Elizabeth frowned down at the little plum-colored book that rested on her knees. Tracing a finger over the delicate, embossed lettering on the cover, she tried not to think of the man who had given it to her only hours before. Though she knew that within it was a message from her dear friend Georgiana, she dreaded the prospect of encountering him, even if only as a line in a letter.

Shaking her head, Elizabeth chastised herself for her cowardice. She was not such a weak thing that she could not enjoy a letter from her friend for fear it might mention Mr. Darcy. With a resolute sigh, she at last opened the creaking cover, glancing briefly at the title before fanning her thumb across the pages, searching for what she knew was hidden therein.

A thick fold of paper slid out onto her lap with a satisfying sound. Picking it up, she smiled at Georgiana's now familiar, sloping script. It was pleasingly thick, and setting the book aside, she settled herself into her pillows and unfolded the paper with genuine interest.

Elizabeth,

If you will insist on absolving me of my guilt, then you must allow me to disabuse you of your modesty—for modesty it must surely be called. You, who often claim to possess no extraordinary talent, seem always to know exactly what to say. How is it that you understand so perfectly how to ease a troubled heart? Is this not a talent?

I must ever be grateful for the gift of your perception. For what solace could a finely painted screen or a perfectly executed concerto have provided in such an ordeal? When my gratitude is at last spent, I shall naturally succumb to envy. I would happily play the pianoforte just tolerably, if I had only something of your graceful spirit and perceptive nature.

It is because of you and my brother that I have spent these last hours reflecting on my blessings. Though this experience has been an unhappy one, I must acknowledge that it has imparted both a deep appreciation and this valuable lesson:

No one under heaven has as much power to harm me as I do.

Even Miss Bingley's machinations pale in comparison to the despair brought on by my own self-rebuke. It is a humbling realization, yet one not without hope. Perhaps I do not require a knight-errant if I can but remember the strength I hold within me. I am, after all, the niece of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Surely, I cannot claim such a connection without possessing at least an ounce of her formidable self-regard. (I must now dedicate myself to its discovery.)

But for all the anxiety I may have caused my own champions, I would be dishonest if I claimed to regret Fitzwilliam's coming to London on my behalf. I was so very glad of his presence. I cannot explain the relief I felt upon seeing him. So you see, I am not so entirely selfless as you believe. Perhaps I should send an express more frequently—whenever I am bored or dull—so that he might fly to London to amuse me, and perhaps you might feel compelled to write me another such fine letter.

As for how the situation with Miss Bingley was resolved, I do not think my brother had much to do with it in the end. I am told that Mr. Bingley handled his sister entirely on his own. From the little Fitzwilliam did reveal, it seems Miss Bingley is now to reside permanently with distant relations in the north. I am glad of this. She is a wicked woman. Yet under the eyes of God, you and I must find enough charity in our hearts to pray for her and her family there. I do not suppose that she will be pleased to be removed from the capital, and I daresay her family must endure her displeasure. It is on their behalf that I think we must bow our heads.

Oh, Elizabeth! What a great alteration my feelings have had this past week. I can spare not another line on other things whilst I am full of so much delightful anticipation.

WIll you come to visit me at Pemberley?

My brother suggested the idea this morning, and I confess I had not thought of it before now. I left immediately to pen this letter, so that I might share such a scheme as soon as I could. The very thought of it grows more wonderful by the moment, and at present, I cannot be bothered to offer you dates that might suit me. I care not when you come—I shall be there. Only, pray, do not make it so very far off if you can help it. Such excitement, I fear, cannot be tolerated for long!

I will be charitable enough to admit that your family has much more of a claim to your presence than I do, but please find out, for my sake, when you might be spared. Fitzwilliam thinks that you might wish to bring someone with you, and I confess I cannot concern myself with such mundane practicalities when I consider how entirely lovely it would be to trudge up some hillside with you. Do what pleases you, my friend, and I shall be well pleased.

It has only just struck me how odd it seems to speak of meeting you? You, whom I have spoken with so freely these many months. I cannot think anyone, save my brother and cousin Richard, who knows me better than you do. Yet we have never met. I now begin to consider what it is that you look like, or perhaps what your voice might sound like.

