Page 72 of The Difference of a Darcy
And now… Elizabeth.
He had hurt her with his tone, and that knowledge unsettled him more than he could admit. He was not used to caring how others perceived his mood. His family, his tenants, his peers—they respected him, they obeyed him, but they did not expect tenderness.
Elizabeth did not expect it either. And yet, somehow, he wanted to offer it to her. Freely. Without reserve.
She made him want to be better. Even when she challenged him. Especially when she challenged him.
He shifted slightly in the seat, glancing across at her. She was staring out the window, one gloved hand resting lightly against her chin. Her expression was thoughtful, quiet. No trace of judgment remained there. Just… empathy. Understanding.
She had listened as he spoke of Georgiana. Not with pity, but with purpose. With fire. When she had called Wickham a monster, something in Darcy had loosened—some old, tight place in his chest that had never quite relaxed.
She sees it now, he thought. She understands. And still she is here.
The coach hit a rut, jostling them slightly. Elizabeth turned to steady herself, her shoulder brushing his. He did not move away.
No, she is not the same woman who dismissed me in Kent. And I am not the same man who walked away from her, determined never to look back.
He wanted to reach for her hand. Wanted to tell her again how sorry he was for the sharpness in his voice. But instead, he simply said, “Thank you.”
She looked at him, puzzled. “For what?”
“For asking about my sister.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed softly, but she nodded once. “She matters to you. I wanted to understand.”
He gave a faint smile. “You are very good at that.”
The carriage rocked on, and this time, silence fell not from discomfort, but from something far more fragile and precious.
Trust.
Chapter 14
The next two days passed more quietly.
After the storm of confessions and tensions surrounding Wickham and Georgiana, it seemed an unspoken truce had settled between them—not one of avoidance, but of reprieve. As if they had agreed, without words, that there was more to discover from that history than old wounds and painful truths.
And so, they talked.
Not of magic, or vanished identities, or ruined reputations—but of childhood mischief and peculiar relations, of foolish school pranks and pet goats and near-drownings in lily ponds. As other passengers came and went, Elizabeth sat at Darcy’s side, whispering stories of her youth.
It began with her telling the tale about Kitty’s ill-fated attempt to ride a neighbor’s pony sidesaddle—a venture that ended with a broken fence, a broken bonnet, and a broken courtship with Mr. Long’s son, who never quite recovered from being kicked in the shin at the tender age of thirteen.
Darcy laughed. Not politely—not with the reserved, careful chuckle he had once given her in Kent—but openly. Freely. It changed his whole face. And it made Elizabeth’s heart flutter in a way she tried not to examine too closely.
Not in a shared, public coach, that is.
She then went on to share stories of Sunday games with her sisters, of treks to Oakham Mount, of hiding books behind embroidery frames to escape her mother’s lectures on lace and propriety.
“You must not think too poorly of us,” she said, lifting her chin with a wry smile. “Though I grant you, Longbourn is rarely quiet.”
“I have no objections to noise,” Darcy said, and his eyes glinted. “When it comes with such entertainment.”
She arched a brow, then launched into another tale—the infamous incident of Mary and the poetry book. Mary had composed an original sonnet for Easter and insisted upon reading it aloud before the entire parish over supper. Elizabeth had attempted to spare her family the embarrassment by feigning a coughing fit halfway through the second stanza, only for Lydia to shout, “Lizzy is faking it!” and pour a cup of water over her head to test the theory.
“I imagine the sonnet continued?”
“To the bitter end,” Elizabeth replied, deadpan. “Though Papa excused himself early. I am still not sure if it was to laugh or to weep.”
