“And you think about things far too little,” Darcy returned, irritation sharpening his tone at his cousin’s insouciance.
“Admit that you are in love with the lady, and I shall offer better advice,” Fitzwilliam teased.
“Richard,” Darcy growled, thoroughly at the end of his patience.
“Admit it,” Fitzwilliam pressed. “I know you. I have heard how often you call herElizabethand neverMiss Elizabeth, and you are not a man who allows himself such familiarity without reason. So own it, and I will give you the very best counsel I possess.”
Darcy dragged a hand across his face in frustration.
“Yes, Richard,” he said at last, “I love Elizabeth. Alhough I had rather my first declaration of it be made to the lady herself than wrung from me over a billiard table.”
At that moment, the door gave a soft creak, and both gentlemen turned towards the sound.
Elizabeth stood upon the threshold.
“You… you love me?” she asked, breathless.
For the first time in his adult life, Fitzwilliam found himself utterly without wit.
Darcy, however, looked as though he had been shot. The colour rose violently in his face; whatever words he might have commanded fled at once, abandoning him to a species of horror made up of equal parts exposure and hope.
Fitzwilliam recovered his composure first.
“Well,” he said briskly, laying aside his cue, “I find I am urgently required anywhere other than here.”
He crossed the room at once. Elizabeth, startled, stepped aside to allow him passage, scarcely aware that in doing so she moved fully inside.
Fitzwilliam clapped Darcy once upon the shoulder as he passed. “Try not to make a cake of it.”
He slipped through the doorway and pulled the door shut behind him with a decisive click.
Elizabeth had notthe faintest notion what she ought to say. With sudden, mortifying clarity, she realised that she stood in a room seldom entered by the ladies of the house, the door now firmly shut at her back.
She was in here alone with Mr Darcy.
The instant she had heard her own name spoken amidst his confession of love, she had been practically rooted to the spot, incapable of retreat or advance. How she had come to step farther into the room she scarcely knew; she had yielded passage to the colonel, and he had departed, leaving them alone with that declaration hanging between them.
She ought to have made some sound—ought to have warned them of her presence. They had clearly believed the door secure, yet it had stood treacherously ajar, and every word had reached her with perfect, breathless clarity.
Darcy continued to stare at her, with something that at first glance looked very like horror. Then, almost as swiftly, she realised it was not horror at all, but terror.
Of what, she could not entirely say. She knew she must attempt something to relieve at least a portion of his concern.
“You love me?” she asked again, her voice steadier now. She was not certain how she had found the courage to repeat his words, but she had known something must be done to break the dreadful impasse between them.
“I do,” he replied, his voice rough, as if in urgent need of fortification.
Almost at once he crossed to the sideboard, where a decanter waited, and poured himself a finger of amber liquid.
“Would you care for a drink?”
She shook her head. “No,” was all she could manage.
Elizabeth watched as he lifted the glass. He began with a cautious sip, but it was followed by a far more determined swallow.
“I do,” he said again. “I believe I have been falling in love with you from almost the first moment I saw you.”
She could not prevent a small laugh from escaping her lips.
