He searched for Elizabeth and found her in the library.
She sat in the window seat with a book open in her lap, the late afternoon light falling across her shoulders andturning the cream silk of her gown to warm gold. She looked up when he entered.
He closed the library door behind him.
For a moment they simply stared at each other across the room. Then he crossed to her and pulled her into his arms.
“Please,” he said against her hair, his voice low and rough. “Let me hold you. Just for a moment.”
She did not resist. Her arms came around him, steady and sure, and she rested her cheek on his chest. He held her close, breathing in the faint scent of lavender and warm skin, feeling the solid reality of her against him after hours of performing for a world that did not include her.
Neither of them spoke, but the silence was not empty; it was full of everything they could not yet say. He felt the tension of the day drain from his shoulders, replaced by a different kind of ache—deeper, quieter, infinitely more dangerous.
A minute passed, perhaps two.
Then he loosened his hold. She stepped back, her hands sliding down his arms until their fingers brushed. She looked up at him, her eyes clear and steady.
“Tomorrow we leave for Pemberley, Miss Bennet.”
“I know, Mr Darcy.”
She reached for her book, tucked it under her arm, and walked past him to the door. She paused at the threshold, one hand on the frame, and glanced back at him for a single heartbeat.
Then she was gone.
Darcy stood alone in the library, the echo of her footsteps fading down the corridor. The room felt largerwithout her, the light dimmer. He crossed to the window seat where she had been sitting and rested his hand on the cushion, still warm from her body.
Tomorrow they would leave for Pemberley.
He closed his eyes.
He was not ready.
And yet he had never wanted anything more.
Twenty
The Darcy carriage turned onto The Polygon at a quarter past ten on the morning of departure. Lady Catherine had already left for Kent at dawn, declaring the London air injurious to her constitution and the wedding sufficiently endured. The household would leave for Pemberley at noon. Elizabeth had been granted two hours.
She stepped down and smiled briefly at a plain jug on the windowsill, which held cut flowers from the square opposite the house—early roses and sweet william, their stems uneven, their arrangement artless but bright. Someone had tried.
She let herself in and inhaled deeply. The house smelled of tea and fresh bread. From the parlour came the low murmur of voices and the rustle of pages. Elizabeth paused in the narrow hallway, letting the sounds settle over her. This was the last visit before Pemberley. She wanted to remember it exactly as it was.
Lydia was in the parlour, curled in the corner of the settee with a book of poetry. She looked up when Elizabeth entered. The brittle smile that had once haunted her face wasabsent. Instead, she rose, crossed the room, and embraced her sister with arms that felt solid rather than fragile.
“You came,” Lydia said against her shoulder.
“I wanted to say farewell before leaving.”
Lydia stepped back and returned to her seat, drawing her legs up beneath her once more. She did not close the book. She simply rested it against her knees and continued reading, her finger tracing the line as though anchoring herself to the words.
Jane appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. She was thinner than Elizabeth would have liked, but not alarmingly so. Colour had returned to her cheeks, a soft rose that spoke of regular meals and fewer nights spent rationing candles. She smiled when she saw Elizabeth.
“Lizzy. Welcome.”
Elizabeth crossed to her and took both her hands. “You look well.”
“I feel better.” Jane’s fingers squeezed hers once, then released. “The Colonel has been very attentive. He calls twice a week now. He brings small things—books, flowers, once a basket of oranges. He sits in the parlour and talks to us all as though we were his equals. I believe he is honest, Lizzy.”