She knew exactly what she had agreed to, and she wanted it so much it scared her.
Seventeen
Darcy adjusted the tray for the fourth time.
The cold supper was precisely arranged: sliced ham, bread, cheese, a dish of early strawberries, a bottle of wine with two glasses. He had requested it from Rawson with studied nonchalance, as though masters of great estates routinely asked their valets to send up supper for two at eleven in the evening. Rawson had raised one eyebrow, a fraction of an inch at most, but eloquent, and departed without comment.
The candles were lit. All of them. Every sconce, every candelabra, every taper he could locate in the chamber. The room blazed with light, bright as midday, leaving no shadow where intentions might be misread. He would not have her believe he meant to seduce her in darkness. He would not give her cause to doubt him.
He crossed to the window, then back to the fireplace. He straightened a book on the side table—Shakespeare, selected for its neutrality—then moved it an inch to the left. He had set out a chessboard between the two chairs by the hearth, the pieces arranged in their starting positions, an invitationto intellectual engagement rather than anything more dangerous.
His coat hung over the back of a chair. He had removed it an hour ago, when the evening’s interminable dinner had finally concluded and he had escaped to his chambers with unseemly haste. His waistcoat remained buttoned, his cravat immaculate. He was a gentleman. He looked like a gentleman. He would conduct himself as a gentleman, no matter what his blood was doing at the mere thought of her knock on his door.
He would not touch her.
He had promised, and he would keep the promise this time. He would sit across from her and enjoy her conversation, her wit, the way her eyes sparked when she argued a point. He would earn her trust. He would prove that he could be in her presence without losing his head, without reaching for her, without becoming the animal she had reduced him to in the library, in this very chamber, in every fevered dream that had tormented him since.
He checked his pocket watch. A quarter to twelve. The guests had departed at half past ten. She would come soon, if she meant to come at all.
If she had changed her mind—
He stopped that thought before it could complete itself. He could not survive the alternative, not after the corridor, after the words that had torn themselves from his throat without permission, after the naked desperation he had shown her. He had begged. Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, had stood in a dim corridor and begged his daughter’s governess to spend an evening in his company.
She had said yes.
He adjusted the tray again, then moved the strawberries closer to the edge.
The knock came—two soft raps—and his heart slammed against his ribs with such force that he felt it in his teeth.
He crossed the room and opened the door.
Elizabeth stood in the corridor, still dressed in the gown she had worn to the drawing room. The cream silk caught the candlelight from within his chamber, warming her skin to gold. Her hair was pinned simply, a few dark curls escaping at her temples, and her expression was composed, but her eyes were bright, alert, taking his measure as surely as he was taking hers.
“Miss Bennet.”
“Mr Darcy.”
He stepped aside, allowing her to enter.
She swept the room with her eyes in one efficient circuit. She surveyed the candles, the fire, the books, the chessboard, the carefully arranged tray. He watched her catalogue each element, watched the slight curve of her mouth as she understood what he had done. The staging. The deliberate abundance of light. The chess set as an alibi.
She turned to him, and the amusement in her eyes nearly undid him.
“You have prepared.”
“I did not wish you to think—” He stopped, then started again. “I wanted you to feel safe.”
“I do.” She said it simply, without elaboration, and the tightness in his chest eased a fraction.
She crossed to the tray, picked up a strawberry, bit into it, and closed her eyes briefly as the sweetness hit her tongue. Darcy watched her throat move as she swallowed and forgot, momentarily, how to breathe.
“I was not exaggerating about being hungry,” she said. “Your guests kept very late hours.”
“They are not my guests, they are Georgiana’s. I merely provided the house and the wine.”
“And the brooding silence at the head of the table?”
“That was complimentary.”