Just a line that suggested he was something to be studied. Rare. Slightly ridiculous. Worth remarking on only because he almost never smiled at all.
But there was something beneath it. Something more than mockery.
He had seen the way she clutched that notebook like a passport. Watched her write with the urgency of someone trying to trap a thought before it vanished. She did not write for attention. She wrote because it was the only way to make the noise quiet down. Because no one had ever truly asked her what she thought, and the page had never interrupted.
He should have discarded it.
Instead, he folded it again. Tucked it into his breast pocket.
And went back to his desk.
April, 1811
Pemberley
The letter from LadyCatherine was on his desk. Still unopened.
It had arrived two days ago, heavy with authority, sealed in green wax, and likely brimming with demands for his presenceat Rosings by Easter Monday. Darcy had left it untouched, as if delaying its contents might delay the week itself.
He sat at his desk with his head in his hand, a half-written response to Colonel Fitzwilliam lying limp beside a stack of reports.
Georgiana’s elopement—no, hernear-elopement—had upended everything.
He had returned to Pemberley three weeks ago with mud on his boots and shame on his collar, having spent a full day chasing down a carriage that had no business leaving Ramsgate without a chaperone. The man—if he could be called that—was gone now. Paid off, quietly. Expelled from his circles. But not before Georgiana had cried herself sick and locked her music away.
And not before the gossip had begun.
The dowager had been discreet. Others would not be. If the wrong person caught wind of it—if it reached the ears of those who already watched Darcy with envy or expectation—it would not just harm Georgiana.
It would define her.
He had tried not to blame her. Had spoken gently, haltingly, as though the fault lay nowhere. But gentleness did not come easily, and his own guilt made everything sound like an accusation.
Georgiana had said only, “Youleft him in our drawing room.”
And she had been right.
Wickham had returned that winter, all smiles and empty charm, claiming he had heard Darcy might be preparing to bestow the Kympton living and that “surely his father’s wishes had not been entirely forgot.”
Darcy had refused—politely, at first. Then less so.
But the door had been opened.
Wickham had waited until Darcy was occupied with tenants’ matters, and in that slim window between civility and suspicion,he had found Georgiana. Drawn her in with stories of her childhood, of their shared summers, of long-ago promises spoken beside the lake at Pemberley. And she had told him that her brother meant for her to go to Ramsgate soon.
Darcy had not seen Wickham since his father’s will had been read. He should have known better.
Hehadknown better.
Darcy’s jaw locked. He had handed Wickham a key—no, worse, he had left the bloody door open and walked away whistling! The memory burned hot in his chest. Then colder. Much colder. He could not afford to be angry now. Not when Georgiana needed him calm.
But still, hehadleft them alone. Not on purpose. Once. In a drawing room he had walked past in the pursuit of other business because George Wickham was supposed to have already been shown out.
And that was the part he could not forgive.
Darcy rubbed his eyes. The deadline hung in the air now like a sword with no hilt—only the edge. Ten months.
He was to marry by next February.
