Page 24 of The Longbourn Bloodline

He stood before them, swaying slightly, his shirt hanging in ribbons and his chest bare to the December air. His hair was full of twigs, his cravat was gone entirely, and his dignity had departed for warmer climates sometime during the descent. And Elizabeth was still holding his arm. Her eyes dropped to where her fingers rested against his bare skin—his forearm, exposed where the sleeve had torn away—and then lifted to meet his gaze.

“You are hurt,” she said, and her voice was different now. Softer. Almost concerned.

“A few scratches.” Darcy found he could not look away from her face. “Nothing of consequence.”

“But Mr. Darcy, you are injured. Your linen is destroyed. Papa, we must send Hill immediately for hot water, linens, and proper medical salves.”

“You need not trouble yourself, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said stiffly, pulling back just enough to remind himself of his pride.

She still hadn’t let go, and he rather hoped she never would.

Mr. Bennet, however, found humor in this situation, clearing his throat grandly.

“Well, this is rather a compromising situation, is it not?”

Elizabeth’s head whipped toward her father. “Papa⁠—”

“A young lady, alone with a gentleman in his shirtsleeves—or what remains of them. Said gentleman having fallen, quite literally, at her feet. Her hands upon his person. His chest—” Mr. Bennet gestured vaguely at the exposed expanse of Darcy’s torso “—on display for all the world to see. Or at least, for my daughter to see. Which she has. Quite thoroughly, from the fixed direction of her gaze.”

“I was assisting him, not looking!”

“So you were. Most solicitously, one might even say intimately.” Mr. Bennet’s eyes twinkled with unholy glee. “I believe, under the circumstances, I could force a marriage. Should either of you give the word.”

“I was not alone with him, Papa,” Elizabeth protested, removing her hands, but not before noticing her gloves were stained with his blood. “Seeing as you have been standing here providing parental commentary.”

“And so I am.” Mr. Bennet chuckled. “Mr. Darcy, I believe you once requested a favor from me as your cousin. You have merely to say the word.”

Elizabeth froze, her chin lifting, her eyes blazing, and in them, Darcy read a challenge as clear as any words: Do not. Do not you dare.

He held her gaze, those rather fine eyes, embracing him, or so he would like to believe. She wished to rid Longbourn of him, had schemed with her uncle and plotted angles. And she had worried about his reputation while offering him nothing. And yet, when her father had suggested he make an offer for Jane’s hand, she had balked. Why?

And now here she stood, her hand still warm against his bleeding arm, her cheeks flushed, her eyes daring him not to seize the opportunity her father had handed him on a silver platter.

Darcy considered the prospect with a slow, wicked deliberation. All three of them knew exactly which non-proposal her father was referring to, what Elizabeth could offer in exchange for the change in the entail. He smiled at the prospect, could picture them at the altar, pledging enmity on her part while he gallantly signed the release document, adding female to the entail, and his smile caused Elizabeth’s eyes to narrow, her lips to snarl, and oh, how he enjoyed watching her face hate him, even as her heart said otherwise.

He let the moment stretch, left her dangling, wonder and fear, and then, slowly, reluctantly, he turned to Mr. Bennet with an expression of wounded innocence.

“Sir, I could not possibly impose upon your generosity in such a fashion. The young lady did not see me bloodied and battered at her feet in my shirtsleeves. She was merely rendering Christian assistance to a gentleman in distress. I am certain she noticed nothing… untoward.”

He held Elizabeth’s gaze just long enough for her shoulders to begin to ease, for her breath to steady, and then he winked.

Color flooded her cheeks; her eyes narrowed. She would find a way to make him pay… and he could not wait.

“Excellent.” Mr. Bennet retrieved his walking stick from where it had fallen. “Then I suggest we all return to our respective corners. Mr. Darcy, your coat appears to be hanging on that branch over there. I recommend retrieving it before you catch your death. And I believe—” he squinted toward the kitchen garden “—yes, I believe Cleo has found a mouse. Order is restored to the universe.”

He set off down the path without waiting for a response, leaving Darcy and Elizabeth alone beneath the elm tree.

“You were eavesdropping,” she accused. “So ungentlemanly-like.”

“When in Rome… At least I wasn’t wearing a pink bonnet.”

“But you purposely spied on me.”

“I was rescuing a cat.” Darcy reached for his coat, wincing. “Your cat, I might add. A creature who has now abandoned me without so much as a backward glance. I begin to think ingratitude is a Longbourn tradition.”

“You!” Elizabeth sputtered, her hands clenching into tight little fists at her sides. “You insufferable, arrogant, eavesdropping⁠—”

“Careful, Miss Elizabeth.” He shrugged into his coat, though the movement pulled at the scratches across his back. “You were just expressing concern for my reputation. It would be a shame to undermine your own arguments by calling me names.”