How entirely strange.

I must draw a picture of you before you arrive so that I might see how close the picture I have in my head compares with the real you.

You asked me how close the resemblance is between Pemberley and Rosings, and I must admit that this is a difficult question for me to answer. To me, they are simply not to be compared. I do not think I have ever noticed much about Rosings house, so consumed was I with my aunt. Yet, I find Pemberley superior in every way–most especially in how I feel when I am there.

What I can say is that Pemberley is generally acknowledged to be somewhat larger and of a less ornamental style than Rosings Park. But I cannot think you will dislike Pemberley, for even if you do not care for the house, the grounds stretch ten miles around, and the countryside there has no equal in all of England. For a woman who expresses such a love of fine prospects and long walks, I shall be bold enough to claim that there is not a home in the country that is superior to ours. I ought not to boast; only, I wish you might come that much sooner if you are eager to explore it.

I have enclosed with this letter a sketch I made last summer since I believe it is a passable likeness, and more effective at capturing the place than any description I can give you.

By the time you read these words, I expect that I will be in a carriage bound for Derbyshire. I begged my brother to take you this letter in person, so that it might come into your hands all the sooner.

Oh, please tell me you will come!

Georgiana

Elizabeth finished reading Georgiana's letter and looked down at the sketch she had just unfolded. She felt a sudden hollowness in her chest at the sight of it.

The drawing depicted a grand home, its graceful façade rising from the sweep of a hillside. Regal columns reflected in a stream that arced around the sprawling lawn before it. Behind the house, a wooded hillside tumbled down to meet the brook at some distance further on. A stone bridge arched over the water, linking the two halves of a road—one sweeping toward the portico, the other vanishing off the edge of the page in a gentle curve. The bows of a weeping willow obscured part of the scene, but even in the still lines of the drawing, they seemed to drift in a gentle breeze.

Elizabeth studied the skillful depiction for some time, fascinated and surprised by the unexpected emotions it stirred within her. For all of its undeniable splendor, the estate bore no hint of garish opulence. Handsome as it was, it did not make a spectacle of itself as Rosings did. They were, as Georgiana had said, not to be compared. Even in a likeness, Pemberley seemed steeped in that certain enduring dignity that Elizabeth had long associated with the ancient oaks that grew in Hertfordshire.

After studying the sketch for some time, Elizabeth was possessed of the sudden conviction that, had she seen every grand estate in England, she would have always known this one to be his. As peculiar as the notion was, she recognized him in it.

With a wave of melancholy tightening her throat, Elizabeth tore her eyes from the image that so captivated her. It was too painful to look at. One thing was absolutely clear: she could not go to Pemberley.

How she might say as much to Georgiana, she knew not, but her resolve to reject the invitation was unshakable.

Some time later,a loud knock cut through her reverie. Sitting up, she tucked the letter and sketch under her pillow, smoothed her skirts, and called, "Yes?"

"Might I come in?" came Charlotte's muffled voice.

"Yes, of course."

Charlotte slipped into the room, pulling the door closed behind her. In her hands was a small tray bearing a cup. She gave Elizabeth a brief smile before placing it on the side table with care.

"This arrived for you while we were out," Charlotte said, producing a letter from under her arm and placing it beside the tray.

"Oh," Elizabeth said, glancing at the letter. "Thank you. I believe it is from Jane." Her eyes shifted to the cup. "What is this?"

"A tonic. From Lady Catherine."

Elizabeth picked it up and sniffed at it, then pulled it away with a wince.

"You may as well toss it straight in the chamber pot for all the good it will do you," said Charlotte.

"I would wager that is precisely where it came from."

Charlotte tutted, pulling the cup from Elizabeth's fingers and setting it firmly on the far side of the table. She then moved to settle herself on the edge of the bed, a crease forming between her brows as she studied Elizabeth.

"Will you tell me what distressed you today?" Charlotte asked.

