Page 47 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
“I should read what you’ve written thus far,” Darcy suggested, “to understand the narrative before making a fair copy.”
Elizabeth hesitated. Sharing her writing felt oddly intimate, more revealing than their most personal conversations. Her stories contained fragments of her soul, pieces of her inner life woven into the characters and situations she created.
For nearly an hour, she watched Darcy read, cataloguing every minute change in his expression—the slight lift of his brow at phrases that pleased him, the curve of his mouth at momentsof wit, the thoughtful narrowing of his eyes at deeper passages. Each reaction kindled anticipation in her chest. Would he find her work trivial? Would he see too much of herself exposed on the page?
Her gaze lingered on his hands as he turned each page. What would those fingers feel like against her cheek, threading through her hair, tracing the line of her collarbone—
Elizabeth cut off the dangerous thought. Such fancies had no place in their world.
“This is excellent,” Darcy said when he finished, and the unfeigned admiration in his voice sent pleasure coursing through her veins. “Your heroine has genuine spirit and depth. The setting reminds me of Pemberley, though with more secret passages than I’ve discovered.”
Elizabeth smiled, relief and pride mingling within her. “The house inspired me, though I took some liberties.”
Darcy prepared fresh paper and dipped his quill. “Shall we begin?”
Elizabeth opened her notebook with its cramped shorthand, suddenly aware of the vulnerability in sharing not just her finished work but the raw material of her creativity.
Darcy’s quill moved across the paper, transforming her hasty notes into flowing script. She watched the steady movement of his hand, the concentration in his posture as he applied himself to her work with the same seriousness he gave to estate matters or correspondence with his solicitor.
As she translated her shorthand into full sentences, discomfort settled in her stomach like a stone. The parallels wereunmistakable now—how the hero of her tale, proud and reserved with hidden depths of feeling, had grown to resemble Darcy in countless small ways. The heroine, with her quick judgements and lively spirit, mirrored Elizabeth herself. Had she been so transparent? Did he recognise himself in her fictional creation?
They worked until midnight, the atmosphere between them charged with unspoken emotion.
Darcy set down his quill at last. “We’ve made progress,” he said, his voice husky with fatigue. “Shall we continue tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, that single syllable carrying the weight of everything she couldn’t say aloud. “Thank you for your help.”
As he helped her rise, his hand lingered on hers, and the warmth of his skin seemed to burn through the barrier of propriety that had kept them safely distant since their wedding. Then, he bade her goodnight.
She watched him walk away, his tall figure disappearing down the passage. Only when his footsteps faded did she acknowledge what Jane had seen in her letters: her feelings for Darcy had transcended all she thought possible. She had entered their marriage seeking escape from an intolerable situation; she now yearned for something she had never anticipated—a true connection.
Elizabeth touched her uninjured hand to her chest, where an unfamiliar ache had taken residence. The pain in her wrist seemed trivial by comparison. For this new wound—this hope that might never be fulfilled—Dr Linfield had no cure.
Chapter 16
Elizabeth
19th August 1812
“That passage will not do at all,” Elizabeth declared, striking her quill through a paragraph with such vigour that ink spattered across the manuscript. Darcy looked up from his desk, one eyebrow raised in silent enquiry.
Ten days after they first sat down together and she knew he was now familiar with her writing patterns. The tale she had composed for Nocturne had long been sent but they had come to continue working together.
Elizabeth’s wrist was much improved, the pain now merely a fleeting reminder when she moved too hastily. Though she could manage simple tasks once more, she was surprisingly reluctant to surrender his help or company.
“I wonder,” said Darcy, his quill poised above the page, “whether the countess might show more restraint. Would her reserve not heighten the tension?”
Elizabeth adjusted her position on the settee that had become her customary place, watching how the firelight cast shadows across his features as he bent over her manuscript.
“You have the right of it,” she admitted. “Her character would guard her sentiments, particularly after such a betrayal. Her words should be measured, her manner cool.”
Such exchanges had become familiar between them. What had commenced as mere transcription had evolved into something quite different. To her surprise, Darcy had developed a remarkable understanding of her characters, offering insights that invariably strengthened the narrative.
“Perhaps this instead,” he suggested, and read aloud a revised passage that captured precisely the brittle dignity Elizabeth had envisioned for her countess.
“That is exactly right,” she said, unable to conceal her approval. “One might imagine you have made a particular study of female sensibilities, Mr Darcy.”
Colour touched his cheeks, though his expression remained composed. “I merely follow the path you have already marked. The character is entirely your creation.”
