Page 45 of The Difference of a Darcy
Elizabeth!
The sound pierced straight through him. His breath caught—then he was moving.
He flew down the front steps, boots sliding on ice-slick stone, his greatcoat billowing behind him. The iron gate clanged as he wrenched it open, the chain long-since rusted through.
She wasn’t under the lamplight.
He whirled toward the alley beside the neighboring townhouse, then the opposite curb, panic flaring hot in his chest.
“Elizabeth!”
Another cry—this time muffled. Closer.
He ran.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth drew her cloak tighter around herself and shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she watched Darcy disappear into the townhouse. The street was nearly empty, save for the occasional hackney rattling past or the distant clip of hooves on cobblestone.
It was not yet late, but the winter dusk had fallen quickly. The air carried that sharp, metallic chill that foretold snow, and each breath she exhaled hung before her like smoke.
She rubbed her gloved hands together and tried not to think of how alone she looked—one solitary figure standing beneath a lamppost outside a shuttered townhouse.
Everything about the day had been strange beyond comprehension.
No—the past two days.
The magic—if she could call it that without being guilty of heresy—had turned her life upside down. Her family altered beyond recognition. Herself doubled. And at the center of it all, Fitzwilliam Darcy—who should have been the very last man in England she could ever trust—was now the only person she could.
Her lips curved faintly despite herself.How absurd.
Not two days ago on Christmas Eve, she had despised him. She had thought him proud, intolerant, cruelly judgmental. And yet—there had been no cruelty in the man who shared his blanket with her in that freezing lodge. There had been no arrogance in the man who trembled when he realized his sister might be lost to ruin.
There was something raw in him now. Stripped bare. Vulnerable.
And how well he had hidden it before!
She felt a pang of guilt as she thought of her own words—the furious declaration that she wished he had never been born. It had been said in anger, and now it had become true in some unfathomable way.Shehad set this madness in motion.
A wave of remorse washed through her, cold and heavy.
Footsteps echoed along the street.
Elizabeth turned her head slightly. A man was walking from the corner—well-dressed, his hat pulled low, his greatcoat swinging with each confident stride. A gentleman, by all appearances. He passed her at first without so much as a glance.
But then he stopped.
He turned.
His eyes caught hers under the lamplight, and something in his expression shifted—an assessing, interested look that made her stomach twist.
He retraced his steps. “Happy Christmas,” he said, his tone too smooth. “Cold evening.
Elizabeth inclined her head politely but said nothing.
“You should not be standing out here alone,” he went on. “Pretty little thing like you.”
“I am waiting for someone,” she replied, her voice firm.