Elizabeth's gaze dropped to her hands, but Charlotte pressed on. "And before you insist it is nothing, remember that we have been friends nearly all our lives. I alone in all of Kent know how you cried when your mother threw away that dreadful little necklace you made from the shells of snails."

Elizabeth's lips curved up as she looked down at her hands. "It was beautiful."

"To you, I am sure it was. But you ought not to have worn it to church."

Elizabeth laughed. "It is no wonder I am Mama's least favorite child."

"No. Your mother never quite knew what to do with a daughter so much after her father's heart."

"I daresay she does not understand either of us."

"No," Charlotte chuckled, but her intelligent gray eyes grew serious again as she studied her friend with care. "What happened?"

Elizabeth played with a loose stitch in the coverlet. At last, she shook her head with an expression akin to a grimace. "I overheard something of the colonel and Miss de Bourgh's conversation."

When Charlotte did not respond, Elizabeth looked up at last. "They think quite poorly of me, did you know?"

Charlotte gave a cluck of disapproval and shifted closer to lay a hand on Elizabeth's knee. "Oh, but Lizzy, who are they to you? You and I have always observed that those with so-called 'good breeding' are the most ill-mannered of anyone."

"I cannot argue," Elizabeth said, attempting to lighten her tone. "Though I must say, obliviousness to being overheard must be something of an unfortunate family trait, don't you think?"

Charlotte gave an involuntary chuckle, but it quickly faded as she noticed the tears welling in Elizabeth's eyes. Her expression softened, and she pursed her lips in quiet concern. Elizabeth looked away, blinking furiously.

"I do not know what to think," Elizabeth murmured, dashing a tear away before it could spill onto her cheek. After a pause, she added, "I would not have cared were it not—"

Her voice faltered, and she fell silent.

"For the favor you are doing for Mr. Darcy?" Charlotte prompted gently.

Elizabeth nodded, her gaze still fixed on the coverlet. "The colonel relayed something of Darcy's real opinion of me, and it was made quite clear how little he regards my honor."

Charlotte pressed her lips into a firm line. "Lizzy, I do not think you should let anything his cousin says lead you to think differently of Mr. Darcy. Only Mr. Darcy can say what he truly feels, and you are far too sensible to take an opinion secondhand."

To Elizabeth, the colonel's words sounded too similar to 'Not handsome enough to tempt me' to be doubted. She had heard for herself that he was capable of such poisonous arrogance, and it was therefore all too easy to believe it.

Despite everything she had learned of him, every moment where she had felt something of their commonality, their unconscious connection, he still considered her to be unworthy of him. He was grateful to her, but much, she supposed, in the way that he appreciated the cobbler who made his boots.

"Perhaps you are right, Charlotte," said Elizabeth, though without any real conviction.

"I flatter myself that I am," said Charlotte, squeezing her hand. "Or, if you cannot think as I do, then you must endeavor to disregard the opinions of those you cannot respect."

Elizabeth looked at Charlotte's steady face and was relieved not to see any pity there—only the firm kindness she had come to cherish. She nodded.

"Now, rest." she said as she rose. "Lady Catherine has prescribed a tonic for you, but as I know you better than she, I will prescribe exercise. You must take yourself out of doors first thing in the morning. I shall ensure Mr. Collins does not see you leave if you promise to be out at least an hour before breakfast. He would not like you to be out so soon after her ladyship commanded you to take to your bed."

"You are a true friend, Charlotte."

"You would do no less for me."

When the door closed behind Charlotte, Elizabeth let out a long trilling sigh as she allowed herself to fall back into the goose down pillows. The headache that had beset her on the long walk from Rosings was now pulsing in her temples.

She folded her hands across her abdomen, her eyes tracing the meandering cracks in the plaster ceiling above her.

'For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?' Her father's voice came unbidden to her mind.

It seems it is my turn to be laughed at.

Her mind was compelled back to the conversation she overheard at Rosings.

'Gentleman of good breeding do not take such women as wives.'

The words haunted her again. Elizabeth closed her eyes against the rising tide of mortification, screwing up her face as she waited for the pain to recede. She could not allow herself to dwell on what lay at the core of her suffering.

