Page 120 of The Difference of a Darcy
His eyes met hers, searching. “You forgive me? For letting him get so close?”
“There isnothingto forgive.” She touched his heart. “You came once you knew. That is all that matters.”
He closed the distance between them and held her tightly, his forehead pressed to hers.
“Then I shall never leave you again.”
They remained there for several minutes, unmoving, his arms wrapped around her like a man clinging to the last safe thing in a storm. She fit against him perfectly—warm, steady, and alive. He did not want to let go.
If this world were a dream, he wanted to sleep forever.
But reality, as it always did, intruded.
Knock, knock.
“William? Beth?” Mrs. Reynolds’ voice was soft, but urgent. “I am sorry, but we must act.”
Darcy exhaled, eyes still closed, forehead still resting against Elizabeth’s. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
He had no plan.
He had fury. Despair. A desire to protect that bordered on madness. But no strategy, no logic, no idea how to end this nightmare without blood.
Elizabeth lifted her head from where it rest on Darcy’s chest, her fingers brushing his arm before turning toward the door and opening it.
Mrs. Reynolds raised an eyebrow at both of them—taking in their drawn faces, the flush on Darcy’s cheeks, the quiet fury still simmering in his eyes.
“Well?” she asked.
“I do not have a plan.” He hung his head.
“Fortunately,” Elizabeth said, her voice calm, “I do.”
∞∞∞
Elizabeth was still trembling when Darcy pulled her into the closet. The echo of Wickham’s voice lingered in her ears—the slurred jeer, the satisfied smirk as he locked the door, the sound of his footsteps as he swayed towards her.
It was confidence of a man certain he could do whatever he pleased and remain unpunished.
It made her physically ill to remember how close he had come.
If Darcy had been a moment later—
She closed her eyes, pressing herself more tightly against Darcy’s frame. The thought was unbearable.
And yet, even through the fear, something fiercer stirred within her: anger. Not at Wickham—though he deserved every curse heaven might see fit to rain upon him—but at the injustice of it all.
Here she was, a woman of no fortune, with no family to appeal to and no power in her hands. Darcy, a man of intelligence and strength, was reduced to a servant in his own home. And Georgiana—the mistress of Pemberley—was all but a prisoner within it.
There had to be a way to turn the scales.
But how? He was the master of Pemberley, and they were nothing but servants.
When Darcy said he was going to kill Wickham, a small part of her desperately wished he would.
But only for a moment.
She knew that Darcy was an honorable gentleman. Murder, tempting though it was, would put a blackness in his heart that no amount of love or forgiveness would ever be able to erase.
