Page 81 of The Difference of a Darcy
He wept like a child lost in the dark.
And still the tears came.
He wept for Georgiana—raised by the cold earl and his equally frigid wife, stripped of music and laughter and sunshine, her spirit dimmed by duty and disdain.
He wept for his tenants, their livelihoods in shambles, the shops shuttered, the homes falling to ruin—for the men who had once tipped their hats with pride, and the women who had smiled from garden gates.
He wept for the steward’s son, for the young man with the crooked, carefree grin who had turned into a monster, drunk and cruel and unchecked.
He wept for the butler who had once carried him on his shoulders, for the maid who would sneak him sugared plums, for the horse groom who taught him how to ride.
He wept for Lambton, for Pemberley, for everything his ancestors had built.
He wept for his father—who had died without a son. Who had died never knowing hehadone. Who had once believed in honor and duty, and whose legacy was now nothing more than shuttered windows and unpaid debts.
He wept for the man he had been. For the pride that blinded him. For the bitter wish that had brought all this to pass.
He wept for Elizabeth, for the world she had lost, for the burden she now carried beside him with such grace.
And somewhere, buried deep beneath it all, he wept for the fear that none of it could ever be put right.
That even if they reached the house, even if they found Georgiana…
It might already be too late.
Time became meaningless. The ache in his chest surged and surged, hollowing him out.
Slowly, silently, Elizabeth drew close and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in the space between his shoulders, holding him with such quiet strength that it stole his breath.
The weight of his guilt did not vanish—but it lightened, eased by the steady cadence of her breathing at his back.
The jagged ache in his chest dulled where her cheek pressed into his back.
Her nearness did not fix what had been broken—but it reminded him that all was not lost. That he was not lost.
She was there. With him. Still.
In spite of his weakness.
The rhythm of her breathing and the safety of her arms began to still the storm inside.
Her palm stayed firm over his heart, a silent promise that she would not let go.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time in what felt like days—perhaps longer—his mind did not race with worries and concerns.
Instead, the images of Lambton faded. The hollow eyes of shopkeepers, the shuttered doors, the ruined fields… they receded like a nightmare before the morning light.
And in their place was only her—soft, steady, warm.
As he lay there, basking in the warmth of her body against his, sleep crept in at the edges of his thoughts, slow and heavy.
His limbs, tense for so long, began to uncoil.
The last thing he knew was the hush of her breath on his neck, and the memory of her voice saying, “I am here. All will be well.”
Chapter 16
The early light had only just begun to shine through the curtains when Elizabeth’s eyes opened the following morning, washing the dingy walls in a pale gray glow. She blinked slowly, the heaviness of sleep still clinging to her limbs.
