Page 118 of Companions of Their Youth
He dragged in a breath.
It had been three days since he had lost his temper. Three days since their conversation in the garden had ended in that painful, charged silence.
He had not meant to frighten her. But he had. He had seen it—the flash of alarm in her eyes, the defensive set of hershoulders. Her voice had trembled, and though her words had been brave, she had stood as though braced for a blow. And that, more than anything, had haunted him.
He had let his temper overtake his better sense. Again.
Fool.
It mattered little that the topic was painful for him. That he had spoken from conviction, from what he believed to be the truth.
How was she to know?
All she had seen from her perspective was that her reasonable suggestion had provoked his wrath.
She had looked at him as if she no longer knew him.
He needed to see her again. To reassure her. To make her understand that he was not… that man. Not anymore. That his temper, though sharp, was not the whole of him. That she could trust him.
He had been so close to something precious. He could feel it—still, faintly, like the memory of warmth in the bones.
And then—ruin.
A fist closed in his chest.
You cannot escape,the note had read.My eyes are watching you. I see your every move.
He had found it upon his pillow last night, folded into ivory parchment with a scent he now loathed. He had stared at it for minutes before daring to unfold it, then nearly crushed it in his hand. How had it gotten there? Who had been in his room?
He had lost his temper entirely, nearly dismissed Bates on the spot before remembering himself. The servants had sworn they saw no one. The staff was tight-lipped and loyal, and yet someone had breached the inner sanctum of his chambers. Someone who knew far too much.
And worse—someone bold enough to toy with him in his own residence.
The unease was beginning to fester. He had taken precautions, of course—spoken privately with Fitzwilliam, requested additional measures from the footmen—but nothing had turned up. Not yet.
The only good news was Fitzwilliam’s letter, received that morning. He would return the following evening and remain for at least four days until after the ball. Darcy had never been so relieved to know his cousin would soon be near again.
But still—none of it mattered, not truly. Not when Elizabeth might already have made up her mind against him.
The sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor made him turn.
At last. Bingley. Darcy strode for the door, his heart beating faster with every step.
He could not wait a moment longer.
∞∞∞
The wind had picked up in the last half hour. Elizabeth tugged her shawl closer around her shoulders, grateful for the extralayer as she walked slowly alongside Mr. Darcy. They had barely spoken since he and Mr. Bingley arrived, and when they finally stepped into the garden, the air between them was as thick as the gray clouds above. Their breaths misted in the air, ghost-like puffs between them.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Bennet—”
“I—” she began at the same time.
They both stopped. She inclined her head. “Please, go on.”
Darcy’s jaw flexed. “I owe you an apology. For the other day. I… lost my temper.”
Elizabeth said nothing, but her hands were trembling.
