“I did not know,” Miss Elizabeth admitted, leaning slightly closer so that her voice would not carry beyond the curtain. The movement brought the faint, clean scent of her lavender soap into his nostrils. “I merely assumed that any young lady of consequence who wears a gown adorned with three dozen silk roses must possess a passing interest in textiles. It was a gamble, but she was quite eager to escape the crush.”
“You are an observant woman, Miss Elizabeth.”
“And you are a human barricade, Mr Darcy.”
The silence that followed was dense. The noise of the people preparing to watch the second act seemed to belong to a different world. In the shadowed alcove, there was only her, the shared secret of their success, and the unsteady cadence of Darcy’s own heart.
He looked down at her. She was so close he could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath the pale silk of her gown. He could reach out and trace the curve of her jaw without fully extending his arm. The rules of society demandedthat he step out of the alcove immediately. To remain hidden in the shadows with an unmarried woman was a scandal of the highest order, exactly what he was fighting to prevent Wickham from doing.
He did not move. He did not have the willpower to step away.
“We have thwarted him tonight,” she said softly, her voice losing its amused edge, her expression turning earnest. “But he is desperate, Mr Darcy. You saw the ensigns. If he cannot secure an heiress, he will turn his attentions back to Lydia.”
“I shall not allow it,” Darcy replied. The words were not a polite assurance; they were a vow, spoken with a fierce intensity that seemed to startle her. “I swear it to you. He shall not touch your family. I will stand between him and your sister if I must construct a physical wall around the entirety of Brighton.”
Miss Elizabeth stared at him, her eyes searching his. “Why are you doing this, Mr Darcy? Why?”
Darcy’s breath left his lungs. This was the moment. The opening he had agonised over for months. The opportunity to correct the catastrophic errors of his proposal in Kent. He did not need to speak of her inferior connections or his own family’s expectations. He only needed to speak of the truth.
He raised his hand. His fingers hovered, trembling slightly, before he gently brushed a stray curl away from her cheek. Miss Elizabeth’s breath hitched audibly, but she did not pull away. Instead, she leaned imperceptibly into his touch.
“I am doing this,” Darcy whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “because my feelings... my affections...”
He struggled to find the words. The grand, eloquent speeches he had rehearsed in the solitude of his chamber had evaporated under the intense scrutiny of her eyes.
“My feelings have not changed,” he finally managed, his voice dropping to a desperate, ragged whisper. “I am doing this because I—”
The curtain was wrenched open.
A blinding shaft of light flooded the alcove. Darcy blinked, dropping his hand and stepping back, his shoulders colliding painfully with the wall. Miss Elizabeth gasped, pressing herself flat against the other side of the wall.
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam stood in the opening, holding two crystal glasses brimming with lemonade, looking exasperated.
“Good God, Fitzwilliam!” he hissed. “I have searched the entire ground floor for you! The bell has rung three times! The curtain is rising! Why are you lurking in a closet with Miss Elizabeth? If you are seen...”
The embarrassment of the moment was so complete that Darcy felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. He was a man of supreme consequence, caught hiding in the dark like a wayward schoolboy.
“We are not lurking, Richard,” Darcy stated, his voice a masterpiece of furious dignity. He straightened his cravat, ignoring the fact that it was unnecessary. “Miss Elizabeth required a moment to... to inspect the architectural foundation of the theatre. The floorboards here are of particular historical interest.”
The Colonel stared at Darcy. Then his gaze landed on Miss Elizabeth, who was pressing her hands over her face, hershoulders shaking with a fresh, uncontrollable bout of silent laughter.
“The floorboards,” Richard repeated slowly, not believing a single word.
“Indeed,” Darcy confirmed, stepping smoothly outside and offering his arm to Miss Elizabeth with a formal bow. “And we have concluded our inspection. Shall I return you to your friends, Miss Elizabeth? I believe the second act involves a tragic misunderstanding and a great deal of shouting. We would not wish to miss the spectacle.”
She lowered her hands from her face. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were sparkling with unshed tears of mirth. She placed her gloved hand on his offered arm.
“I would not miss it for the world, Mr Darcy,” she replied. “Though I sincerely doubt the actors on the stage could possibly provide a more entertaining performance than the one I have just witnessed.”
Darcy led her back into the pit where Mrs Forster and Miss Lydia awaited, his face burning, his coat covered in dust, his cousin trailing behind them. His confession had been postponed, yet, as he felt the light, reassuring pressure of Miss Elizabeth’s hand on his sleeve, Darcy found that he was not angry.
He was smiling. The siege of Elizabeth Bennet’s heart was not yet won, but the fortress was undoubtedly crumbling, one dusty alcove at a time.
Chapter Nine: The Royal Oats
The Prince Regent’s stables in Brighton were not stables. They were a Mughal palace constructed entirely for the benefit of horses.
Elizabeth Bennet stood beneath the breathtaking glass cupola. The golden morning light poured downward, illuminating the swept stone floors and the polished mahogany mangers. It was an architectural marvel dedicated to equine luxury.
