He was different here at Pemberley: confident, commanding, yet still attentive. She watched him interact with Georgiana, saw the affection in every gesture, and something deep in her ached with want. This was a man who loved deeply, fiercely, completely.
What would it be like to be loved by such a man?
The thought came unbidden: You already know. He said as much in his proposal. And in sending his letter. He loves you still. You can see it in every look, every careful gesture.
"Your man says the carriage can be repaired," Mr. Gardiner reported, "but not until the wheelwright can come from Lambton. Perhaps two days?"
Two days. Elizabeth's pulse skittered wildly.
"You must stay as long as necessary," Mr. Darcy said immediately, though she caught the subtle roughness in his voice. "Pemberley is at your disposal."
When he passed her the salt, their gloved fingers brushed. Such a simple touch, yet electricity shot up her arm. She saw his hand shake subtly as he withdrew it, saw him curl his fingers into a fist beneath the table.
"You play, do you not, Miss Elizabeth?" Georgiana asked shyly. "Perhaps you would honor us after dinner? My brother says you play beautifully."
Elizabeth's eyes flew to Mr. Darcy. Color rose in his cheeks, but he did not look away.
"I told Georgiana of the evening at Rosings," he explained, his voice carefully controlled. "You played with such feeling, despite my aunt's interruptions."
"You were listening?" She had thought him engaged with his book that evening, deliberately ignoring her performance.
"I am always listening when you play." The words emerged raw, unguarded. His eyes widened subtly, as if surprised by his own admission. "That is, I enjoy music, and you play very well."
"My brother is too modest," Georgiana interjected innocently. "He told me your performance moved him greatly. He said you play as you do everything, with passion and spirit that cannot be contained."
Mr. Darcy's knuckles went white where he gripped his wine glass. Elizabeth felt heat flood her face, her chest, pooling low in her belly.Passion that cannot be contained.The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning.
In the music room after dinner, Elizabeth's fingers shook on the keys. She could feel Mr. Darcy behind her, not touching but close enough that she felt his body heat, felt each breath he took. Her skin prickled with awareness, every nerve ending attuned to his presence.
She chose a piece that had always reminded her of him: complex, layered, beginning in a minor key but resolving intosomething beautiful and triumphant. As she played, she thought of his letter, of the journey they had both taken from pride and prejudice to this moment of what? Understanding? Attraction? Something deeper?
When she finished playing, Georgiana's enthusiastic praise barely registered. All she could focus on was Mr. Darcy's quiet "Beautiful" and the way his eyes were not on the pianoforte but on her face, her throat, the curve of her shoulder exposed by the low neckline.
"You are good with her," he said when Georgiana went to fetch sheet music, his voice low and intimate. "She has had few friends. It means a great deal to see her so at ease."
He moved closer as he spoke, close enough that she could feel his breath stir the curls at her temple. Her whole body canted toward him involuntarily, like a flower seeking the sun.
"She is lovely," Elizabeth managed, though her voice came out embarrassingly breathless. "So open and amiable. Nothing like..." She stopped, horrified.
"Nothing like her proud and disagreeable brother?" His voice turned self-mocking, though she caught a flash of real pain in his eyes.
"I am sorry. I should not have..."
"No." He relaxed with visible effort, his hand coming up to rake through his hair in a gesture that was utterly unguarded, utterly appealing. "That was your opinion of me. I earned it through my behavior in Hertfordshire. Why should you have thought differently?"
"Because I was blind," she said softly, turning on the bench to face him fully. "I let Mr. Wickham's lies and my own wounded pride color everything I saw. Your letter opened my eyes."
He stepped closer, close enough that her knees brushed his legs through her skirts. This angle forced her to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, baring her throat to his gaze. She saw his eyes drop to the exposed column, saw him swallow hard.
"What do you see?" His voice was rough velvet, dark and dangerous. "When you look at me now, what do you see?"
Everything, her mind whispered. I see everything I was too foolish to see before.
"I see a good man," she said aloud, her voice shaking. "An honorable man who..."
"Honor." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "If you knew the thoughts I harbor, Miss Elizabeth, you would not speak of honor."
Her breath caught. "What thoughts?"
