Page 87 of Colour My World
No aire. And then—rose. As though he admired me. Loved me, perhaps.
Elizabeth shook her head. “You are still feverish. You must be.”
Jane huffed. “I am not blind, and neither are you. You see everything. You notice the smallest details. How can you not see this?”
Elizabeth looked away. “This is absurd. I will not—”
“Elizabeth Rose Bennet!”
Jane was angry. Elizabeth lowered her eyes.
“Did it never strike you as odd? The way he watches you? How he listens when you speak?”
Elizabeth had no answer. Because Jane had to be wrong. Because if she was not—then Mr Darcy loved her. And she had seen it.
Chapter 30
Darcy lived by propriety. Duty. Civility. He upheld them, embodied them. And yet, as he endured the stifling pleasantries of the drawing room, he found himself suffocating beneath their weight.
He climbed the stairs in long, deliberate strides, his coat flaring behind him like a man fleeing pursuit. By the time he reached his suite, his chest was tight, his pulse relentless.
Barty was already at the open door. Without a word, he closed it and threw the bolt.
Darcy shrugged off his jacket and dropped into a chair, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He drew a long breath, then reached into his waistcoat pocket.
The locket, time-worn and familiar, lay cool against his palm. The hinge, weakened by years of reverent handling, opened easily. On the left, Lady Anne Darcy. Georgiana to the right.
The rain continued its quiet percussion.
Darcy rubbed his face, exhausted from the day’s confrontations. His mother’s voice—soft, wise, ever-patient—rose from the depths of memory.“You must not let silence be your shield, my love.”
He had been nine years old, scowling at his reflection in the nursery's mirror. He had spent the afternoon in his father’s study, forced into conversation with his Uncle Matlock and the Earl of Malvern, neither of whom had thought to speak directly to him.
“Why must I always be quiet?”
“Because intelligent men are,”my mother had said.“You must listen before you speak, for words once spoken cannot be reclaimed. That is your strength. But one day, my love, there will be someone who needs to hear what you have to say. Andwhen that day comes, you must not be silent.”
He had not understood then. Now, standing alone in his room, he did. He had spoken today. He had defended her.
Darcy had not planned to. The words had left his mouth before he could consider the consequences. And when she had stepped into the doorway, her figure framed by the light, her magnificent eyes fixed upon him in wonder, he had forgotten everything else.
“There will come a day, my dear boy, when you meet a girl with eyes that see beyond society’s illusions. She will not be swayed by wealth or standing. And when that day arrives—do not hesitate.”
He had been eleven when his mother had told him that, her hands smoothing his hair.
“You must follow your heart,”she had said.“And when you find the girl who makes you forget yourself, you must not let her slip away.”
Darcy closed his eyes. Miss Elizabeth had smiled and then vanished. But not before he saw her face lit with wonder.
He had never seen that in a woman’s eyes before. Not for him.
Avarice, yes. Greed, frequently. Predatory calculation, always.
But wonder? Only Elizabeth Bennet.
“I know not what to do.”
He closed the locket and pocketed it. Then turned from the fire, crossed the room, and pulled open the drawer. The Book lay within. He turned four pages.
