Page 36 of The Difference of a Darcy
He groaned. “Will I never be allowed to forget that?”
She laughed again—quiet, breathless, half-delirious with fatigue. “Can you imagine the look on Miss Bingley’s face if she could see us now?”
That did it.
Darcy barked a laugh, low and surprised, and Elizabeth stifled another giggle in the blanket.
They lay there, shaking with silent mirth, pressed shoulder to shoulder by necessity, and for a few moments—just a few—the strangeness of the world outside was forgotten.
Eventually, the laughter faded into stillness. Her breathing slowed. His eyes grew heavy.
And together, side by side, they drifted into sleep.
Chapter 7
Elizabeth awoke slowly the morning after Christmas, cocooned in warmth. The fire still crackled gently in the hearth, its orange glow flickering behind her closed lids.
The maid must have stoked it without waking me. That was kind of her, to be so quiet.
A soft weight rested across her waist, solid and warm, and the steady sound of breathing close to her ear told her she was not alone.
For a moment, she thought Jane had come to her side in the night, as she sometimes had when they were children—seeking comfort or warmth on a particularly cold winter’s evening.
But then she shifted slightly, and the body pressed against hers was not soft and slender like Jane’s.
It was firm. Hard, even. And the arm across her waist was heavier than Jane’s—and distinctly… hairier.
Her eyes flew open.
Memory flooded in like icy water: the grove, the duplicate version of herself, the strange fae man, and Mr. Darcy—who now, unmistakably, lay beside her.
Every muscle went taut.
She dared not move. Not yet. Perhaps, if she kept very still, he would remain asleep and she could extract herself withdignity. Her breath slowed, and she kept her limbs perfectly still, feigning slumber.
And then, with the slightest shift, the arm lifted.
Darcy stirred beside her, drew a breath, and withdrew.
She heard the rustle of cloth as he rose from the cot, the soft creak of his boots on the floor. Then a gentle pull of the blanket, tucking it more securely around her.
Her eyes fluttered open just in time to see him shrug on his coat and slip outside.
The door thumped closed behind him.
Elizabeth exhaled.
She sat up slowly, brushing back her hair and glancing around the cabin. It looked no different by morning light—still dim, still bare—but the fire gave it an air of something close to comfort. Her thoughts, however, were far from settled.
We need a plan.
She wanted—needed—to return to Longbourn. To see her father. To discover if Jane had fared better in this strange version of the world. Her imagination painted terrible images: her sister alone, abandoned, her heart broken. Or, worse still, married to someone wholly unsuitable.
But perhaps—perhaps!—if she had married Mr. Bingley…thatcould be why Mr. Collins chose Elizabeth instead of Jane.
She felt a sudden, wild pang of hope.
Surely Mr. Collins marryinghersignified something good for Jane, did it not?