She needed a diversion.

Picking up Jane's letter, she curled her legs beneath her skirts, broke the seal, and smoothed the paper across her knees. A moment later, her eyebrows lifted in startled surprise as she blinked at the words before her.

Dearest Lizzy,

It is now half-past three in the morning, and I have taken up my pen at last, as I ought to have done two days ago. But how could I settle to write or sleep with so much joy in my heart? I fear it is entirely impossible.

I have never possessed your skill with the pen, but I must write what I can. My heart is so full, and my thoughts so scattered, that I fear this letter will make little sense. But for you, dear sister, I shall make an attempt.

I am engaged!

I cannot say whether this news will surprise you, but it is a great relief to share it at last. I must confess, dear sister, that for the past two days, I have scarcely had a thought in my head beyond my beloved. Charles—how odd it still feels to call him so—has been all that is devoted. Though I cannot forget the past, I find myself believing in his constancy. For all the pain that once seemed insurmountable, I am grateful for it, as even those hardships now appear a blessing, having brought me to this moment of happiness—happiness beyond my deserving. I am certain your influence was no small part in this affair. What have I done to merit such joy? Truly, I cannot account for it.

Since Mr. Bingley began visiting me at the Gardiners', I have had no doubt of his intentions. Though I could not forget his abandonment so easily, I know now my heart has loved him since he showed so much care for my well-being whilst I was ill in his home.

You will be proud of me, Lizzy, when I tell you that after Miss Bingley's visit to me in Cheapside, I decided I must make it plain to Mr. Bingley that, though I did not hate his sister, I could not think well of her, and most especially, I did not trust her. I was quite determined that, if there was any hope of a union between us, she must not be allowed to treat me as she had done in the past. Oh! I was so very nervous! I did not know if I would offend him by speaking so plainly, yet I was determined that I must do it—for both of our sakes.

Mr. Bingley assured me that, regardless of my decision, it was his firm intention to establish his own household and leave Miss Bingley to the care of his brother, Mr. Hurst. I must confess, dear sister, that I was shocked by his declaration. Yet, I knew him to be in earnest, for the look he wore as he spoke it was so solemn that I might have almost mistaken him for his friend, Mr. Darcy. He further assured me that, once married, his utmost loyalty would be to his wife and any children they might one day have. Oh! How my cheeks burned at his words, but I could not help but be glad he said them.

He then spoke at length of several London residences he was considering, describing each one with such detail that I am certain he sought my opinion on which I might prefer. Oh, Lizzy, his kindness was so genuine, his attentions so warm, that I felt as I had when he was in Meryton, with all the affection and ease of old times. We spoke for what seemed like hours.

Before taking his leave, Mr. Bingley inquired whether I might wish to join him for a walk along the Serpentine the next morning. There was something in his manner of asking—so particular and earnest—that I could not mistake his meaning. To my own surprise, I found that I very much wished to accompany him.

I do not believe there has ever been a morning in London so fine as that one. My aunt and uncle allowed us to walk some way ahead of them, granting us the privacy to speak freely. I will not share the details of that conversation, even with you, dear sister, but suffice it to say that I shall remember every moment for as long as I live.

Afterward, we agreed it would be best to keep our understanding private until he could speak to our father.

But something truly distressing occurred the very next day. Miss Bingley called on poor Miss Darcy and devised a story that, I am afraid, sought to compromise both her and Mr. Bingley's honor. According to Mr. Bingley, her aim was to form an alliance between himself and the lady, or, failing that, to frighten me away by suggesting his affections were elsewhere. I find it almost impossible to believe—how could anyone be so unkind as to disparage her own brother's honor in such a way? Yet it must be true. The authority of a brother is too close to be doubted. It grieves me to think she could behave so.

