The day was bright and spring-like in this elegant corner of Mayfair despite the fact that it was early December. The morning sunlight was warm and bright as it filtered gently onto the breakfast room table at Darcy House. Silhouettes from the paned glass windows laid dark ribbons across the tasteful tableware. The tinkling of porcelain rang out as servants moved through the precisely choreographed presentation of the morning meal, accompanied by the metronome of the hall clock. Darcy reclined in his chair, legs crossed, a newspaper in one hand and a cup of tea hovering near his lips in the other.

Breaking their fast had always been a mostly quiet affair in this house, but to Darcy, it had recently become conspicuously so. Although he had always tended towards a natural disdain for too much clamor, this morning, he inexplicably wished that somebody would speak, that somebody would laugh. Although he was still, his mind was restless. The sedate sounds of domesticity seemed to echo, giving his handsome and stately home all the warmth of a mausoleum. He pursed his lips tightly, his brows burying themselves into his forehead as he took a sip of his tea through tight lips for want of anything else to do. He wondered grimly why it had all changed for him –why his peaceful home now felt unbearably oppressive. He glared at his paper, more disappointed with his own discontent than he was with the circumstance itself.

His eyes flicked up briefly, and he noticed his sister's gaze lingering on him, her frown mirroring his own. He quickly reordered his face into a reassuring smile lest she think he was upset for some reason. He was, as it happened, but she need not take on any of his burdens at present. The corner of her lip flickered lightly, and she tipped her head in acknowledgment. She turned her eyes back to her cup, stirring it again without drinking and rearranging the brioche on her plate without eating. She sat correctly in her chair, the very picture of her mother, lithe and refined as a doe, soft curls of pale amber framing the oval of her face. Despite her youth, she looked every inch the lady she was born and bred to be. The only thing amiss about Georgiana Darcy was the grayish pallor to her skin and the vacant expression she so often wore.

The deep groan of the heavy wooden dining room door saw both Darcys look up as a manservant entered with the morning post. Dutifully, he placed a bound packet of letters before Darcy, and Darcy murmured his thanks, at once untying the bit of string that bound the half-dozen letters together. He looked up when he noticed the footman placing something before his sister, who blinked in surprise before offering him a small nod and quiet thanks. Darcy watched, and Georgiana's face brightened infinitesimally as she read the direction on the little folded note.

From across the table, he could recognize the neat, feminine hand of Elizabeth Bennet. His stomach swooped before he could marshal his countenance to indifference, and he forced his eyes back to the papers he held. As he slowly and carefully shuffled through the missives, he made an effort to catalog them, all the while the greater half of his consciousness was focused on Georgiana in his peripheral. Darcy watched without watching as Georgiana quickly flipped the neatly folded paper and, using a knife she had yet to eat with, broke the seal and carefully unfolded the letter.

The 'tok-tok' of the clock hammered on as the force of Darcy's concentration nearly bored holes in the letter from Pemberley's steward.

'The culvert below the cob hill pasture has caved in, and the lower field is now too wet for winter grazing.'

He read the words but somehow did not read them. In the corner of his eye, Georgiana's eyebrow lifted. Amusement?

'The culvert below the cob hill pasture has caved in, and the lower field is now too wet for winter grazing.'

He read again. She bit her lip on a smile, her body curling around the note in concentration. He forced himself back to his letter.

'- too wet for winter grazing,' he read again, 'I have requested Mr. Houghton move his sheep.'

A tut of air escaped Georgiana, and Darcy's eyes snapped up briefly, the smile now lingering on her lips. He returned his attention to the letter from his steward,

'I have requested Mr. Houghton move his sheep for now.' Why was Mr. Houghton moving his sheep? Darcy could not remember. He referred back to his letter.

'The culvert below the cob hill pasture has caved in, and the lower field is now too wet for winter grazing.'

The minutes dragged on as a tense Darcy involuntarily registered every twitch of Georgiana's face as she read what Elizabeth had written. After what felt like an eternity, Georgiana straightened and folded the parchment back up, tucking it neatly into the volume of poetry that rested at her elbow. He could just see her in the edge of his vision, chewing lightly on her lip, her wheat-golden brows bent in a peculiar expression. Her eyes were bright, not sad exactly, but full of an emotion he could not read. She discreetly dabbed at them with the crisp white napkin in her lap before she and Darcy both noticed that he was watching her.

She offered a l reassuring smile before she reached for the tureen of blackcurrant jam before her. She was evidently not intending to speak of her letter at all.

