Desire, naked and unguarded, burned in his eyes.
He was not hiding it. Not now, in this moment of chaos, laughter, and sudden intimacy. His gaze moved over the wet strands of hair curling against her neck, the way the soaked fabric of her gown outlined her figure, the flush of exertion and laughter still colouring her cheeks. He looked at her as though she were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Elizabeth did not avert her eyes. She wanted his eyes on her.
For one suspended heartbeat the entrance hall narrowed to the space between them. The sound of rain drumming against the windows, Anne’s delighted chatter to a footman, the distant voice of Mrs Reynolds calling for towels, all of it faded. There was only the heat in his eyes and the answering warmth low in her belly, a slow, liquid awareness that made her breath catch.
Then Mrs Reynolds appeared with a stack of thick towels.
“Here we are, soaking wet the lot of you. Miss Darcy, come with me before you catch a chill.”
Anne was swept away in a flurry of towels and gentle scolding. Mr Darcy turned to accept a towel from the footman, his expression sobering, though the flush across his cheekbones remained.
Elizabeth took the towel offered to her and pressed it to her face, buying a moment to calm her racing heart. When she lowered it, Mr Darcy was watching her again—this time with restraint, the fire banked but not extinguished.
“Thank you for saving me from the deluge, Mr Darcy,” she said, smiling at him.
He inclined his head. “You are welcome, Miss Bennet.”
Mrs Reynolds had disappeared with Anne upstairs, and the rest of the servants went about their work. The entrance hall emptied. Elizabeth and Mr Darcy were left standing a few feet apart, both dripping, both breathing a little too quickly.
She turned towards the staircase.
“Elizabeth.”
Her name, spoken low, stopped her on the first step.
She turned back.
He stood where she had left him, the towel forgotten in his hands, rainwater still tracing slow paths down his throat. His eyes held hers with intensity.
“Later,” he said. Just that. One word, heavy with promise and restraint.
She nodded once, unable to trust her voice, and continued up the stairs.
In the privacy of her chamber, she peeled off the wet clothes with shaking fingers. The gown landed in a sodden heap on the floor. She stood before the looking glass in only her shift, the fine linen clinging to her damp skin.
She seemed... healthy.
The woman in the mirror had colour in her cheeks and a fullness to her figure that had been missing in Somers Town.Her breasts were small but rounded, her waist defined, her hips softly curved. The months under his employment had restored what poverty had taken. She was a woman, not a shadow.
More than that, she was a woman desired.
Her hand rose of its own accord, fingertips brushing the damp skin just above her heart. She could still feel the weight of his gaze from the entrance hall, the raw hunger in his eyes when he had seen her soaked and laughing. Her pulse hammered beneath her palm.
A slow, liquid heat bloomed low in her stomach, spreading downward until she was acutely aware of every inch of her body—the sensitive peaks of her breasts tightening against the wet linen, the faint ache between her thighs, the memory of his hands and mouth from that night in his chamber.
Later, she promised herself.
Closing her eyes, she let her mind wander to the press of his body against hers in the library, to the reverent way he had knelt before her, to the sound he had made when pleasure had torn through her. She let the heat build, let it coil tighter, let herself feel the full weight of wanting him.
When she opened her eyes again, the woman in the glass looked back with new awareness—not shame, not fear, but a decision: she wanted him.
Dinner had become exquisite torture.
Every evening Elizabeth sat at Mr Darcy’s left in the long dining room, the polished mahogany stretching between them like a polite barrier. The servants moved with silent efficiency, laying courses she barely tasted. It was only thetwo of them, separated by silver and crystal and the weight of everything they did not say in front of the footmen.
Mr Darcy was unfailingly courteous. He asked after Anne’s progress, commented on the weather, enquired whether the library was up to her standards. His voice was low, measured, perfectly controlled.