Mr. Bingley told me he has resolved to exile her from London and from his circle altogether. He has arranged for her to be sent to Manchester, where she will stay with his father's sister, whose husband is engaged in trade there. I cannot help but think how devastating this must be for her. To be sent away from all she knows, even if by her own doing, must surely be a heavy blow. Oh, but dearest Lizzy, I know you will not think me cruel when I confess my great relief upon hearing it. To begin the married state with such a sense of unease as Miss Bingley must bring would be difficult indeed. It would have cast a shadow over our happiness, and I cannot help but be grateful that Mr. Bingley has taken such decisive steps to prevent it. I am reassured to know that his resolve appears as strong as he professes.

I shall depart for Longbourn as soon as Charles returns from soliciting my father's permission. I expect to be in Hertfordshire soon, so you may wish to address your next letter to me there.

Oh, how I wish you would be there when I arrive! I cannot imagine spending my last days at Longbourn without you. I will not ask you to hasten your return on my account, but I do not think my happiness will be quite complete until you are with me once more.

Yours in grateful happiness,

Jane

As she set the letter aside, Elizabeth clung to the relief this message brought her.
Jane was well.

Elizabeth was grateful for such a tidy resolution to months of despair. She was more than a little surprised by Mr. Bingley's response to his sister's actions, but she could not help being buoyed by this evidence of his newfound resolve to stand up to her. Only time would reveal whether his transformation was enduring or merely a fleeting impulse.

The sudden painful longing to embrace her sister came over her, and Elizabeth sighed. It was then that an idea came to her.

She would go home to Longbourn as soon as it could be managed.

Her sister, although too modest to make a direct request, clearly longed for her presence. With a wedding on the horizon, there was surely much to be done at home, and it would not be uncivil for her to leave to attend to her sister. It was an easy excuse to leave Kent, and the thought of her home and her sister was, at that moment, the most appealing thing in the world.

She resolved to speak to Charlotte about it the next day, her mind now settled.

A flicker in the corner of his eye caused Darcy to halt abruptly, his breath catching as he turned with deliberate slowness toward the trees. For a few moments, the only sounds were the long breath he released, a few loud thumps of his heartbeat, and then—Elizabeth, the muslin of her skirt ghostly in the rising fog. Her trim figure slid silently through the forest like a shadow gliding across the water.

His pulse quickened as his feet moved with renewed purpose. Turning back the way he had come, his long strides were barely audible on the soft loamy soil. He bent his steps toward the place he knew his path would intersect with hers. Slips of her yellow spencer could be seen now and again in his periphery as Darcy broadened his steps, drawing ever closer to a meeting that was, if not wholly accidental, blessed by chance.

Darcy had slept fitfully since returning to Rosings. His dreams were filled with the same ill-defined foreboding that had lingered at the edges of his waking mind since he had met Elizabeth in the vestibule. The memory of her–stricken and distant—clung to him. He needed, viscerally, to understand it. Instinct drove him to her. Yet, he was certain that he would divine nothing of her true state in either the parlor at Hunsford, or the drawing room at Rosings.

And so it was that he was up before dawn, stalking the lanes of the park in the first blush of morning. If his man Fletcher thought it an odd hour for a walk, he was too well-bred to mention it, though Darcy thought he detected a little too much indifferent civility in the valet to be entirely natural. He wondered briefly what it was that Fletcher thought of his master's odd behavior. But on such a topic, Darcy would never ask, and Fletcher would certainly never offer.

He slowed his steps when he approached the little outcropping of brambles that concealed the meeting of the two tracks. His senses were alive to any indication of her, but there was for a time only the stillness of the woods. A kindling of dismay was forming in his chest at the thought that she might not appear, but just as he had become quite certain she had turned back to the parsonage, the blessed sound of padding footfalls reached his ears. He tensed to listen, until, barely a stone's throw from where he stood, she emerged.

Pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, she lifted her skirts to toe her way down the small slope, her dark eyes fixed on the path before her. It wasn't until the toes of his boots intruded upon her notice that she halted her progress. With a quiet 'oh' of surprise, she stumbled back, her gaze darting from his boots to his face with no small amount of alarm.

Darcy stood stupidly before her, his face reddening. The wind rustled the leaves as the silence stretched into discomfort. She stared at him with wide eyes and open mouth, and he began to fear there was something more than common astonishment in her response to his presence.