Darcy set down his papers and reached for the butter.

"Was that a letter from Miss Bennet, Georgiana?" he inquired, evenly coating his bread.

"Yes," she said, taking a small bite of her brioche. Darcy waited for her to elaborate, but she remained unhelpfully silent.

"Is she well?" he asked, taking a bite to give the impression of nonchalance.

Georgiana thought for a moment, chewing slowly and swallowing before giving a slight shrug.

"I suppose."

She returned to her breakfast with a wrinkled brow and began eating rather more quickly. He resumed his own breakfast, infuriated by the ambiguous answer to his question. He had hoped to satisfy his curiosity, and the effect of this answer had done precisely the reverse. Had she simply answered with a polite 'yes,' he thought he could have been satisfied, or at least he could have supposed that Elizabeth was as she had been when he left Hertfordshire. Now, however, he felt apprehension brewing as he pondered how one might 'suppose' someone to be well. He chewed slowly for a few more minutes before his interest at last got the better of him. But just as he opened his mouth to ask a more direct question, Georgiana spoke.

"May I be excused, brother?" she asked, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "There are a few things I should like to do before Mrs. Annesley and I resume our French readings from yesterday."

Darcy was briefly startled by her interruption but recovered himself quickly.

"Of course," he said, and before he could open his mouth to ask his question, she had risen to give him a brief curtsey, laying her napkin across her plate and taking her book. It was with no little regret that he watched his sister move to the door without another word.

When the door had closed behind her, Darcy pushed the remainder of his breakfast aside in irritation. He chastised himself again for his inappropriate curiosity about Elizabeth Bennet. He must exert himself to be more disinterested in the future. It was a very good thing that Georgiana had gone, lest his questions about her correspondence inadvertently reveal too much of his interest. He was loath to think that Georgiana might read more into the circumstance than actually existed, especially as he was resolved to think about her no more.

A few minutes later, as Darcy stood and tipped the last of the tea into his mouth, the distinct but distant sound of scales being played on the pianoforte reached him. He froze in stunned disbelief, uncertain if it was a trick of his mind. It was not. Slowly, he returned his cup to its saucer and lowered himself back to his chair, content to listen to this much-needed noise in his home.

As Darcy pushed back from his desk later that afternoon, he glanced at the clock on the mantle and was surprised to see that he had been at his work for nearly eight hours. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out a long breath and screwed up his face against the headache he could now feel building behind his eyes. The days since returning from Hertfordshire had been filled with much of the mundane drudgery that characterized the business of running an estate. The duties of a landowner were far more exacting than he had once supposed – especially when the estate was as large as Pemberley. Indeed, many of his peers chose to take a less active role in the management of their domains and to avoid the endless toil that was required to do it properly. He did not blame them; such work was unrelenting and very often tedious. For Darcy, however, the idea of trusting anyone but himself with such matters was completely insupportable.

When he considered what he owed to Pemberley, the duty came to him as the names, faces, and stories of the tenant families of his estate. These were the people he had known his entire life, who sowed the rich Derbyshire soil with their own sweat, who raised their children amongst the rolling hills, and who depended on the diligence with which he looked after the affairs of his family seat. He could not do less and feel easy about it.

It was for just such a reason that he had not yet taken a wife. He abhorred the thought of bringing a woman into his family who would expect him to do less than he currently did. He knew he was not the sort of man who would allow himself to be a negligent husband or father, and he feared that the added responsibility of a family would mean that he must do one job or the other in a substandard manner. He would need to marry someday, if only because he owed his tenants an heir who would build on the efforts of his forefathers to continue a legacy of prosperity. His duty weighed so heavily on his shoulders that, at times, he could hardly detect his own personal feelings and desires separately from what he felt he owed to others. Despite all of his elevated privilege, Darcy knew that, fundamentally, his life was one of service.

With a sigh, he rose and moved to the window, resting his forearm against the frame. He looked out into the neat and fashionable Mayfair street, watching as traps and carriages rolled by, the sound of hooves and iron-rimmed wheels on cobblestone just barely audible through the thick glazing. His finger tapped idly on the frame, wishing for a little company or a little exercise to divert him out of his seriousness. Were he at Pemberley, he and Adonis might gallop through the fields to clear his mind, Georgiana might play for him, or they might retreat to the library to read aloud from Gulliver's Travels or a Shakespeare sonnet.

He was not entirely opposed to the fashionable delights of the Ton, but the thought of too much society made his cravat feel claustrophobic. His enjoyment of such things always seemed to largely depend on the pleasantness of the company.

