Page 82 of The Difference of a Darcy
The memory of the night before washed over her in quiet waves.
His anguish had come without warning, as sudden and fierce as a storm tearing through the branches. She had not known what to do, not at first. It had been dark. Quiet. And then, from beside her, the sharp sound of a breath caught. Another. A choked sob that he tried—and failed—to suppress.
He had turned from her, burying his face in the pillow, shoulders drawn taut with effort.
She had hesitated, not wishing to call attention to his tears and embarrass him, as she imagined would be the case with most of the opposite sex.
Not that I have slept beside many weeping men.
But she had sisters. She had seen the trembling of a mouth that wished to hide its hurt. The stiffness of a body fighting to keep control.
She had known, and she could not remain still.
Her first touch had been hesitant—just her hand, resting lightly on his back. He had flinched. For the briefest second, she nearly withdrew it, fearing she had only deepened his distress. His breath caught and then quickened as his grief intensified, his frame wracked with sobs.
So she had come closer. Slipped her arm around him, her cheek pressing softly to his shoulder, her fingers splayed over the ribs that still shook from the force of his grief.
And there, in the quiet dark, she had held him.
Prayed for him.
Willed, with every fiber of her being, that some of the ache in his chest might lift.
Now, in the stillness of morning, her own eyes stung with tears.
She had never imagined he could break so completely.
Always he was composed. Controlled. Sharp-witted and strong-jawed and, yes, occasionally overbearing—but never this.
Never undone.
Was it only exhaustion? she wondered. Not merely from the physical toll of five days in a carriage, but the emotional weight he bore.
The loss of Pemberley. The failure to protect his tenants. The uncertain fate of Georgiana.
She sighed softly, her gaze drifting over the worn ceiling above them.
She needed to rise. Her bladder was making its needs increasingly known. But she remained where she was, unwilling to disturb him.
Not when he needed rest so badly.
Instead, she closed her eyes again, listening to the soft rhythm of his snores, and let her thoughts drift into quiet prayer.
Dear God… please. Ease his burden. Give him peace, even for a little while. Let today bring clarity. Let it bring hope. Let us do what we came here to do.
Let him know he is not alone.
After some minutes, her body gave her no further grace. She bit her lip and exhaled, her need to rise growing too insistent to ignore.
Easing back slowly, one inch at a time, she did her best not to disturb the man sleeping beside her. She moved with the same care one might give a skittish colt—cautious, gentle, and without sudden motion.
But just as she slipped from beneath the coverlet, his breathing hitched.
He stirred. She stilled at once.
After a long, suspended moment, he merely turned his face slightly into the pillow, murmuring something incoherent, and settled again.
Blessed reprieve.
