Page 58 of Darcy's Guarded Heart
Darcy’s chest tightened with nerves, but he nodded. “Yes. I will.”
“Good,” Bingley said. “Let’s not waste another day.”
***
The streets of London were quiet as Darcy helped Bingley from the carriage, steadying him as they reached the steps of his townhouse. The night air was sharp, the scent of frost beginning to rise from the road.
“Come now, I can walk on my own,” Bingley said with a grin, though he leaned rather heavily on Darcy’s arm.
“You’ve had three glasses more than was wise,” Darcy replied, not without affection.
“And two toasts fewer than I would have liked,” Bingley returned cheerfully. “But no matter. Jane forgave me. She forgave me, Darcy. She is everything I hoped she was. Everything and more.”
Darcy gave a small nod. “I am pleased for you.”
“She cried, you know. Not in anger, but with joy. And I cried too—not a word to anyone,” he added, wagging a finger. “You are the only person I can trust with such shameful confessions.”
Darcy smiled faintly. “You are not the first man to cry from happiness.”
“No, but I must be the first to cry and then drink an entire bottle of claret in honour of it,” Bingley laughed, swaying slightly on his feet. “I must go to Longbourn. At once. Tonight!”
“You most certainly must not,” Darcy said firmly.
Bingley blinked at him. “Why ever not?”
“You are half-drunk, Bingley.”
“A quarter,” Bingley corrected.
“A generous half.”
Bingley laughed again, louder this time. “There it is! That’s why I love you, Darcy. You are the only man alive who could call me drunk to my face and still sound like a gentleman doing it.”
Darcy sighed, ushering him to the door. “Sleep tonight. Travel in the morning.”
“Yes, yes. Sensible as ever.” Bingley paused at the threshold, his face still flushed from drink and delight. “I’m going to be happy, Darcy. Genuinely happy. And you—well, you’ll see. It will be your turn soon enough.”
Darcy raised a brow. “Go inside, Bingley.”
With one final laugh and a clumsy bow, Bingley disappeared through the doorway, and Darcy turned back towards his own home.
The streets were colder now, emptier. His breath hung in the air. And with each step, thoughts of Elizabeth crept in uninvited.
Jane and Bingley would be married. There would be visits. Family dinners. Shared holidays. He and Elizabeth would see one another more frequently—not by design, but by circumstance. And perhaps, in time, he might repair the impression he had left upon her.
But no. He must not think so far ahead. He must not let his heart wander. Not yet.
Georgiana came first.
It had been weeks since their last true conversation, and though she had kept to her room and to short, polite exchanges, he had promised himself that he would try again. Tonight. Now.
Darcy entered his house, nodding briefly to the footman, and made his way upstairs. The lamp in Georgiana’s room had not yet been extinguished. He knocked gently, then opened the door.
The room was still. Her writing desk stood open, and a single candle flickered low by the window. There was no sign of her.
His eyes fell on the envelope resting neatly against the inkwell.
His name was written in her hand.