Bingley had not been at their club in nearly a week, nor had he come to visit him at Darcy House, as he had so often done before. He had no doubt his removal from Hertfordshire still stung. Darcy had resolved to give Bingley another week to recover from his infatuation with Jane Bennet before calling on him in Grosvener Square. If he thought his presence might be of use, he would of course go, but he doubted there was any other cure for Bingley's affliction but time and distance. Admittedly, he also disliked being in the presence of another man's pining. To Darcy, it always felt much the same as it did to endure the baying of a hound unhappily restrained.

Darcy had just begun to consider calling on his cousin Richard when he spied a familiar upright chestnut horse ridden by a gentleman in a red coat. His cousin had apparently anticipated him. Darcy looked on as Colonel Fitzwilliam approached and rounded the corner to the stable block, the white legs of his handsome red horse flashing brightly against the gray cobblestones. He continued to watch until the crimson of his coat disappeared from sight.

Turning to the decanter in the corner, Darcy poured a generous measure of brandy into two glasses. Setting one aside, he returned to the window, taking a small sip of the pleasantly caustic liquid and released a breath. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to savor the flavor, which reminded him pleasantly of spiced dates.

A few minutes later, he could hear footsteps approaching in the hall. Before he could even be announced, Richard strode into the room, flashing Darcy a broad smile as he clicked his heels together, making him a bow that was both dignified and satirical.

"Darcy!" he said by way of greeting. "I hope you don't mind me dropping in unannounced."

Darcy returned his cousin's smile with a raised brow and a quirk of his lips.

"What brings you to Mayfair this evening, Richard?"

"I am once again seeking refuge," he shrugged lightly. "I could, of course, find another hide-out, but it is nearing supper, and I am quite fatigued with hunger."

Darcy scoffed lightly. "I will not trouble the cook. You shall have to wait for a meal like the rest of us." He tipped his head to the sideboard where the glass of brandy stood and offered, "Perhaps this will do."

"I will pretend it is soup, shall I?" asked Richard, taking up the glass and toasting his cousin with a wink. "It seems you were expecting me, cousin – or am I giving you too much credit for your omniscience?"

"I know everything, Richard. You ought to be aware of this by now," replied Darcy, with an imperious look.

"Indeed. If that is the case, I would advise that you take up gambling," Richard said, with a laugh. "If you cannot be troubled to increase your own fortune, at least you might try to make mine."

"One would think, given the way you go on about it, that you were a pauper and not the son of an Earl," Darcy said wryly. "Might I ask why you are hiding away in my study, Richard?"

"Given that you know everything, I am surprised to hear you ask," said Richard, taking a healthy drink before explaining, "I seem to have upset my father's heir. He does not appreciate the implication that he spends too much time at the horses and not enough time learning to manage an Earldom."

Darcy shook his head, swirling the liquid around his glass.

"I think the war will be too short for Edward," said Richard. "My presence has ever been a thorn in his side, and I believe he eagerly awaits my return to the regiment."

Darcy gave a disgusted tut; neither he nor Richard saw eye to eye with the older and more frivolous Edward. Richard prodded Darcy lightly with his elbow.

"I find that eldest sons generally lack a sense of humor, which is, I suppose, why I am always on the outs with my brother," Richard said, raising his brow. "I can always tell an eldest son by the way he can never be bothered to laugh when he ought."

"Take care so that you do not upset my father's heir, Richard," said Darcy, raising his chin, "or you may be forced to find another place to conceal yourself."

Noticing that the fire had burned to embers, Darcy moved to the hearth, setting his glass on the mantle and bending down to select a log from the basket. Richard followed, collapsing heavily into a chair beside the fire. Darcy rose as the flames began to lick the log, diffusing warmth and light into the room.

"How is Georgiana?" asked Richard as Darcy took the chair beside him.

Darcy took a sip and pondered for a moment, staring at the dancing flames.

"She played this morning," he said. Richard looked up at him in surprise.

"That is something."

"Yes. I suppose it is," he said, taking a slow sip, pondering something that had been bothering him since returning to London.

"Richard, I must confess something to you."

Richard's glass stilled on the way to his mouth.

"I saw Wickham in Hertfordshire," said Darcy carefully.

Richard did not speak but waited in silence.

"He has recently joined the militia near Meryton. I happened upon him in that town only a few weeks ago."

"And did he dare acknowledge your acquaintance?" asked the colonel with a sudden harshness.

