Page 48 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

Then he stopped laughing. After last night, there was only one honorable thing left to do. He must offer for her. He wanted to. He had wanted to since the lane. But not like this. He would not ask her to marry a man she had to feed. When the linen came off, he would have more to offer her than his need.

The ache had gone out of him, at least. What came in its place was worse.

Mr. Jones had come at six the evening before. He had unwound the linen and looked at the palms for a long while. "Someone has dressed these very well," he said. "Your man has a good hand."

Darcy had not corrected him.

"Keep them still, and they will do. I shall take the linen off on Monday." Mr. Jones had glanced up at him, dry. "In time for Mr. Bingley's ball, if you are set on going."

Monday. Two days.

Darcy held up his hands in the gray light and looked at them.

In two days he would cut his own meat. He would turn his own pages and button his own waistcoat. In a week her ankle would bear her weight. She would walk where she liked, without anyone's arm.

She would not need him for anything at all.

He had wanted that for a fortnight. He had wished every one of those days away. Now he lay in the gray dawn and dreaded it.

13

"Your waistcoat, sir." Parrish stood in the library doorway with the garment over his arm.

Mr. Darcy stood by the fire in his shirtsleeves. He turned his head and looked at his valet. Neither man spoke, and Elizabeth could not read either face.

It was a little after ten on Saturday morning. Elizabeth's mother had decreed that the library fire was better for an invalid than the morning room's. So she sat in her own chair by daylight for once. Her foot was on the footstool, the door stood wide open, and she pretended to read.

"Leave it on the chair, Parrish," said Mr. Darcy.

"Very good, sir." Parrish laid the waistcoat over the back of the wing chair, an inch from Elizabeth's shoulder. He smoothed it flat. He straightened, and his eyes went once to Elizabeth, and once to the footstool, and back to his master.

He did not offer to help his master into it.

He bowed to her. It was a perfectly correct bow. He went out, and left the door standing wide, exactly as he had found it.

Elizabeth stared at the waistcoat by her shoulder. Her face was on fire.

Mr. Darcy had not moved. He stood by the hearth with his bandaged hands at his sides. The color climbed slowly from his collar to his hair.

"He knows," she whispered.

"He knows something." Mr. Darcy shut his eyes. "He has known me since I was a boy. I could not hide a torn coat from him at twelve."

"What does he know?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her. The color in his face deepened.

"Fitzwilliam. What does Parrish know?"

"Nothing that he will ever say aloud," said Mr. Darcy. "To anyone. You have my word."

She looked at him a moment longer. Then she began to laugh. She could not stop. She put her hands over her face and laughed until her ribs ached. After a moment, helplessly, he laughed too.

"Come here," she said, wiping her eyes. She reached up behind her for the waistcoat. "I believe I have been given my orders."

He came and stood before her chair while she got it onto him, one arm and then the other. She did up the buttons, one by one, from the bottom.

Her fingers were slow. The door stood wide open. The house was full of people. She did up the last button at his chest and let her hand rest there. "There," she said. "You are respectable."