Darcy rose instantly, his coffee cup rattling against the saucer. He bowed, his posture rigid. “Miss Elizabeth.”
“You are no intrusion, my dear,” Lady Sophia said. “We were merely discussing the delights of the waltz and the glorious conversations it sparked. Come, have some chocolate.”
“No, thank you, Lady Sophia,” Elizabeth said, backing up, her gaze pointedly refusing to meet Darcy’s. “I am entirely unready for company. In truth, I only descended because Nettle was… because the creature required the air.”
The terrier let out a sharp yip, snatched the leather ball, and trotted directly past Darcy’s boots toward the garden doors.
Darcy took a step forward, his hand half-raised, but stopped short, uncertain of his welcome.
“Go, Fitzwilliam.” Lady Sophia tapped her cane. “The dog clearly requires your throwing arm. And do keep the ball out of my rosebushes. I would hate to see the puppy’s nose bloodied from a particularly vicious encounter.”
“Then, I shall, indeed, do my duty… to the dog, at least.” Darcy bowed to the two ladies, feeling as stiff as a tin soldier. Had it come to this? The formality. The awkwardness. He and Elizabeth had flown through the waltz not eight hours ago. He had held her in his arms, turning her around in circles, gliding across the dance floor, and she had told him it was the best dance.
Now, she acted as if they were strangers.
Behind him, Lady Sophia’s cane tapped toward the stairs. “Come, Allegra, we shall observe them from the sitting room upstairs, where we cannot hear. Everything proper. Imagine thetoncalling my godson a rake or blackguard indeed.”
Darcy stepped into the garden, the scent of roses gentle on the breeze. Elizabeth stood near the stone wall, her back to him. She threw the ball toward the bushes, and Nettle tore after it. Darcy followed at twenty paces, his heart hammering. He had claimed her in the corridor, but in the cold light of day, he feared he had been unpardonably presumptuous.
Nettle’s collar jingled as she fetched the ball, but the dog bypassed Elizabeth entirely, trotting back to drop the slobbered leather at Darcy’s feet. Darcy picked it up, meeting Elizabeth’s gaze as she finally turned.
“It appears, Mr. Darcy, that you are following me,” she said. “Is there some pressing trustee duty that presents itself on a Sunday morning? Perhaps I have overspent my allowance on ribbon, or squandered my inheritance on too many sugared almonds?”
“I am not a caller. I am—” He stopped. What was he? Trustee, neighbor, friend, suitor, the man who had claimed her in a corridor? “I could not wait until a reasonable hour.”
“No.” Her voice was low. “I suppose you could not.”
He threw the ball, high and wide, and Nettle scrambled after it, buying him a moment to steady his pulse.
“Elizabeth.” The Christian name, used without title, as he had no right to use it and could not stop himself. “Tell me what you are thinking.”
She exhaled—not a sigh, precisely, but exhausted and perhaps exasperated. He did not know which. Her tired eyes, however, were finally pinned on him, and he wasn’t sure if he could withstand their questions.
“I have a great deal to say, no idea where to begin, and—for once—not a shred of wit to hide behind.” She folded her arms on the stone wall, her posture tense. “Which particular disaster from last evening shall we dissect? Lady Catherine’s entrance? The whispering chorus behind the fans? The debacle of the dance card? Or, perhaps, the current debate over whether you are a man of duty, or merely a rake playing the role of trustee?”
“I merely wished to ensure you are well.”
She waved a hand at the morning garden. “Well is a terribly vague term, Mr. Darcy. Am I well enough to rise from my bed? To take tea? To throw a ball for a dog? To speak to a man I claimed—presumptuously—at the cost of my own reputation, only to discover it has ignited yours as well? I am told it has cost you dearly in Parliamentary ambition.”
“I do not concern myself with Parliament,” Darcy pronounced, grasping in the one tangible decision he owned completely.
“Ah, but Anne helpfully informed me of your boyhood speeches, everything your father wanted for you. Your legacy, responsibilities, and your family’s expectations.” Her voicecaught. “I now understand what it cost you when you proposed to me at Hunsford, and I cannot allow you to forsake all that you have ever dreamed of.”
Darcy closed his eyes, knowing that whatever he said next could close the door forever. “It was against everything I was brought up to believe. Everything my parents wished for. Position. Station. Power. Rank. Wealth. But no, your refusal taught me that what I truly dreamed of was not Parliament, society, theton, or what people thought about me—or at least everyone other than you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I am expressing it badly again, but when I proposed against my conscience, my reason, my will, I only meant to say that what I thought I wanted was not what I truly dreamed of. Those were my father’s ambitions, and I pursued them because I was taught to. Yes, I read Parliamentary debates with great interest, and I imagined myself with a seat in the Commons, but Elizabeth, when you refused me, you showed me that some things were more important than titles, position, rank, and even decorum and propriety.”
“So, I am the flea-bitten stray who infested your carriage and shook mud onto your carpets?” A half-smile raised a corner of her fine lips.
Nettle chose that moment to drop the slobbered leather ball at their feet. Darcy picked it up, but he did not throw it. He pressed it into Elizabeth’s palm, their fingers lingering for a heartbeat too long.
“Your dog, Elizabeth,” he said softly. “And your choice.”
“I am afraid,” she started, surprising him, and still holding onto the wet leather ball. “That you are so dutiful that you cannot see the woman for the ledger columns.”
“I see you clearly, Miss Elizabeth.”
