Page 60 of A November to Remember

Darcy let out a short laugh. “Light reading, I see. You prefer the destruction of empires to sleep?”

She turned to face him, hugging the book to her chest. “The Romans are predictable, Mr Darcy. They build roads, they betray each other, and they crumble. It is very comforting and boring. What did you select?” She nodded at the small book resting on his chair. “One of Miss Bingley’s agricultural treatises? Or a history of the banking system?”

Darcy glanced at the chair, realising he had no idea what he had pulled from the shelf because he never opened it. He walked over, picked up the slim volume, read the gold lettering on the cover, and closed his eyes in agony.

“Well?” She moved closer, her eyes sparkling with challenge.

Darcy cleared his throat, holding the book up so she could see the cover. “Sonnets of the Heart. A collection of romantic poetry.”

She stared at the book, then up at his face, an utterly delighted smile breaking across her features. “Sonnets of the Heart? Truly, Mr Darcy? You enjoy reading sentimental poetry by the fire?”

“I grabbed the first book I saw.” Darcy tossed the offending volume onto the desk as if it were on fire. “I was seeking quiet, not emotional devastation.”

She laughed, moving next to the desk and tapping the cover of the poetry book with her index finger. “Do not be ashamed, sir. We all have our secret indulgences. I shall not tell your cousins that you prefer rhyming couplets to political treatises.”

Darcy leaned closer, resting his hands on the edge of the wood, closing the distance between them just a fraction. “And I shall not tell your mother that you find the assassination of emperors relaxing.”

They stood there for a long moment, the banter fading into a charged silence. The firelight caught the gold threads in her hair and the warmth in her eyes. Darcy realised, with absolute clarity, that he wanted to stand in this library with her for the rest of his life.

Miss Elizabeth broke the gaze first, glancing down at the history book in her arms. She took a step back.

“I must return upstairs.” She paused in the doorway, looking back at him over her shoulder. “You are full of surprises today, Mr Darcy. Rescuing children from rubble, reading romantic sonnets...”

Darcy walked towards her, stopping just short of the threshold. “Pleasant ones, I hope?”

She held his gaze, her smile breathtakingly sweet.

“Yes.” She whispered the word into the quiet space between them. “Yes, pleasant indeed.”

Chapter Fourteen: Surviving the Maternal Bosom

November 8th, 1811

The yellow guest chamber at Netherfield Park had survived a severe fever, a dour apothecary, and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s endless supply of beef broth. It was currently, however, failing to survive the packing of a portmanteau.

Elizabeth shoved a folded muslin day gown inside it, leaning her entire body weight onto the lid to force the clasps shut.

Jane sat on the very edge of the mattress, staring at a floral pattern in the rug with a frown, thoroughly exasperated with herself.

“If you sigh again, Jane, I will send for Mr Jones to apply leeches.”

Jane blinked, lifting her chin. “I did not sigh. I exhaled.”

Mrs Nicholls snatched a shawl from Sarah, shook out the wrinkles, and wedged it into a hatbox. “You have been exhaling since dawn, Miss Bennet. Thomas dropped a coal scuttle on the landing an hour ago. He heard the moaning and assumed the east wing had acquired a ghost.”

Sarah nodded, strapping the hatbox shut. “He wouldn’t go back upstairs without a heavy candlestick, miss.”

Jane flushed an embarrassed pink. “I was clearing my throat.”

Elizabeth fastened the straps. “You have been a guest at Netherfield for a full week. Mr Jones has officially declared you cured of everything but melancholy. We must go home.”

Elizabeth did not want to leave the absurd bubble of this house either, but she had the decency to hide her misery behind practicality.

They descended to find the entrance hall a veritable circus. The whole Netherfield party had assembled to witness their departure, forming a procession of fine wool, rustling silk, and varying degrees of social awkwardness.

Mr Bennet was waiting by the open entrance doors, leaning on his walking stick. Outside, the Longbourn carriage waited, looking exactly like a vehicle that regularly transported root vegetables.

Viscount Keathley was standing by the sweeping staircase, gesturing to the drive with a horrified expression. “I must insist, Mr Bennet. My carriage has springs and velvet squabs. It will not rattle Miss Bennet’s teeth from her skull.”