The shadow of stubble on his jaw. The deep steadiness of his breath.
She closed her eyes and rested her cheek on her knees.
No, she was not at all sure she could ever go back to “not knowing” Fitzwilliam Darcy.
And then—crack.
A sound from outside. Clean. Sudden. Like a foot snapping a twig beneath weight.
Her head jerked up. Heart pounding. Breath caught. Ears straining against silence.
She did not move. Neither did the trees.
But something had. She was certain of it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hestoodneartheedge of the ballroom, where the candlelight struck the gilded walls in golden waves and the string quartet played something lilting and strange. The air smelled of roses and jasmine. Somewhere behind him, a footman murmured something about refreshments, but Darcy hardly heard.
Shewas there.
Not across the room. Not tucked behind some gaggle of giggling girls. No—she stood alone, one gloved hand resting on the curve of a chair, the other playing idly with the flowing satin at her waist. Her gown was a molten gold that gave warmth to her cheeks and shimmered like a treasure chest beneath the chandeliers, and her smile—he swore it could cut through the fog of London itself.
Then she looked up, and the smile tilted.
Teasing. Knowing.
Darcy’s throat went dry.
He meant to say something. He stepped toward her—just one step—and her laughter came like a bell, light and clear, and—
“Mr. Darcy,” she whispered. “Sir—I need you.”
He stepped closer—her eyes bright, her fingers poised as if to catch his sleeve. “Lady Elizabeth,” he murmured. “Rather forward, do you not think?”
“Mr. Darcy,” she breathed. “I must tell you something.”
He stilled. Her voice wrapped around his name like a ribbon. “You may tell me anything.”
But she shook her head. “Darcy! Blast you, wakeup.”
His brow furrowed. The music dimmed. Her face flickered. “I beg your pardon?”
“Darcy! Please!”
The room around him tilted. The candlelight shuddered. He blinked—
And flinched.
Breath caught in his throat as the dream broke apart, fragments dissolving before he could hold them still. A dull ache bloomed at the base of his skull, and for a moment, he did not know where he was.
Not the ballroom.
Not London.