Eventually, Darcy recovered himself and, bowing deeply, spoke her name, greeting her in a low voice.

"Mr. Darcy," she replied quickly with a curtsey. Then, in an uncharacteristic show of discomposure, she curtsied again, blushing and apologizing before smoothing her skirts to hide her embarrassment.

"Shall we take this way together, Miss Bennet?"

"I—oh—I…" she stammered, then, closing her mouth firmly and inhaling slowly through her nose, said, "Yes, of course, if you wish it."

Darcy inclined his head and offered his arm, noting as he did so the red staining her cheek beneath the brim of her bonnet. She fell into step beside him, Darcy noting the stiff angles of her arm and the hesitant way her hand barely brushed his sleeve.

They walked on in silence for some time. Darcy did not know how to breach both the silence and the distance between them.

"How are the Collinses?" he asked.

"They are well, I thank you," Elizabeth answered quickly.

"And your family?"

"They are well."

More awkward silence followed, until Darcy spoke again. "Miss Bennet," he said, his tone light, "Have you realized yet that the book I gave you was merely a pretense?"

She glanced at him before replying, "I did, sir. But I must say, I was surprised that you would be amenable to such mischief."

He smiled, though more from the gratitude of at last inducing her to speak. "It seems I can be persuaded—though admittedly, there are few who have the power to do so. I fear Georgiana could not be convinced to send such an important message by ordinary means."

When he noticed a wrinkle at the corner of her eye, he added, "I trust you do not disapprove?"

Elizabeth shook her head faintly. "Indeed, I do not. As long as no one is harmed by it, I find a bit of mischief very diverting."

He smiled faintly. "Perhaps I should consult Richard on how best to convey a message across enemy lines?"

When her only reply was a brief, perfunctory smile, Darcy's chest filled with the same vague sense of dread that had haunted him since last they parted. They strode on for another minute without speaking before Darcy at last gathered enough courage to ask, "Are you well, Miss Bennet?"

She drew herself up a little straighter at his words and gave him an odd half-smile that did nothing to reassure him.

"I am quite well, Mr. Darcy."

He frowned at her critically.

"I cannot help but disagree," he said in a low voice.

Then, all at once, her eyes flashed bright and fierce.

"Oh, truly!" she burst out angrily, "What interest can you possibly have in the matter?"

His eyebrows rose in surprise, and he slowed to a stop. Pulling her arm away, she walked a short distance further on, then stopped without turning back.

"Have I done something to offend you, Miss Bennet?" Darcy asked, his pulse accelerating.

She did not answer.

"Miss Bennet, please, you must tell me if I have hurt you in some way."

She let out a bark of laughter turning to reveal her wild and anguished expression.

"Really, Mr. Darcy. You need not concern yourself with me. Indeed, I can be nobody to you."

Darcy stared blankly at her until she turned away once more.

"Miss Bennet," he began, bewildered by the searing disdain he was now confronted with, "surely you must know that is not true."

"I beg you would not attempt to pacify me with falsehoods."

Darcy took a hesitant step toward her, swiftly removing his hat.

"Elizabeth." His heart was filled with a sudden desperation. "Please, look at me."

He did not know why, but it was vital to him that she do so.

Slowly, painfully, she turned her body toward him, raising her eyes to his with an expression much like the pleading gaze of a rabbit caught in a snare—wide and wild.

"Elizabeth," he began again, hesitating until the only absolute truth he knew burst from his mouth, "I love you."

The world pivoted slowly around her as Elizabeth absorbed these words.

His eyes, dark and intense, searched hers. His lips parted, but no sound came forth.

"Love, sir?" she asked, her voice breaking the spell his declaration had cast.

"Yes," he breathed. "Most ardently."

Love that would poison us both.

Still, some part of her being soared at his words, rising for a moment of unfettered and dizzying flight before colliding violently with the reality of what she knew he would offer her.

Gentlemen like Mr Darcy do not take women of my sphere as wives. The bitter thought reignited her humiliation. What the colonel meant, of course, was that a Miss Bennet of Longbourn was far better suited to be his mistress, no matter how he might profess his love.

