Page 25 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
Now closer than before, they both sat a touch more rigid, the earlier ease between them unsettled by proximity. Still, within a few minutes, they settled once more and when Miss Bennet yawned again, he smiled.
“You should rest,” he said. “We still have far to go.”
“Conversation keeps me alert,” she replied, though her eyes betrayed her fatigue.
“Then I’ll read,” he offered, retrieving Cowper. “With the innkeeper’s permission, I brought it.”
“An excellent choice,” she murmured, settling again.
He read a few stanzas aloud, his voice low and steady. Soon, her breathing slowed. When he glanced over, she had succumbed to sleep, her head tipped gently towards him.
Another bump in the road—then, with no ceremony, her head came to rest on his shoulder.
He froze.
To move would wake her, yet propriety screamed for distance. But she had known nothing but tension these past days—leaving her family, escaping an unwanted marriage, hurtling towards a new life with a stranger. If rest found her now, he could not deny her that.
Her warmth against him felt strangely right. He tried not to dwell on it.
A half hour passed and then she stirred, realising their position. She straightened with haste. “I beg your pardon—I did not intend—”
“No need,” he said at once. “The carriage swayed. I was nearly tipped onto the floor myself. I hope you slept well.”
She nodded, flustered. He retrieved a small cushion from under his seat.
“Here. In case you wish to rest again.”
She accepted it. “Your carriage is remarkably well equipped.”
“My sister travels poorly without certain comforts.”
Elizabeth’s fingers lingered on the fine blanket. Her gaze roamed the interior, and he recognised the look—a dawning awareness of wealth.
“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked gently. “It wasn’t my intent.”
“It’s not discomfort, precisely,” she replied, choosing her words. “But I don’t think I’ve ever seen a blanket so fine. It reminds me how little I know of your world.”
He hesitated. “My world? Wealth alters surroundings, but not necessarily people.”
“Perhaps,” she said quietly. “But it changes opportunities—and expectations.”
“True,” he acknowledged. “Yet I’d argue that character, not circumstance, defines a person most.”
She tilted her head, then gave a small smile. “Spoken like someone who has never lacked for either.”
He almost laughed. “A fair rebuke. I’ve been fortunate, Miss Bennet. I won’t pretend otherwise.”
“I gathered as much,” she said. “From the start.”
He looked over sharply.
“I could tell you were a gentleman of consequence—by your manner, not your coin,” she added. “The details didn’t matter.”
The simplicity of her answer pleased him more than it should. She had accepted his offer not because of his fortune, but because of what she had seen in him.
***
As dusk fell, the scenery changed—stone walls, wild hills, and the hush of the northern road.
