Page 29 of A Question of Character

Darcy bent, retrieved it, and placed it in her palm.

“I believe this belongs to you.”

She closed her fingers around the tiny pearl button.

“Thank you.”

“Our acquaintance seems destined to involve rescuing misplaced things.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“I shall endeavor not to misplace anything larger.”

“I should appreciate that.”

She stepped into the carriage.

Darcy handed Mrs. Gardiner inside before Mr. Gardiner followed.

As the carriage rolled away, Elizabeth looked back once.

Darcy and Georgiana still stood beneath the portico, the light from the hall falling across the steps. Georgiana waved with youthful enthusiasm.

Darcy merely inclined his head.

It was enough.

Beside her, Mrs. Gardiner settled her shawl more comfortably.

“My dear.”

Elizabeth looked over.

“I believe Mr. Darcy has become very fond of Gracechurch Street.”

Elizabeth gave her attention to the passing lights beyond the carriage window.

“I believe,” she replied carefully, “Gracechurch Street has become rather fond of him as well.”

five

A Growing Attachment

Darcy had never placed much confidence in declarations of sudden attachment.

He had heard too many of them in drawing rooms, ballrooms, and careless conversations between gentlemen who mistook admiration for constancy and novelty for affection. A lady could be lovely across a room. She could be witty through one dinner. She could occupy a man’s thoughts for a week merely because she had refused to flatter him when every other person had done so. Darcy knew all that. He had observed it, disapproved of it in others, and considered himself safely beyond its influence.

Two months after meeting Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he was obliged to admit that his superiority had not survived the experiment.

He was in love with her. Darcy had once imagined love would arrive after years of careful acquaintance, mutual esteem, and deliberate reflection. Instead, it had stolen upon him between ordinary afternoons and cups of tea.

The conclusion had arrived without drama, which irritated him slightly. A man ought, at the least, to receive some warning before the whole arrangement of his future altered. Instead, it had been built from ordinary things. A laugh in a bookshop when she teased him over sermons. The way she listened when he spoke of Pemberley, giving his home her full attention as though a hill in Derbyshire were worthy of her notice. Her kindness to Georgiana. Her irreverence before Lady Matlock. Her very annoying ability to make him say more than he intended and enjoy the consequences.

He had reached the point where every morning held one central question: whether he would see Miss Bennet before dinner.

It was a lowering condition.

He could not bring himself to regret it.