She could not hear it. She would not let him say the words that would degrade her. It was better, by far, not to hear.

She must not encourage affection from a man who would never claim her fully. She, Elizabeth Bennet, would be no man's secret.

She lifted her chin and squeezed her eyes closed to compose her next words.

"Never imagine, Mr. Darcy, that the honor of your affection is lost upon me," she began, eyes still closed. "But I cannot return your affections."

A pause.

"You cannot."

"I cannot," she replied, her eyes opening to find him turned away from her, his posture rigid.

"Might I ask why?"

"I have many reasons, sir."

"Which are?" he asked, his voice steady, though Elizabeth detected a faint bitterness beneath the calm.

Elizabeth's temper flared once more, "You may profess love, but remember, sir, I knew you when you thought me nothing at all."

Darcy simply looked at her, his brow slightly furrowed.

"Do you remember, Mr. Darcy, what you said to Mr. Bingley when you first saw me at the assembly? That I was not handsome enough to tempt you?"

He turned to look at her, and she continued, "You insulted me in an assembly room filled with people I had known my entire life. But I am not so vain. I cared less for your opinion and more for the humiliation I endured because of it."

"Miss Bennet, I—" he began, but Elizabeth continued.

"I was not inclined to be in your favor after such a remark as that. But then, when you did not even deign to hide your contempt for all of Hertfordshire society, and my family in particular, was it any wonder that I might grow to resent you? Was this not reason enough? What had you to recommend yourself but wealth and ill humor?

"You must now comprehend my shock at your request for me to befriend your sister. I had come to believe that our dislike was mutual, yet I seem to have been mistaken in that regard."

His jaw tightened. "If you thought so poorly of me, why did you agree to my request?"

She frowned slightly, considering her words.

"I cared," she said simply.

"You did not know her."

"It did not matter."

Darcy was silent for a time, until he said quietly, "Your goodness shames me."

Elizabeth ignored this.

"All of this, culminating in your separation of Jane and Mr. Bingley—who are you to determine how your friend is to be happy? Were it not for your sister, whose generous heart understood what you could not, my most beloved sister would even now be suffering."

"I should not—"

But Elizabeth cut across him, her pain finding outlet in her anger. "You have proven yourself incapable of understanding that those you do not value might still have worth. As you care for Georgiana, so I care for Jane. Your selfish disdain for the feelings of others meant that her pain, and mine, meant nothing to you."

He looked away, his expression unreadable.

"Through your sister, I know the goodness of which you are capable, sir. Yet, I now feel the sting of your disregard for myself and those I love more acutely than ever I would have. You speak of my goodness, Mr. Darcy? Remember that I am a product of those people of whom you think nothing at all."

Elizabeth's body was vibrating with emotion as she awaited his response. She watched him lower his head, his eyes closing as his fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose. A muscle in his jaw twitched, as though fighting to release the words he even now held back. After a long pause, his low voice broke the silence, his lips moving, his posture unchanged.

"I will not defend myself, Miss Bennet. Indeed, I cannot. But if you will hate me, let it be for all of my sins, and not just those of which you are already aware."

Elizabeth held her breath, the sound of her heart reverberating painfully in her ears.

"I have read your letters."

Elizabeth stared at him, bewildered. Whatever she had expected him to say, it was not this.

"My letters?"

"Yes."

She stared at him, dumbfounded. "But why?"

He looked at her searchingly. "It seems you knew of my selfishness long before I was aware of it." He paused for a moment, then continued, his voice steady. "I took comfort and affection that was not meant for me, simply because I wanted it."

"You wanted affection?" she said, shaking her head, perplexed.

"No." His eyes continued to search hers. "I wanted your affection."

"Does Georgiana...?"

He shook his head. "I am ashamed to say I have not had the courage. I did not wish to hinder her recovery by burdening her with the truth."

"So you would harm her with a lie? Harm us both with a lie?" Elizabeth bit out angrily.

He swallowed hard but did not reply.

"I cannot understand you," she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

"I will make no excuse for my behavior. I cannot explain my actions then, but now—"

"Your reasons are irrelevant," she erupted, cutting him off once more. "You have deceived us both."

