Page 43 of Courting Elizabeth

But desire was not love.

I repeated this distinction to myself with a persistence that made it less convincing each day.

After the library, Fitzwilliam did not attempt to kiss me again for two days. He was attentive with an exasperating rigor. He accompanied me through the gardens, consulted me on the menus for a reception, introduced me to neighboring families, offered me a collection of poems he had heard my father mention. In the evening, he bowed over my hand and returned to his room.

The connecting door remained closed.

I began to detest it.

On the third day, a letter from Jane arrived.

Mr Bingley had asked for her hand. My father had consented. My mother had nearly fainted, then remembered that two married daughters were better than one and demanded wine to celebrate.

I ran to Fitzwilliam’s study without waiting for a servant to announce me.

He rose as soon as I entered.

“What’s happened?”

“Jane is engaged.”

The tension left his face.

“To Bingley?”

“Unless a second very wealthy man has reappeared at Netherfield.”

He smiled.

I crossed the room and threw myself into his arms.

The gesture surprised us both.

His hands settled on my back, cautiously at first, then more firmly when I didn’t pull away.

“She’s happy,” I said against his shoulder. “She writes that she no longer believed it possible to be this happy.”

“I’m glad.”

“It’s thanks to you.”

“It’s in spite of me.”

I drew back just enough to see his face.

“You corrected your mistake.”

“Part of it.”

Something in his tone caught my attention.

“What other part?”

He released me slowly and moved behind his desk. His hesitation reminded me of the Meryton road, before he had spoken to me of Georgiana.

“Sit down, Elizabeth.”

“That request never precedes anything pleasant.”