“Very well,” the agent replied, producing a set of keys from his pocket. He pushed the door back open, his demeanor professional yet eager, as if this was his very first showing. “This way, if you please.”
Darcy followed, his steps faltering slightly as they approached the front entrance.
“After you, sir,” the agent gestured.
As he crossed the threshold, Darcy was enveloped by a flood of memories. The scent of aged wood, worn leather, and faint traces of dust from his mother’s favorite rugs lingered in the air. The unwaxed marble floor of the foyer gleamed softly in the muted light, each tile a silent witness to the passage of time.
The agent began his rehearsed spiel, his voice a distant murmur to Darcy’s ears. “As you can see, the entrance hall is quite spacious, leading directly to the main reception rooms. The previous occupants maintained the original features, preserving the property’s historical charm.”
Darcy’s gaze drifted upward to the grand staircase. He could almost see his younger self descending the steps, his father waiting at the bottom with a proud smile. The echoes of laughter and the rustle of elegant gowns during evening gatherings seemed to resonate within the walls.
They moved into the drawing room. The agent held up a hand in demonstration. “This room offers ample space for entertaining. The large windows allow for plenty of natural light, and the fireplace remains fully functional.”
Darcy’s fingers brushed against the mantelpiece as he recalled winter evenings spent before the fire, his mother reading aloud while he and Georgiana listened raptly. The warmth of those moments contrasted sharply with the cold emptiness he now felt.
The dining room was next. The long table had been removed, leaving the room feeling hollow. “Perfect for hosting dinner parties,” the agent noted.
His mother always kept the table set with fine china and silver, her face brilliant even when the conversation swelled with politics and finance. His father’s laughter used to rise above the clatter of cutlery, and Georgiana, as a child, would sneak candied almonds beneath the table until she was caught and scolded with a smile. It had been a place of comfort, of ceremony—of belonging.
He had once imagined continuing that tradition. Had pictured himself seated at the head of the same long table, perhaps grumbling inwardly over the number of guests, but secretly pleased by the sparkle in his wife’s eyes as she orchestrated it all. A wife he would never deny. He had imagined enduring the fuss of floral arrangements and wine pairings and all the silly little details of society entertaining, just to see her pleased. Just to hear her laugh.
And of course, now, that wife had a face.
Sharp eyes and chocolate-dark hair that snarled into the most delicious knots at the barest breath. Wit that bit. Kindness that soothed. A voice that haunted his dreams.
Elizabeth.
He could see her standing at the end of the table, smoothing over a footman’s error, or slipping her hand through his arm as she passed him a private smile. Filling the house with warmth. Filling it with life.
And now—he was only a visitor here. And she… might never know it had once been meant for her.
The staircase came next, its curve still elegant beneath the fading runner. Each step creaked under his boots with a familiar protest, like an old friend chiding him for being away too long. The agent continued his polite commentary, gesturing toward the upper floor with a rehearsed flourish. “And here we have the master suite. Generous space, as you see. A fine dressing room just beyond that door.”
Darcy followed him in silence.
The room was unchanged. Tall windows let in the weak July sun, illuminating the carved moldings and the faint ghost of old wallpaper. He crossed to the window without thinking, hands clasped behind his back. Outside, the street stirred with late afternoon traffic—horses, wheels, a fruit seller shouting his wares. Nothing extraordinary.
Except that he had once stood here, in this exact spot, a boy barely old enough to tie his own cravat, dreaming of all the years to come. He had imagined standing here with a wife. With a son, perhaps. Or a daughter who would tug his sleeve and beg to be taken to the park.
He turned slightly, his gaze catching the half-open door across the chamber—the entrance to the mistress’s rooms.
His face heated. The blush crept up his neck like a thief.
It had never been his habit to indulge in fantasies, but... he had once imaginedherthere. In the dressing room. Her voice calling lightly to him as she complained about the bothersome tangles in her hair that always dazzled his eyes. Elizabeth, wrapped in a silk robe, barefoot on the cool floors, laughing as he caught her hand and pulled her back toward the bed. Not out of hunger, but reverence. Worship. The thrill of knowing she was his, and he was hers.
He turned quickly back to the window, ashamed of the heat still prickling beneath his collar. It was foolishness. All of it.
And still, it would not leave him.
Finally, they went down the stairs and the agent made for the last door in the corridor—the one Darcy had both longed and dreaded to see. His father’s study.
“This room has been repurposed into a gentleman’s retreat,” the agent said, his tone bright. “Ideal for a private office or a quiet library. Fine light from the south-facing windows, and the built-in shelves are—”
He pushed open the door and faltered mid-sentence.
“Oh. I... had thought you had already taken your leave, sir.” His brows knit in confusion. “I beg your pardon.”
Darcy stepped past him—and froze.