He closed his mouth with a grimace, giving her a single, slow nod.

"From the earliest days of our acquaintance, I believed you to be a proud man," she said, her voice sounding remarkably steady to her ears. "I already had suspicions of your selfishness when Mr. Wickham told me of your dealings with him. I will admit that, at the time, I was only too eager to believe his tales of woe. You see, you had hurt my pride, and so I wished you to be the most terrible villain."

Darcy's expression hardened as his eyes locked with hers, his lip curling in disgust. "Mr. Wickham?"

"You see? What can he have done to deserve such a response from you?"

"He has betrayed my trust."

"As you have betrayed mine? As you have betrayed Georgiana's?"

"We are not the same," he said icily.

"Really? Astonish me."

His expression wavered as he stared back at her for a long moment. "It is not my story to tell."

Elizabeth studied him, but when her voice broke the silence, it was barely above a whisper.

"Who are you, Mr. Darcy?"

He turned then and began pacing, running a hand through his hair. Elizabeth watched him in distant fascination. She had never seen him so curiously alive, so undeniably human.

At length, he strode toward her.

"Miss Bennet–" he began.

Her hand reflexively rose at his approach.

"Please…" she pleaded, a sudden panic rising in her as she felt her resolve begin to weaken. "Say no more, I beg of you."

At her words, he faltered, though his long strides had already brought him very near. For a moment, they remained suspended in silence, neither speaking nor moving. Then, with surreal detachment, Elizabeth watched as her palm lowered to rest on his lapel.

Darcy stiffened at her touch, brows furrowing as his gaze fell to her hand.

Elizabeth blinked slowly, mesmerized by the peculiar warmth of him and by the soft shape her fingers made as they rested there. It struck her as strange that he should feel so entirely real just at the moment when nothing else did.

Her eyes slid inexorably upward then, traveling over the folds of his cravat, the angle of his jaw, the curve of his lip before finding his dark russet eyes, now looking steadily into hers. Though she could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand, she could no longer breathe.

For the space of a few potent heartbeats, the moment shone like a talisman—a ward against all the unspeakable reality pressing down upon them.

But it did not last.

Elizabeth let out a sudden gasp as reality struck her like a slap. She pulled her hand away in alarm, stepping back as horror welled within her. As she separated herself, Darcy remained still, his eyes studying the place where her hand had just rested.

She turned away, squeezing her eyes tightly shut and biting down on her lip to prevent any sound of distress from leaving her.

Would that he would go!

The silence between them stretched on and on until, as if he had caught the thread of her thoughts, his voice came from behind her: "I fear you have long been desiring my absence."

She looked back to see him bow as he continued, "Please accept my best wishes for your health and happiness."

Abruptly, he straightened, giving her one last look before turning and striding away in the direction of Rosings, leaving Elizabeth standing all alone on the path.

Once he had disappeared from view, her strength crumbled to dust. Her breathing now came in ragged gasps as she stumbled backward until her shoulders collided with the trunk of a tree. Her trembling hand came up to cover her mouth as she slid slowly to the ground. She barely noticed as rough bark clawed at her through the thin muslin of her skirt, snagging her spencer and the satin sash at her waist.

She knew not what she had done.

She loved him.

Though she might rage and regret, still the inevitability of it remained. As true as ever. As unshaken as a rock jutting up from the brutal sea.

For so long, she had turned her mind away from that place within her where he resided, that she had not noticed when his name began stitching itself onto her heart. Each thread a moment, a feeling, a look, pulling his essence nearer to her, making himself impossibly dear. Impossibly loved.

She wished it undone.

But it was far too late. She was now left to grieve for the piece of her that had been poisoned by the hope of him.

But worse than this realization was the one that came directly in its wake.

He loved her, too.

However much he might reject the idea of lowering himself for her, Elizabeth could sense within him the attraction that would be the ruin of her.

No. She would not give up her life to satisfy the longing of her heart. She would learn from Charlotte how to live without that sort of love.

But she had not the strength to begin today.