Page 157 of Near Pemberley

A pause.

“Your family.”

It was Elizabeth’s turn to be overwhelmed.

She could not answer. Instead, she returned her attention to his hand, smoothing the last of the ointment over his injured knuckles with far more care than the wound required.

Darcy watched her in silence.

There was something almost astonishing about seeing Elizabeth Bennet, who had once been so determined to think ill of him, sitting beside him as though she had every right to be there.

As though caring for him was the most natural thing in the world.

She seemed unaware of his thoughts. When she had finished, she lifted his hand slightly to examine her work. Then, without thinking, she leant forward and gently blew upon the sore skin. It was such an ordinary gesture.

A gesture she had likely offered to her younger sisters, to her cousins, to anyone who had suffered some small hurt and needed comfort.

But Darcy was not accustomed to such tenderness. He looked at her in complete bewilderment.

And then she pressed a gentle kiss upon his injured hand.

For a moment, Fitzwilliam Darcy forgot every carefully constructed thought he had ever possessed. He forgot Wickham. He forgot the bruises. He forgot the pain.

He could only look at her.

For several seconds, Elizabeth remained unaware of what she had done. Then she felt the silence. A peculiar silence.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes. Darcy was looking at her.

Not at her hands. Not at the ointment. At her.

A sudden warmth rose to her face. She looked down immediately, as though the injured hand before her had become the most fascinating object in existence. “I…” She paused.

What could she possibly say?

She had not intended to kiss his hand. It had been no more than a habit, a gesture of comfort offered without thought. Yet now that she had thought about it, she found herself unable to explain it at all.

“Did you notice?” she asked quietly. The question escaped before she could prevent it.

Darcy’s expression softened. “Miss Elizabeth.”

Her eyes returned to his.

“I fear I noticed.”

The colour in her cheeks deepened.

The only sound in the room was the quiet ticking of the clock.

Then, with the faintest trace of amusement in his voice, he asked, “Are you attempting to heal me, Miss Elizabeth?”

She looked at him, uncertain whether he was teasing her or entirely serious. “I believe my aunt would say the ointment is responsible for that.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes.”

“Then I must confess,” Darcy replied, still looking at her, “that the ointment appears to have been assisted by other means.”