Page 63 of The Widower of Pemberley

Elizabeth at last reached out and took his hand.

She squeezed his strong fingers.

He looked at her.

She smiled. “I hold myself to be an excellent judge of character, and I shall trust my own portrait of you, rather than taking the one that you have given to me as the entirety of what ought to be known. You have spoken of your own flaws with as much honesty as you can manage, and you have let me see you as you see yourself, warts and all.Thatis amongst your chief traits—compulsive honesty.”

“I despise disguise. You do not like it either.”

Elizabeth’s smile widened.

Their eyes held.

A shiver ran down her back; it was a mix of pleasant and terrifying. It was of a wholly different nature from the other wild and unfamiliar sensations that she had experienced in the last hour.

“We ought to return to the others,” she said softly, but her eyes did not turn away from his at all.

“Yes.”

They both rose. As they walked around the desk, their bodies brushed against each other. This was not wholly by accident on Elizabeth’s part, as she had been driven to step closer to him by an impulse she could not understand.

“Oh.” She stepped a little away.

He put a hand on her cheek, and his serious glowing eyes studied hers again.

She leaned into the hand, pressing her face against his warmth.

There was a strong feeling of comfort at his touch, and it drove away the last of the numbness she had felt earlier.

His eyes were so deep.

He kissed her in a soft, exploring way. But this kiss lasted longer than the last.

A soft involuntary little sound came from deep in her throat.

He pressed his soft lips more strongly against hers—and then he pulled away.

His eyes clung to her, and his expression was half confused and half serious.

She smiled at him, suddenly filled with confidence, and she pressed a hand against her lips.

Chapter Sixteen

Darcy felt as though he could barely stay on his feet as he walked across to the drawing room with Elizabeth.

The taste of her lips lingered on his.

He was filled with dread about his meeting with Wickham.

There were two impulses in him. The seemingly dominant one said that he must face Wickham. He was a gentleman of honour, and it was his duty. The other voice told him that he was a father and a brother and soon to be a husband, and that it was his duty to not risk his life.

The room was emptier than he had expected. Mrs. Bennet was absent, as were the two youngest Bennet daughters.

Georgiana was sitting at the pianoforte playing a doleful tune, and Elizabeth looked towards her friend with a frown.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was standing in the middle of the room wearing an unreadable expression.

Bingley was speaking to him. “But really, really. Upon my honour, do they really mean to fight?”