Elizabeth opened her mouth to answer and found she had no words. Everything she had planned to say—the carefulpreamble, the measured explanation, the dignified confession—evaporated in the face of his quiet concern.
“May I come in?”
He stepped aside without hesitation.
His chamber was larger than hers, the furniture heavier, the colors darker. A fire burned low in the grate, casting warm shadows across the carpet. His desk sat beneath the window, papers scattered across its surface, a candle guttering in its holder.
Her courage faltering, she passed him by. She would place the ring on the desk and withdraw. He would know—perhaps he already did. She was merely another in the parade of women his brother had beguiled.
Without a word, she laid the ring beside the candlestick.G. W.
Darcy followed. She felt him behind her, close enough to touch, waiting for an explanation she did not know how to give, and so, she stood back and watched him pick up the ring, his brow knit, his face darkening until comprehension dawned.
“Where did you get this?”
“I have no right to be your wife.” The words that followed were the hardest she had ever spoken. “I married you after being compromised by George Wickham.”
His fist closed over the ring, and his face hardened into granite. His eyes narrowed, and his lower jaw jutted as shock gave way to fury, his expression darkening.
“I did not know he was your brother.” She forced herself to continue, to meet his eyes even as they turned stony. “I did not know, and he never mentioned you. He said he was the son of a gentleman, and he courted me for three weeks. He told me he would marry me after he came into his fortune.”
Darcy neither moved nor spoke. His hands hung at his sides, fists clenched, every line of his body so rigid that he trembled—and that trembling was the most terrifying sight of all.
“We exchanged tokens—a locket and a ring.” The words tumbled out, as if they might escape her altogether. “And then he—” Her voice faltered, but she steadied herself, arms wrapped tight against the sobs that would come. “He kissed me in the alley, promised he would write, and then vanished.”
Darcy’s nostrils flared, his breath harsh, but he remained standing, and she did not know whether he faced her or not because she did not dare to look.
“If I had realized that the man who gave me this ring was the half-brother you mentioned at Longbourn, I would never have agreed to this… this situation. I should not have come to Pemberley. I should have let you choose another one of my sisters, or a woman more honorable than me.” She covered her face, the shame engulfing her. “Jane knew my fears, and she knew I was a fool. She warned me, but I wished to be…”
He stood still, waiting, and his silence terrified her far more than if he had spoken.
“There’s one more thing you should know. After he disappeared, I was terrified that I might be—” She could not say the word. She could not force it past her lips. “Clarice explained to me, when I arrived here, that my fears were unfounded. That a kiss, however improper, could not—” She stopped and drew a suffocating breath. “I was so sick with fear.”
The confession was complete, and there was nothing left to hide.
He remained unmoving, his gaze fixed somewhere between her and the door left ajar. She watched his throat work, his chest rise and fall with a breath he seemed to hold, his eyes closing for a moment before opening again.
He believed she had gone into the bedchamber with Wickham.
“I will accept whatever decision you make.” Her voice emerged as a whisper. “If you wish me to leave Pemberley, I will go quietly and make no claims on your fortune or your name. I will return to Longbourn and tell my family that the marriage was a mistake, that we did not suit, that?—”
“Elizabeth.”
His voice was very soft. She raised her eyes to his—wet, she realized, though she had not felt the tears gather—and found him looking at her with an expression she had never seen before. Pain and tenderness warred in his features, his jaw tight but his eyes impossibly soft.
“There is nothing to forgive.”
The words did not make sense. She turned them over in her mind, searching for the catch, the condition, and the inevitable qualification that must surely follow.
“Elizabeth.” He took a step toward her, and then another, until he stood close enough that she could see the candlelight reflected in his eyes. “You have done me no wrong.”
Elizabeth shook her head, not in disagreement but in disbelief. This was not how the scene was supposed to unfold. He was supposed to be cold, or furious, or at the very least disappointed. He was not supposed to stand before her offering absolution as though she had confessed to nothing more grievous than a minor social misstep.
“Of course,” she heard herself say, her voice thin and distant. “A marriage of convenience requires no such considerations. You married me to care for Thomas, to manage your household, to present a respectable face to society. I understand my past does not disturb those arrangements. I understand if you no longer?—”
“What if I still love you?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught; she blinked, incredulous. Her mind refused to accept what her ears had heard. She had poured out her shame, expecting censure, or at the very least, anger and displeasure.