"In the barest fashion. I believe he would have run had there not been observers who would have desired an explanation." Darcy sighed heavily. "He never strayed again into my presence, but I believe he has begun to realize that I cannot speak openly of his sins, lest I inadvertently draw attention to Georgiana. Her absence has just begun to be remarked on among our circle. I shudder to think what my accusations might do to the situation."

Richard swore under his breath. "When I think that that profligate dog now wears a red coat while so many good English men decompose at the bottom of the channel—" He shook his head in disgust. "If the Lord is merciful, George Wickham will find a path that is between a better soldier and a bullet."

"Perhaps if he forfeits himself for his countrymen, I may think slightly better of him. However, I fear he is as likely to hang for treason as he is to be remembered as a hero."

"Perhaps if you go to Hertfordshire again, you might persuade Bingley to extend me an invitation," muttered Richard. "I would dearly wish to see Wickham again."

Darcy pensively took another sip of his brandy. "I would not be surprised if Bingley should give up the lease on Netherfield in the near future."

"Was he displeased with Hertfordshire?" asked Richard in some confusion. "I thought I understood from your letters that it was a fine house, and he was fond of the neighborhood."

"He became rather too fond of the neighborhood," said Darcy quietly "I was concerned he was near to making an offer to a most unsuitable lady. I persuaded him to return with me to London."

"How did he find himself involved with such an objectionable creature?" asked Richard, with a quirk of his brow.

"To the lady herself, there can be no objection. She is a gentleman's daughter, well-bred, and is truly very handsome. However, she must make a match for material reasons. And her family Richard. . ." Darcy trailed off, shuddering slightly.

"I had also observed her to be quite clearly unaffected by him," Darcy added.

"She is a gentleman's daughter, you say? Is her family disgraced?"

"No, but the mother is one of the most ill-mannered and unseemly women that I have ever encountered. She encourages her younger daughters in frivolity and impropriety, and although her father seems an intelligent man, he lacks any sense of duty or good sense. Without even the smallest return of affection, I believe that no woman could be worth the humiliation of claiming such people as family." Darcy found that the words rolled quite easily off his tongue, as he had admittedly given much thought to the matter himself.

"Well then, let us raise a glass to the brotherhood of bachelors," he said, lifting his own with a smile. "May we take care to choose women who possess at least as much beauty as they do sense, and may their mothers choose to emigrate to the Americas."

Darcy laughed at this, tapping his glass to his cousin's, his smile lingering as he drank. The pair sat in silence for a time, contemplating the fire and listening to the quiet crack and hiss of flames. It was Richard who broke the silence

"I was thinking about what you said of Georgiana just now, that her absence is starting to be remarked upon in our circle."

Darcy looked up at him, his long forefinger tapping idly on his glass.

"I wonder if we are going about this the wrong way," Richard said. "Is allowing her to remain in solitude slowing her recovery? Should we not bring her out so that she might interact with other women her own age and, well, make friends, I suppose?"

Darcy gave his cousin an uncharacteristically sheepish look.

"I quite agree with you, although I don't believe that she is quite well enough to be out in society," said Darcy. "However, I have recently taken steps to remedy this, and I believe that my scheme is already looking quite promising."

"What have you done, Fitz?" Richard asked, his words carrying a hint of reprimand.

Darcy gave his cousin an indignant look at the tone with which he was being addressed. "I believe it has already done her some good. As I said, I heard her playing this morning,and as you well know, she has not been equal to pressing a key in many months."

"What has done some good?" asked Richard impatiently. "Have you hired a new companion without consulting me?"

"No, nothing of that sort," replied Darcy, waving his hand airily. "She does need a friend, Richard; we both know it. Unfortunately, she needs a woman who can be a true friend to her, who will not seek elevation or to use Georgiana's confidences to her own advantage. Until recently, I had never met such a person," he said evenly. "But I believe I found such a lady while in Hertfordshire. The lady is clever, sensible, affectionate, and made no designs on my wealth, though she is likely expected to make a match to secure the respectability of her family."

If Richard thought his cousin's commendation of any woman a singular occurrence, he did not say it. He was silent for nearly a full minute, absorbing this information before asking, "Is this the same woman you warned your friend away from, by chance?"

"No," Darcy said, looking momentarily uncomfortable. Richard raised an eyebrow at him and waited.

"They are sisters," Darcy admitted at length, letting go a sharp exhale as he said it.

"The ridiculous ones?"

"Of course not. She and her eldest sister have been quite above censure – even if their relations are dreadful."

"I see," said Richard. "How do you suppose they will become acquainted if you are not to go to Hertfordshire?"

