He paused with one hand on the edge of the door. A dozen times in the past, he had refused to participate in such things with others.What if I have a coughing fit? What if Bingley sees?
And then, quite suddenly, he remembered Wickham’s parting words:Showing weakness does not make you weak.
He looked at Bingley’s open, earnest face—the friend who had never judged him, who had only ever looked up to him, even when he had not deserved it. For once, he let the inner voice ofhis father fall silent, the voice that had always said a Darcy must never falter, never show vulnerability, never let anyone see.
Darcy took a breath—not entirely easy, but freer than it had been in some time.
“Yes,” he said, stepping into the hall. “A ride is perfect.”
And as he did, a strange sensation unfurled inside him. It was not joy exactly, or peace, or even certainty. But it was something like hope.
And for now, that was enough.
Chapter 15
Elizabeth awoke with a start, her cheeks warm and her heart beating far too quickly for the peaceful quiet of the morning.
Good heavens, what sort of dream was that?
She pressed a hand to her temple, willing her thoughts to still. It had not been improper—not truly—but it had been… intimate. The feel of a hand clasping hers, a gaze so intense it seemed to strip her bare, lips pressing gently on hers in a kiss—tender and tentative, and so real that her lips still tingled with the memory of it in the morning light.
“I must be losing my mind,” she muttered aloud, flinging back the covers and stepping down onto the rug. “It was only a dream.”
The fact that the man in question was someone she actually knew—Fitzwilliam Darcy, of all people—was enough to send her fleeing from the house altogether.
She dressed quickly and quietly, glad Jane was still asleep and no one was yet bustling about the halls. The air in the house felt heavy after the uneasy events of the previous night, and Elizabeth needed space. Air. Clarity.
A brisk walk to the top of Oakham Mount should do it.
She donned her boots and a warm cloak and slipped outside without troubling Hill or any of the other servants. The November air was sharp against her skin, but welcome, too—it scoured away some of the heat still burning on her cheeks. Her steps carried her quickly past the edge of the village, up the well-trodden path she had climbed a hundred times.
With each step up the incline, her breathing evened, and the chaos of her thoughts began to find shape.
Darcy…
It was impossible not to think of him. He had surprised her so many times, like in London during the fire—without hesitation, when the soldier had shouted at her. He had stood beside her when no one else had, had protected her dignity in a moment when she had barely thought to guard it herself.
Then at the Meryton assembly, when she had thought him proud and above his company. But then minutes later, he had taken her herbs with such a quiet, vulnerable gratitude that it had struck her breathless. And later, instead of asking for more—indeed, he had needed to be convinced—so as not to take what her sister might need.
What kind of man tries so hard not to burden others that he practically collapses before asking for aid? What could have made him this way?
How odd that a man who seemed so guarded could still be capable of such simple, honest thanks. And how telling, too, that he had been hesitant to accept any help at all. It was clear, painfully so, that he had no one to lean on. No one he trusted with his weakness.
He noticed the simple things, like when he had lent her a book when she was stuck at Netherfield. And then, in a repeat of London, he had shielded her from Mr. Smithson’s overreaching questions without hesitation. Both times, he had seen she was uncomfortable and acted.
That is not nothing.
The thought of Mr. Smithson caused her to shudder. Darcy had spoken with such authority to Mr. Smithson, with the weight of his name and his uncle's title behind it. But what could he truly do? Could he protect the Gardiners? Or Benjamin?
Could he protecther?
And would he even want to? He was so far above her in wealth and station, and he could do much better than a simple country miss.
She knew she should not hope, but she could not help herself. An image of him from the Gardiner’s card party came to mind, and a flutter rose unbidden in her chest. She could still feel the echo of his voice, the storm in his eyes, the firm line of his jaw as he had stood against that odious man. As though it had cost him nothing to do so, even though he scarcely knew the Gardiners.
That, too, was not nothing. Did he do it for her? Or because he was simply a gentleman?
Her boots crunched on the path as she reached the top of the mount, the wind tugging at her shawl. Below her, the whole of Hertfordshire spread out in winter colors—bare trees, pale skies, golden stubbled fields.
