He had to apologise. He had to find her alone and say—what?I apologise for pressing myself against you in the library. It will never happen again. You are safe in this household. Your position is secure. I give you my word.
He rehearsed it. He moved the words around, tested them, discarded them, tried again. Every version sounded either insufficient or grotesque.I apologise for my conductwas too formal.I lost controlwas too honest.It meant nothingwas a lie so vast it could not fit in his mouth.
He would tell her it would never happen again. He would promise that he would keep his distance, his hands, his treacherous body to himself. That she need not fear working under his roof. That Anne’s education and Anne’s happiness were paramount, and he would do nothing—nothing—to jeopardise either.
Time passed. The sacred ritual of Anne's bedtime came. Tonight, the story was about a queen who rode a dragon across the sea to rescue a stolen horse. Anne had dictated the plot. The queen bore a suspicious resemblance to herself and the horse was called Muffin. The dragon had no name because dragons deserved no names.
“The queen was very brave,” he said.
“She was not brave, Papa. She was angry. The horse was hers and they took it. That is not brave; that is furious.”
“A fair distinction.”
“I would be furious too.”
“Ihave no doubt.”
She approved of the ending, which involved the queen setting fire to the thieves’ castle and riding home on Muffin. Then prayers—brief, efficient, addressed to the Almighty with the familiarity of a regular correspondent.
Anne reached up with both hands, her palms finding his jaw. She studied his face with the enormous blue eyes that belonged to a man she would never know, and Darcy loved her so fiercely in that moment that his ribs ached with it.
“Goodnight, Papa.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
She released him and turned onto her side, her breathing slowing within minutes.
Darcy stayed longer than usual. He adjusted the blanket, smoothed a curl from her forehead, and stood by the bed in the quiet, watching her breathe. The nursery was warm, the lamp turned low, and the world beyond this room was full of complications he was not ready to face.
By the time the dinner bell sounded, he was certain he had some semblance of dignity. He moved to the dining room to find that it was set for two. Elizabeth entered and took the seat at his left, her hands folded in her lap, her face composed.
She was wearing the evening gown, one of Georgiana’s commissions. Cream silk, fitted at the bodice, the neckline modest but low enough to reveal the hollow at the base of her throat. The candlelight caught the shadow there, and Darcy reached for his wine before the soup arrived.
Barton poured and a footman served. The ritual of dinner proceeded with its usual mechanical precision, andthe tension between the two people at the table could have been cut with the fish knife.
He drank a lot and ate nothing. The soup cooled before him while he emptied his first glass and the butler refilled it without comment. His colour was high—he could feel the flush spreading from his collar to his jaw—and his expression, he suspected, was dour.
“The weather has been remarkably fine this week.” Elizabeth’s voice was light, careful, an offering extended across the chasm. “Anne and I walked in the garden this afternoon. The wisteria is beginning to bloom.”
“Yes.”
She glanced at him and tried again.
“I have been reading her the fables ofLa Fontaine. Her French is improving considerably. She translated eight words yesterday without assistance.”
“Good.”
She paused again, for a bit longer this time. The footman cleared the soup and laid the second course. Darcy picked up his fork, set it down, and reached for the wine instead.
“Mr Darcy, are you quite well? You seem—”
“I am well, Miss Bennet. Thank you.”
The syllables landed on the tablecloth like stones. Elizabeth’s mouth closed, and she returned her attention to her plate.
She did not try again.
The meal continued in silence. Barton stood at the sideboard, his face a masterwork of professional blankness. The footman served and cleared. The candles burned. Darcy drank his way through a third glass and tasted nothing.