She lifted her chin. “And if I did?”
“Why?”
The word was raw. He stood before her, his hands clenched at his sides, his composure fracturing at the edges, and Elizabeth realised, with a jolt, that he was not angry. He was afraid.
“I do not belong in there, Mr Darcy.”
“You belong—” He stopped. Drew a breath. Started again, his voice rough. “You have dined at my table every night for more than two months. You have sat beside Georgiana, beside Richard, beside my aunt. You have—”
“Out of courtesy to the governess!” She was not their equal. No matter what she became in the moments when they forgot the distance between them.
“You are the woman who—” He cut himself off. His hand rose, then fell. He turned away, paced three steps, turned back. “I cannot do this, Miss Bennet. I cannot sit at that table, make conversation, and pretend that you are not upstairs, alone, believing yourself unwelcome in my house.”
“I do not believe myself unwelcome. I believe myself aware of my position.”
“Your position.” The word came out bitter. “Your position is beside me.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Elizabeth stared at him. He was breathing hard, his composure in ruins. He had said it aloud. The thing that hovered between them, the shape they had circled for weeks, he had given it words.
“Mr Darcy—”
“Please.” He stepped closer. Not touching, but near enough that she could feel the heat of him, the tension coming from his frame. “I am asking you. I am—I am begging you, Miss Bennet. Come to dinner. Sit beside me. Let me—”
“I cannot.”
“Then later.” The words tumbled out, urgent, desperate. “After the guests leave. Come to me. To my chambers. Iwill send Rawson away. I will not—I will keep my hands to myself, I swear it. I will not touch you. Just come. Just be near me, without servants, without guests, without pretence. Let me talk to you. Let me—” His voice cracked. “I need it. I am not ashamed to say it. I need to be close to you. I need—”
He stopped. His chest heaved. He stood before her stripped of every defence, every wall, every barrier, and Elizabeth saw the full depth of what she had done to him. What they had done to each other.
“You said that before, Mr Darcy.” Her voice was barely audible. “You promised to keep your hands to yourself, and you did not. The problem is that you cannot be trusted in this matter.”
He flinched. The blow landed, and she saw it register—the shame, the acknowledgment.
“And the biggest problem,” she continued, quieter now, “is that I cannot trust myself either.”
His eyes searched her face. She watched the understanding dawn, the realisation that she was not refusing him, not rejecting him. She was telling him that the danger ran both ways.
“Elizabeth—”
“Yes.”
He blinked.
“Yes,” she repeated. “I will come. If you promise to dismiss your valet early and have something for me to eat. I will miss dinner, Mr Darcy, and I will be hungry.”
The smile broke across his face, the dimples creasing his cheeks. His eyes brightened. He looked, for one suspendedmoment, like a boy who had been given everything he wanted.
He reached for her hands. His fingers closed around hers warm and firm, in a single squeeze that lasted precisely one second before he released her.
“Say goodnight to Anne for me. I will have a cold supper sent up. And wine. And—” He was already stepping back, turning to the stairs. “I will send Rawson away. I will—”
“Go, Mr Darcy.” She was smiling. She could not help it. “Your guests are waiting, and I must see to your daughter.”
He nodded, grinning. He turned and took the stairs two at a time, descending with a speed that was entirely undignified for the master of Pemberley.
Elizabeth stood, her heart hammering. Her hands, where he had held them, were tingling.