Page 23 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
“Good night, Miss Bennet.”
“Good night, Mr Darcy.”
Despite her exhaustion, sleep eluded Elizabeth. She stared into the darkness, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the inn—muffled voices from the common room below, the creak of floorboards, the occasional whinny of horses in the stable yard.
She turned her head to look towards the hearth. In the dying firelight, she could just discern Darcy’s form on the pallet, his breathing deep and even. He slept, apparently untroubled by the strangeness of their situation.
Elizabeth caught herself watching the rise and fall of his chest, this stranger who would soon be her husband.
For some while she stared at the dark before resolving to admit that sleep would not come. She rose silently, retrieving a book from her valise and lit a candle. Her copy ofThe Mysteries of Udolphohad accompanied her through many sleepless nights at Longbourn. If sleep would not come, at least she might lose herself in troubles not her own.
As she turned the pages, a light snore came from the pallet. She smiled touched by the humanity of this stranger who had come to her rescue. True, he benefited from this venture as much as she did, but he had other options. A man like him, seemingly wealthy, certainly handsome, and undeniably intelligent.
It was rather a shame they had not met under different circumstances. With a sigh, she returned to her book, aware ofhow peculiar it was that she was embarking on a gothic romance of her own, while seeing to escape into a literary one.
Chapter 8
Darcy
St Albans, Hertfordshire
14th May 1812
Darcy had risen before dawn, his back sore from the night spent on the hard floor. He dressed quietly, careful not to wake Miss Bennet, and took up a small volume of Cowper’s poetry he had found in the common room while she had refreshed herself the evening before. He stationed himself by the window, the book open though his eyes often wandered beyond its lines.
He heard her stir behind the screen and turned a page he had not read, not wishing to cause her embarrassment.
“Good morning, Mr Darcy,” she said eventually, her voice polite but still edged with drowsiness.
He rose at once. “Good morning, Miss Bennet. I trust you managed some rest?”
“As much as the circumstances allowed,” she replied. “And you, sir? The floor can’t have been forgiving.”
“I’ve endured worse,” he said lightly. “I’ve arranged for breakfast in a private parlour, so we might draw as little attention as possible. Shall we?”
She smiled and walked to the door. In the parlour, a modest table awaited them—bread, cheese, butter, and some dried meats. Hardly a feast.
“Will this suffice?” he asked. “I might request eggs, if you prefer—”
“No, truly, this is quite enough,” she said quickly. “It’s much the same as what I take at Longbourn.”
“At Pemberley, breakfast is a rather grander affair,” he admitted. “But when travelling, I’ve always preferred simpler fare. In truth, I wouldn’t mind it more often at home—though if I requested only bread and cheese, Mrs Reynolds might summon a physician.”
“She is the housekeeper?” Elizabeth guessed.
“She is. Nearly thirty years in her post.”
“If a change in breakfast unsettles her, I wonder what she’ll make of a sudden wife.”
He chuckled. “I shall write to her in the carriage and prepare her. She’ll recover—eventually.” He buttered a slice of bread. “This reminds me of my Cambridge days. The kitchens kept odd hours, so when I rose early to fish, this sort of fare was often all I could obtain.”
“You enjoy fishing?”
“Very much. There’s a quiet by the water at dawn that I’ve found nowhere else.”
Elizabeth raised a brow. “My father says the same. I’ve never understood the appeal of standing still in wet grass.”
“The stillness is the point,” Darcy replied. “One thinks more clearly when no one demands a reply.”
