Page 28 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

"It was seen to."

"Indeed, sir."

Darcy watched him in the glass. Parrish's face showed nothing but attention to the razor. He let it pass without asking who. Darcy was grateful, and then uneasy, because Parrish usually asked.

"It seems you and Miss Elizabeth have grown closer, sir," Parrish said. "Perhaps on account of your twin injuries."

"We are two invalids in the same house," Darcy snapped. "That is all."

"Yes, sir."

He had said That is all too quickly. He heard it himself. Parrish had heard it too. Parrish had known him since he was a boy. He knew the difference between a thing his master was indifferent to and a thing he would not discuss.

Darcy shut his eyes and let him finish.

She had struck her ankle on the fender hiding from Mr. Collins, and she had hidden for his sake. She had known that if they were discovered, he would be forced to offer for her. Last night she had turned it again, stumbling toward him in a temper.

And he had kissed her against Bingley's bookcase in her nightgown. He had done it in her host's house, with her mother asleep upstairs. She had no brother to call him out. She had only a father who would make a joke of it.

And she had come to him with Wickham's story in her mouth. He had refused to answer her, and she had called him infuriating. She was right about that too.

Then she had kissed him.

He remembered it with his whole body. Her fists had been knotted in his shirt. All her weight had hung on his arm, her bad foot off the floor. Her mouth had been hard and angry, and then it had not been angry at all. When he kissed her throat, she had made a low, broken sound. It had gone straight through him. He had carried it up the stairs with him. It had kept him awake until dawn.

His forearm still throbbed where she had pressed against it. He found he wanted it to go on.

He could have told her. He had very nearly told her. He had been one word away from asking her to believe him. Please. He had felt it in his throat.

That was what frightened him most.

He hated asking for things. It made him feel helpless. He had felt helpless once before, in the year at the bedside, and he had not forgotten it.

He had watched his father ask. For water, for the pot, for his pillow turned. For Parrish to lift him. Every request seemed to take a little more of him. By the last month there was no one left inside the asking.

And he had stood in the library last night and wanted to ask Elizabeth Bennet for her good opinion. He had wanted it more than he had wanted anything in years.

A man who needed her that much was already halfway gone.

"Your chin, sir," said Parrish.

Darcy lifted his chin.

He would stop, then. It was simple. He had a valet again. Parrish could dress him and feed him and turn his pages. He need not go to the library at night. He need not ask her for anything, ever again. In four days the bandages would come off. In a week or two, he would be gone from Hertfordshire.

It was simple. Yet it hurt more than his hands.

Parrish tied his cravat. He tied it too tight, as he always did.

He had Parrish bring a tray up to his room instead of going down to breakfast. He told himself it was to spare the ladies the sight of him being fed. He would not let himself think which lady he meant.

Parrish set the tray on the table by the window. He cut the ham. He cut it in careful, even squares, the way he had done for nine years before the fire. "Shall I cut it smaller, sir?" said Parrish. "I understand Miss Elizabeth..."

"That will do."

Parrish stopped. He laid down the knife and took up the fork, and said nothing more.

Darcy ate without tasting it. He could see the side of Parrish's face as he held out each forkful. The man's face was perfectly still, and a little gray.