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She sighed. “My future seems limited by the options I can see. I like how you are trying to imagine a different one, with different rules, and are planning all these means of coping.” Then she smiled. “However, if you are tutoring Bingley, and he and Jane agree to take me in, I suppose I need not waste time in worry. My future will be secure enough.”
He looked at her a little oddly then—if she had to describe his expression, she might have called it wistful—but undoubtedly, she was being fanciful. He began dictating again, and the moment passed.
* * *
Lizzy wakened to the sound of what she first thought was a fog bell, a common sound, especially when she left her window open at night. Sleepily, she listened for it again but heard nothing except the pitch of the waves hitting shore. It nearly lured her back to sleep until another noise disturbed the quiet night.
It sounded like a growl, or moan, coming from Mr Darcy’s room—loud enough for her to hear through the door kept shut between their chambers. Shut but not locked.
Should she go to him? Had his fever returned? Pushing the covers back, she rose and went to the connecting door. She stood there, listening, motionless, for several moments, the floor cold beneath her bare toes. Then she heard it again—pain, terror, or some combination of both. She opened it.
Despite the parted drapes and pale moonlight, it was nearly dark within, the fire all but a few embers. But of course, she knew her way, going at once to the man in the bed, reaching to check his forehead for fever. He twisted away from her touch, but his skin was cool.
“Mr Darcy,” she called softly, knowing a false name would never reach into his dreams.
His only response was another groan that twisted her heart, his mouth working with screams he could not voice within the prison of his terror.
“Mr Darcy,” she called a bit more loudly, touching his shoulder, shaking it gently. “Mr Darcy!”
His eyes fluttered open, his neck twisting back and forth, plainly disoriented.
“Mr Darcy?” She made her voice calm, as she had when he’d been feverish. “Are you well?”
She felt his gaze fix upon her.
“You were having a bad dream.”
He nodded. His mouth worked. “Sor.”
“Sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for. It would be unusual to have no lingering effects from such traumas as you have so recently experienced. I hope your rest will be more peaceful now. Goodnight.” She took a step away.
“Way…wait.” He sat up, the white of his nightshirt in gleaming contrast to the room’s dimness. It was open at his chest, revealing an expanse of skin, the sight a flare of warning and a reminder.
“I should go.”
“Slattern…sleep now?”
Would she? It was doubtful. She only shrugged, but he caught the motion. He stood, grabbing his banyan from the bedpost and pulling it on before going to the fireplace and lighting a candle. Along with a neat stack of small logs, she now noticed a few pieces of driftwood in a leather basket nearby. Unexpectedly, he built up a neat little fire from within the dying embers, as if he commonly tended his own fireplace, and when the flames were steady, put in a single piece of driftwood. It added a violet flame to the yellow and red, entrancing her. He stood, dusting off his hands, and pulled the settee a few inches closer to the fire’s warmth, making a motion for her to sit.
Hesitantly, she did, folding up her knees and wrapping her arms around them, resting her chin upon them, and staring at that single purple flame. The settee was not large, and when he sat beside her, the heat from his body created another source of warmth at her side. The breezes from the open window chilled in stark contrast. They sat like that for some minutes, not talking. But then he reached out and touched her toes, where they peeped out from beneath her nightgown.
“Cold.” He reached out with one arm, pulling her securely into his side.
She looked up at him, brow raised. “I notice you do not offer to fetch me a blanket.”
He smiled that little half smile.
She knew it was wrong. She knew that it was dangerous. She was not stupid. Or perhaps she was, because she snuggled into the shelter of his body, feeling safe and warm and peaceful for the first time since her mother had declared she must leave her girlhood home.
* * *
I am a stupid, stupid man,he thought, and not merely because of his ridiculous vocabulary. Had he persuaded her that his first proposal was a serious one, he would be married to her now, not battling base urges and thrilling desire. The feel of her shivering beside him had been too intense to ignore, the need to hold her a near compulsion. And now, with her body half-sprawled across his lap, his embrace became an exquisite torture. Her hair, her unbound hair, smelled of lavender and spice, and he wanted to kiss her so badly he ached with it.
No,he reminded himself. It was a blessing to her that he had failed to secure the match when he’d had the voice and power to do so. Had he been successful, she might be tied for life to a man perpetually battling his family over his sanity.
His dark thoughts were interrupted by her soft breath upon his skin, her head upon his chest now. Did she feel what he did? The temptation to touch grew past his ability to control, and he put his other arm around her, pulling her closer. She looked up at him, those big green eyes wide with…what? Fear? Wonderment? If he could ask her without a string of nonsense emerging, he would have. But she spoke instead, and it was as if she understood his every unspoken thought.
“I wish I had not laughed,” she said. “I did not believe you had any feelings for me except contempt. That you might have been serious truly never crossed my mind. I did not see you for who you are, only for who you showed the world. I am sorry, sorrier than words can say.”
