What if the woman who had boldly explored him with her hands and mouth, who had looked at him with dark, hungry eyes and whispered his name like a prayer, felt something deeper than desire? What if she, too, lay awake at night imagining a future that included him not as employer but as husband?
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass.
He was a coward.
He, who had faced down society, managed a vast estate, raised a child not his own by blood but entirely his by love, he was terrified of one small, fierce woman and the power she held over his heart.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Enter.”
Mrs Reynolds stepped inside, carrying a small silver tray with the afternoon post. She set it on his desk and paused, taking in his expression.
“Is everything well, sir?”
Darcy straightened. “Perfectly, thank you.”
She did not move. After forty years in his family’s service she had earned the right to occasional impertinence.
“You have been happier since your return from London, if I may say so.”
He gave a faint smile. “You may always say so, Mrs Reynolds.”
She studied him a moment longer, then nodded once. “Miss Bennet is taking Miss Anne to the rose garden. The child is asking questions about why roses have thorns. I thought you might like to know.”
“Thank you.”
She curtsied and left.
Darcy remained at the window, watching the distant figures moving among the roses. Elizabeth held Anne’s hand. The child gestured wildly with both hands, causing Elizabeth’s hand to flail. Elizabeth laughed—he could not hear it from here, but he knew the sound, the way it lit her face and made her eyes bright.
He wanted to wake up to that laughter every morning. He wanted those bright eyes looking at him with affection, not just desire. He wanted to be the man who earned it.
The special licence lay on his desk, a question unanswered.
He crossed to it, folded the paper carefully, and placed it in the top drawer.
All for nothing.
He would risk losing what they had for the chance of everything. Decision made, he reached for the key to his strong box. He glanced once more out of the window and smiled, watching the two ladies he loved most.
Mrs Reynolds had loved Mr Darcy since the day he was placed in her arms as a squalling infant.
Lady Anne Darcy had been fragile even then. She had been beautiful, gentle, and utterly unsuited to the demands of a lively boy who wanted to run, climb, and discover the world at full speed. While his mother loved him dearly, she could not keep up with him. Mrs Reynolds had stepped in without fanfare, becoming the second mother the little master needed. She had bandaged scraped knees, listened to his endless questions about why the river flowed the way it did, and stood beside him at his mother’s funeral when he was only eleven, holding his small hand in hers while he tried not to cry.
She was loyal to the bone, and she wanted him happy.
For weeks now she had watched him with Miss Bennet. She had seen the way his eyes followed the governess acrossthe room. She had seen the way Miss Bennet’s gaze lingered on him when she thought she was unobserved. These two young people were in love, or at the very least, deeply entangled in something far stronger than they showed. But duty, circumstances, and propriety kept them apart like invisible chains; she was certain of that.
Miss Bennet needed to know what kind of man Mr Darcy truly was.
And the only way to show her was to confront her with the unvarnished truth.
That evening, after dinner had been cleared and Miss Bennet had excused herself with her usual graceful propriety, Mrs Reynolds waited on the landing of the main staircase. She had timed it carefully.
“Miss Bennet.”
Miss Bennet stopped, one hand on the banister. “Yes, Mrs Reynolds? How can I help you?”