She would speak to him tonight. She had to set clear boundaries. She would remind him—and herself—that she was his governess, nothing more. Her position in this house must remain secure.
Before courage could desert her, she pulled on her dressing gown, tied the sash with shaking fingers, and slipped out into the darkened corridor.
The house was silent, only the occasional creak of settling wood breaking the quiet. She moved through the shadows, her feet soundless on the carpet, until she reached the door of Mr Darcy’s bedchamber.
She waited in the alcove opposite, her heart hammering.
Minutes later the valet emerged, bowed to someone inside the room, and walked away down the corridor. The door remained slightly ajar.
Elizabeth raised her hand, hesitated only a moment, and knocked—two soft, deliberate raps.
Inside, she heard movement. Then the low, unmistakable sound of Mr Darcy’s voice.
“Enter.”
She turned the handle, stepped inside the master’s private drawing room, and closed the door softly behind her.
Mr Darcy stood at the tall window, one hand braced high against the frame, staring out into the darkness of Grosvenor Street. He wore only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, the latter unbuttoned, and his hair was slightly disordered, as though he had run his fingers through it more than once.
“What have you forgotten now, Rawson?” he asked without turning, his voice low and weary, carrying the faint huskiness of brandy.
Elizabeth drew a long breath. “May I come in, Mr Darcy?”
He spun around so quickly that his shoulder brushed the curtain. For a moment he simply stared at her, his eyes wide, as if she were an apparition conjured from the night itself.
“Miss Bennet.”
The name left him on a single exhaled breath.
She remained just inside the door, hands clasped tightly before her. “We need to talk.”
He closed his eyes for the briefest second, then opened them again. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I wanted to speak with you too.”
He gestured at the settee near the fire, but made no move to sit himself. Instead, he remained standing by the window, one hand still resting on the frame as though it anchored him. Elizabeth remained standing. When he spoke again, his voice was tired, the words a little slower than usual.
“What happened in the library this afternoon should never have occurred. I behaved inexcusably. You need have no fear of unwanted advances from me. Your position in this household is entirely secure. I give you my word that nothing of the sort will ever happen again.”
He did not quite meet her eyes as he spoke. His gaze drifted to the fire, to the carpet, to the decanter on the side table—anywhere but directly at her. The faint flush across his cheekbones and the careful precision of his speech told her he was not entirely sober.
Elizabeth felt a knot in her chest loosen, then tighten again in an entirely different way. She offered him a small, genuine smile. “I am not afraid of you, Mr Darcy.”
He looked at her then. A faint, rueful smile touched his mouth, and for a moment the dimples she had glimpsed only once before appeared—brief, disarming, heartbreakingly young.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I am aware of that.”
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but it was heavy with everything neither of them had yet said.
Elizabeth lifted her chin a fraction. “Very well. You have said your piece. Now I should like to say mine.”
He inclined his head, waiting.
She drew another breath, gathering every scrap of courage she possessed. “I was not unaffected by what happened in the library.”
His eyes sharpened on her face.
“But nothing can come of it,” she continued, her voice flat though her pulse raced. “Our situations in life are too far apart. Our professional relationship, the people who depend upon both of us... we cannot risk any entanglement. It would be reckless and foolish, and I have never been either.”
He nodded slowly. “I know, Miss Bennet. I know everything. You have my word as a gentleman that you may trust me completely.”