And yet—even as he told himself so, his thoughts betrayed him.
Sharp brown eyes, holding no fear, only defiance. The haughty tilt of her chin, the way she dared him to match wits with her at every turn. The curve of her mouth when she found something amusing—usually him.
Darcy exhaled hard and pushed back from the desk, shoving his chair away with too much force. He had no time for this. The ledgers… there must be some—
A sharp knock at the door cut through his frustration.
Darcy tensed. At this hour?
The knock came again, insistent.
He stood, rolling his shoulders before striding across the room. When he opened the door, a man in dark livery stood before him, looking neither tired nor apologetic for the lateness of the hour.
Darcy’s jaw tightened. Carlton House.
The messenger did not bow, did not hesitate. He merely extended a letter—thick, sealed with the Prince’s insignia.
Darcy took it, breaking the wax with his thumb.
Darcy—
Your report is overdue. I trust you will not keep me waiting further. Come at once.
—G.P.R.
Darcy exhaled sharply, jaw clenching.
So. The Prince Regent had either been indulging himself all evening and only just now remembered Darcy’s existence, or he had deliberately chosen this hour, when fewer people might note the summons.
Neither possibility pleased him.
He looked up. The messenger was already stepping back into the shadows.
Darcy shut the door. There was nothing for it. He reached for his coat, shaking off his fatigue. He would have to be careful—cautious—but there was no delaying this.
Carlton House awaited.
Thecandlewavered,throwingrestless shadows across the small writing desk. Elizabeth sat, her chin propped on one hand, the other gripping a quill she had yet to put to use. Outside, the house was quiet. Peaceful. The only sounds were the occasional creak of the old timbers settling for the night and the distant hush of wind through the trees.
She ought to be asleep.
She wanted to be asleep.
Instead, her thoughts chased themselves in endless circles, refusing to still.
With a sigh, she dipped her quill in ink and began.
Charlotte,
I hope this letter finds you well. You must forgive my silence. I have been terribly—
She paused.
Terribly what?
Not busy. That was a lie. She had done nothing of consequence in days.
Not unwell. That, too, was false. She was perfectly well. Restless, impatient, and irritated beyond measure, but well.
