He shrugged out of his coat and sat, staring into the flames. The quarrel on the landing replayed itself without his leave.
He had not meant to accuse her uncle of any nefarious behaviour. Yet he had.
If he could not make her see, he would simply have to be on his guard in the carriage tomorrow. He did not relish travelling with Sir Reginald andMrs. Hobart, but it was better that the entire party ride in his carriage with his coachmen. At the least, he could see Elizabeth safely to her family.
Not Elizabeth.Miss Bennet.
The fire burned a little too high. He rose, took up the poker more for occupation than need, and shifted a log. As he turned back, his eye fell upon the teapot. He had requested tea earlier in the evening, and the innkeeper must have had it sent up.
He poured. The liquid was dark and unpromising, the smell flat with having steeped too long. He lifted the cup and drank.
Bitterness bit at the back of his tongue. He paused, the cup hovering, and tasted again as if the second mouthful might contradict the first. It did not.
His stomach tightened. He set the cup down with care, as though a sudden movement might spill guilt upon the cloth.
He unknotted his cravat. One angry woman had discomposed him more thoroughly than a crowded ballroom ever had.
No matter. He had done what he could with words. Tomorrow he would act.
He laid out a fresh shirt, clean linen, stockings. He would rise before the rest of the house and present himself at breakfast with his resolution already formed. Whatever the envoy intended, Miss Bennet would be in the Darcy carriage, and Darcy would escort her to London.
He sat near the fire and told himself that his intention to see her to her relations was his duty; that it was not the unwillingness to part from her with her eyes so hard and her words so cool.
The room seemed warmer than it had been a quarter of an hour ago. The fire had died down, yet a heavy heat pressed against his eyelids. He shifted in the chair and found the movement slower than it ought to have been—as though his limbs lagged a fraction behind his will.
His eyes went again to the teacup.
Nonsense, a part of him insisted at once, but the bitter taste would not leave him. His heart gave one hard, resentful beat.
No.
He pushed himself up at once. The chair creaked; his knees straightened—and then, traitorously, softened. The room tilted. He caught the edge of the table, meaning to steady himself, but his hand slid as if the polish were oil. He sank back into the chair, more heavily than he intended, breath coming short.
Poison? Drug?The word would not fully form, but the certainty was there, cold and immediate.
He must call someone.
Darcy dragged air into his lungs and tried to raise his voice. “Help—” It came out as a rough, broken syllable. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder, summoning command as he did at Pemberley. “I require help—”
The sound barely reached the far side of the room.
His arms felt oddly heavy. The air thickened; each breath came deeper, heavier. He set his palm against the chair’s arm to rise again, stubbornly refusing to accept the weakness, but his hand would not obey as it ought. His fingers tingled, then dulled.
He stared at the cup, at the dark surface in which the firelight trembled. Bitter. Too bitter. He was always so careful, but the quarrel had distracted him. Now he was paying for that moment of inattention.
Elizabeth. In danger.The thoughts came sluggish and distant. He had to warn her. Had to get up, had to—but his body was lead, his mind scattering like smoke. She would be alone with them. Unprotected.
His head drooped forward, jerked up once, then sank again. The room narrowed to a circle of wavering light. Then even that was gone as his eyesclosed and he slid helplessly into darkness with the full knowledge of what it meant.
Chapter Eighteen
Elizabeth woke feeling as though she had been running in her sleep. Mr. Darcy had nearly kissed her. And then he had not.
For a moment she lay still, replaying their quarrel.
Her thoughts formed slowly at first, like figures stepping forward from a fog. Then her memory recalled the landing outside her chamber, the dim candlelight, his tall figure half in shadow. His voice hushed and frustrated as he examined the tale of Sir Reginald and Mrs. Hobart and found each part wanting.
She should not have noticed how his voice deepened when he spoke to her. She certainly should not wonder what it would sound like if he addressed her in kindness rather than suspicion. If he had kissed her . . .