Page 48 of The Difference of a Darcy
One Christmas morning when she had crept into his chamber before dawn, whispering that she feared Pemberley would forget about Christmas due to their father’s illness. He had carried her down the stairs in his arms to show her the decorations.
The first Christmas after their father’s death, when Georgiana had slipped her small hand into his and asked if they would still hang Father’s favorite holly wreath. He had promised her they would, even though the sight of it nearly broke him.
But then the image of that man grabbing Elizabeth next appeared in his mind. The sound of her cry; he had never felt terror like he did in that moment. Not even when he had arrived at Ramsgate and saw Georgiana pale and trembling as Wickham fled.
But this time, he had nearly been too late. Not by hours, but by seconds.
He would never forget the look on Elizabeth’s face when he reached her. Or the fury that had surged in his chest. Or the way she had trembled in his arms.
He exhaled through his nose and forced himself to calm.
They could not go to Derbyshire. Not yet.
Elizabeth’s family mattered as much to her as Georgiana did to him. He saw it in every line of her face when she spoke of Jane. Of Mr. Bennet. Of her sorrow at being forgotten.
And Hertfordshire was on the way.
He would go with her. Help her discover what had changed. What could be set right. Perhaps, if they could understand the rules of this strange world—this twisted echo of their lives—they could find a way to reverse it.
Behind the door, he heard the sound of water pouring and fabric shifting.
Soon it would be his turn.
And after that… whatever waited next.
Chapter 9
Elizabeth stirred as pale morning light filtered through the thin curtains of the coaching inn. And just as the morning before, she awoke with a warm arm draped across her waist.
Darcy.
Sometime in the night, his arm had crept around her waist and held her gently as they both succumbed to exhaustion. Now his breathing was even and deep behind her, his presence a steady warmth that spread through her like the sunrise on Oakham Mount.
She lay still, eyes open, watching the light shift along the wall. It was not unpleasant. In truth, it was… comforting.
How strange.
Last night came back in fragments: washing with the hot water Darcy had ordered before she even asked, changing into the new shift he had sent the maid to fetch, and him slipping into the bed beside her—once again, at her insistence.
The chair near the fire would be just as uncomfortable as the floor,she reasoned.
Besides, she trusted him to be honorable. He had not once looked at her with anything but courtesy. Not even in their close quarters.
But the reality was she felt safest with him sleeping at her side. Her cheeks warmed slightly as she remembered him whisper, “Happy Christmas, Miss Elizabeth” before they both fell into a deep sleep.
This is probably the strangest Christmas ever… well, save the first one.
She bit her lip in consternation. She had been wrong about Darcy in Hertfordshire… so very wrong.
She had judged him. For his pride, his reserve, his bluntness. She had clung to that remark at the Meryton assembly—not handsome enough to tempt me—as if it were proof of his character. She had wielded it like a sword, never once questioning whether her own pride had made her blind.
Darcy had misconstrued Jane’s motives, but she had done the same with regards to him. It was not so different, and she could not fault him for not realizing Jane was guarded when she did not see it in him.
She shifted slightly, trying not to wake him. But his arm withdrew at once, and a moment later he was sitting up behind her, clearing his throat softly.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice a bit hoarse with sleep.
“Good morning,” she replied, keeping her gaze on the sliver of light beneath the door.