"Letters," Darcy said simply. "I asked the lady if she would be interested in a correspondence with Georgiana. Of course, I had to explain something about her current state, but I believe that she is quite sympathetic to the situation. She agreed in any case. I wrote to her father to request permission, of course, and they have already begun to correspond."

Richard tilted his head in disbelief. "How do you know she can be trusted? We have not even told the rest of the family about Georgiana's situation. I am shocked that you have given this delicate information to a person so unknown to us."

"Can there ever be irrefutable proof of character? In any event, what I revealed lacked any specifics," said Darcy with an impatient gesture. Then he met his cousin with a level gaze. "I must ask that you trust my judgment on this, Richard. I trust her."

Richard just shook his head in astonishment. "What else can I do? There is no argument to make! It has already been done – with or without my consent."

"I am sorry, Richard." Darcy had the decency to look repentant. "I should not have taken such a step without consulting you first."

"I cannot stay upset with you when you have deigned to admit you are in the wrong," he said with a laugh. "I did not even have to insult you."

It was then that a servant entered the room to announce dinner.

"Shall I continue to repent with roast beef?" Darcy offered, gesturing to the door.

"Lead the way, and you shall be absolved," replied his cousin, rising with a half smile.

Later that evening, after Richard had left and Georgiana had retired, Darcy sat alone in the library, reclining in the high-backed armchair by the fire, a book cradled in his lap and his untouched nightcap resting on the side table. Although still largely withdrawn, Georgiana had initiated some small conversation with Richard over dinner and had even briefly laughed at one of his cousin's characteristically silly jests. At the sound of her laughter, Richard had shot Darcy a significant look, to which Darcy had responded with an infinitesimal tilt of his head. Though they had not spoken again about Georgiana's new correspondence, Darcy recognized this silent exchange as Richard's begrudging acceptance of it.

Georgiana was still nowhere near the woman she was before she had gone to Ramsgate, but these tiny changes in her demeanor gave Darcy hope that her recovery would one day be possible. Darcy felt an odd feeling of tentative peace steal through him, as well as gratitude for the woman he refused to think of.

Despite his reticence, Elizabeth Bennet still lurked in the periphery of his life, never quite in focus but always hovering just on the outside; a forbidden touchstone, a creature who existed outside of his realm but whose voice he could occasionally hear as a disconcerting whisper in the back of his mind. Darcy rose then, intent on taking himself to bed.

As he began to make his way to the door, he noticed a volume of poetry resting on the settee under the window. It was the same one Georgiana had carried with her to breakfast. With a small thrill, Darcy noticed a slip of parchment sticking out from between its pages. It was the letter from Elizabeth. He stood frozen in place, listening to the 'tok-tok' of the clock that somehow seemed as loud as drum beats in his ears.

He chastised himself for even contemplating such a gross violation of his sister's privacy, and yet, he told himself that he wished to know she was well. He had buried the concern he had felt at his sister's vague response when he had inquired after her.

'I suppose,' was all Georgiana had said.

Still, Darcy knew that Elizabeth Bennet's well-being was certainly none of his concern. With that noble thought in his head, he commanded his feet to take him to the door. Yet, just as they had done when he had seen Elizabeth crying on that lonely hilltop, they did not obey. Before he knew what he was doing, he had crossed to the settee and taken a seat, picking up the volume. He carefully removed the letter and placed the book face down so the page would not be lost.

His eyes fell once again on Elizabeth's tidy feminine script, and he felt his pulse surge as he reverently unfolded the paper. As he read, Elizabeth's specter once again rose up before him, speaking to him in her own words. Little phrases stuck in his mind as he read.

"...I am of the opinion that one only needs a few very close friends in order to be satisfied, and I am hopeful that we shall soon be the very dearest of friends. I cannot help but be grateful for this, for I believe I may have lost one of my own dear friends today. I feel as though I am quite alone, for it is she that I would most wish to speak to at present, and I do not know if our relationship will ever be what it once was…"

She could only be speaking of Charlotte Lucas. He had often thought he observed a closeness between the women. He did not have to read much further to understand why the relationship was currently strained,

'Mr Collins is a fortunate man indeed to have secured one of the most sensible and dependable women to have ever existed… Perhaps I am too harsh in my judgment of her, but I believe her situation is far more secure than my own, and I would rather brave an unknown future than bind myself to someone for whom I should always be embarrassed. Oh! To bear such a man's children!

My dear Charlotte, what have you done?

