He opened his mouth to argue but exhaustion seemed to steal the fight from him and he simply nodded and began to eat. Elizabeth watched him with satisfaction, happy she had been able to provide some small comfort to this man who had spent all day supporting everyone around him.
???
Darcy found himself looking up from his supper far more often than was necessary. Elizabeth had settled once more in the armchair beside the fire with a book open upon her lap,yet he suspected she had read no more than a page. Every now and then he caught her glancing towards him, only for her eyes to dart back to the printed words the moment she realised she had been observed. Once he found her smiling to herself for no apparent reason. He had very nearly smiled in return before remembering that gentlemen did not generally grin foolishly over bowls of stew because a lady had remembered they required feeding.
It was the most extraordinary thing. He could not remember the last time someone had thought to bring him a meal simply because they feared he had neglected himself. Mrs Reynolds had long made it her business to ensure that he ate at sensible hours, but that belonged to the orderly routines of Pemberley and was carried out with the firm affection of someone who had known him since infancy. This had been altogether different. Elizabeth had taken care of him. She had cared for him–was that too great of a leap?
The extraordinary thing was not merely that she had done it, but that she no longer seemed to regard him with that wary hostility he had come to expect. Only a week before she had declared him the most vexing man in the world. Now she had quietly climbed down to a deserted kitchen in the middle of the night because she could not bear the thought of him going hungry.
He was in very serious trouble. And he was no longer sure he cared.
When the last of the stew had been eaten and the fire had burned lower, Darcy rose and carried the tray to a table beside the door before crossing to the armchair. His hands began folding the blankets to create a makeshift bed. Elizabeth would have the comfort of the bed, he would remain near enough should she become unwell again and no further embarrassment need arise between them.
He had almost finished laying the blankets across the seat when her voice broke the silence.
"You cannot truly intend to spend another night there." She looked meaningfully at the bed.
He went completely still but kept his attention fixed upon the chair.
"I shall be perfectly comfortable," he said in what he hoped was a steady voice.
"No, you shall not. You have worked since breakfast, forgotten to eat until nearly midnight and look as though another night in that chair might finish you altogether."
He rested one hand upon the back of the chair and let out a slow breath. The truth was that the chair would be uncomfortable. His shoulders already ached from the day'slabour and there was scarcely a part of him untouched by stiffness or bruising. Yet discomfort seemed a small price to pay compared with the alternative.
"It would not be proper." The words sounded feeble even to his own ears.
For a few moments she said nothing. When he finally turned, he found her watching him with a thoughtful expression.
"I rather think propriety abandoned us somewhere between the broken bridge and Mrs Goose deciding we were husband and wife."
He laughed despite himself, though he still shook his head. "I could not," he said, but his heart screamed that he could—that he should. He squeezed his nails into his palm in an attempt to restore his equilibrium.
She lowered her eyes for a moment before raising them to his again. There was no teasing in her expression now, only a softness that made his pulse quicken.
"Mr Darcy..." she said softly. "If I did not trust you, I should never have asked."
He had imagined many things during the long, sleepless hours he had spent thinking of Elizabeth Bennet. He had imagined earning her good opinion one day, perhaps even her friendshipif fortune proved remarkably kind. He had never imagined hearing those words spoken in her own voice.
She trusted him. The knowledge settled over him with frightening force. It felt infinitely more precious than admiration, more difficult to deserve than affection. He knew, with sudden clarity, that he would rather endure a lifetime of longing than ever become the man who betrayed it.
Without another word he inclined his head in silent acceptance, his heart hammering against his ribs. Elizabeth's answering smile was small but sincere. She set her book aside and disappeared for a few minutes behind the dressing screen, leaving him alone with the wild pounding of his own heart.
The soft rustle of fabric came from the other side of the screen and, after a minute or two, she emerged again carrying her folded gown over one arm. Her hair had been released from its pins and fell in loose curls about her shoulders, still a little untidy from the day. She wore a white night gown, fastened to the throat. She looked like a renaissance painting. Darcy licked his painfully dry lips as Elizabeth laid her gown carefully over a chest and slipped beneath the covers and drew them neatly to her chin before looking across at him with the smallest of smiles.
"Well?" she said.
Darcy realised, with some embarrassment, that he had been standing in exactly the same place for several minutes. Hecleared his throat, extinguished two of the candles and, after removing his boots, crossed to the opposite side of the bed. He lay cautiously upon the outer edge of the mattress, keeping every inch of respectable distance he could manage between them.
The bed was certainly large enough to accommodate them both without the slightest risk of accidental contact, yet he was painfully conscious of her nearness. He could hear the gentle rhythm of her breathing, smell the faint lavender scent that would forever remind him of her and feel the warmth of her only a short distance away.
For a little while neither spoke. The silence settled around them, broken only by the occasional crackle from the fire and the distant murmur of voices somewhere below stairs.
"I used to think you disliked me," he said at last, so quietly that it was almost a breath.
He turned his head and saw her illuminated by the firelight, her features soft and otherworldly—she was every inch the fairy princess now.
"I did dislike you," she admitted with a smile. "At least, I was perfectly convinced that I did."