….When Charlotte called this morning to tell me of her engagement, I confess that I could not keep my countenance from betraying my disbelief and sadness. Charlotte became very upset with me. I fear now that between her decision to wed my cousin and her anger with me, we can never be as close as we once were, and for that, my heart is broken.'

Darcy felt a surge of disgust as he read of Mrs. Bennet's encouragement of Mr. Collins' pursuit of Elizabeth.

'My mother had high hopes that my cousin Collins would offer for one of us Bennet women before his return to Kent. I was, unfortunately, his primary object, little though either of us would have enjoyed such a union (Mr. Collins, I believe, had not considered that there were never two such disparate temperaments as ours).'

A woman of her lively disposition would be made utterly miserable by such a union – surely a mother would know this. By Elizabeth's own reckoning, her mother had no concern for the character of the gentleman, only that by uniting him to her daughter, Longbourn might be secure. How could any mother care so little for her daughter's happiness? Darcy felt a low hum of anger course through him, and his hand shook ever so slightly as he read on.

'As if all this were not enough to make me unhappy today, I am also troubled by my dear sister Jane's recent disappointment. She possesses the greatest self-possession of any woman I know, but what her peaceful countenance hides is a very great depth of feeling. She does not like me to know it, but she has been deeply affected by a sudden lack of interest from a gentleman who had been very partial to her….Jane would have cared for the gentleman regardless of his fortune. The entire situation is perplexing, for I have never seen a man so obviously affected who did not at least offer a courtship. I suspect other forces were at work to drive a young man so obviously in love away so suddenly. I believe it is best that I speak no more of it at present. I am not of a mind to view the topic reasonably – not while I watch my dearest Jane try to disguise her pain.

Darcy's anger was quenched in an instant. He re-read these words a few times, making certain that he had not misunderstood. He took a slow, steadying breath as an odd and unfamiliar emotion intruded on his notice. Humiliation? He would contemplate this later, returning instead to the letter.

Darcy was, by turns, amused and sympathetic as he read her description of her family. He was struck by how well she understood her own situation – indeed, he now felt a strange shame at how outspoken he had been on the subject. It was, at best, uncharitable of him to speak so, and at worst, it was cruel. He read on, another passage burned itself into his mind as if it were a hot iron,

'...I often feel that we Bennet women lack a protector such as you have in your brother, Miss Darcy. I despair because there is no one at Longbourn to stand up for me. I have been called independent –but I believe this is as much the result of negligence as innate confidence. I wish that I had less occasion for self-reliance, but alas, there is no knight errant at my disposal, and I have learned to carry my own banner.'

Darcy felt a surge of tender feelings coursing through him, but he also recognized with a deep ache that he had no right to the protectiveness he felt at reading these words. He shook himself as he read on:

'Now, I want to say something of your troubles. I have always observed that those who suffer the most from sadness are also capable of the greatest love. The fact that you are capable of such emotion speaks of a depth of character that I should always admire. I would never wish anyone a sorrow such as yours, but indeed, how can one truly feel the blessing of the sun if it never rains?

Do not despair that you will never find your happiness again. I believe it is always there for us – even if it is perhaps not always where we think it ought to be.

I am sorry for your rain, my friend.

Thank you for letting me tell you of mine,

Elizabeth'

The letter dropped into Darcy's lap as he sat back, pinching the bridge of his nose against the confusion of feelings now playing for the better part of his attention, his heart hammering violently in his chest. He did not find the relief he had hoped to find here.

Instead, her words hung from his soul like a millstone.

He knew it now. The crystalline truth that had haunted him since Hertfordshire:

He was in love with Elizabeth Bennet.

The truth of it now seemed as blunt a fact as the floor beneath his feet. How he had been able to ignore such a certainty was beyond his comprehension. He once again felt the familiar pangs of foolishness, just as he had not so very long ago when he had been forced to recognize that the lady did not even like him.

A wild part of his mind contemplated penning her a letter and hiding it inside of Georgiana's reply. He shook his head. Truly, what would he say?

'I understand that you despise me, Miss Bennet, but would you consent to be my wife?'

He scoffed at the very insanity of the idea. He was certain of little else, but that she would refuse him, and even if she did not, he could not contemplate the pain that would accompany her mercenary acceptance.

He rose abruptly, a feeling of bilious panic washing through him. He needed to be away from the words he now wished he had never seen. He carefully replaced the note inside the book and, stopping only to down his nightcap, stalked out of the room. He was of a mind to go for a gallop no matter that it was full dark and he was in the middle of London.

He was certain only that he would not sleep.

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