24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

W hen her hand slipped into his, Darcy's body hummed like a piano string. For an instant, as her fingers curled around his own, he shuddered with a sudden, desperate hope. Was she finally… inviting him to her? They had barely spoken since that argument, the words they had hurled at each other almost physical things between them, yet here she was, standing before him in her nightdress, her face pale but determined.

Surely, she was leading him to her bed. Why else would she have come? He could see it in her eyes—a glimmer of understanding, or perhaps acceptance. Could this be the moment he had not dared to ask for? His need for her had become an insistent drumbeat, a pulse he could not quiet, no matter how hard he tried to push it away. Each night, he lay in bed, thinking of her just a few feet away, the barrier of their adjoining door feeling like miles. The tension between them had mounted so unbearably, it was suffocating.

She tugged on his hand gently, leading him from the threshold of his room. Darcy followed willingly, almost panting with the agony of his longing. The thought of being welcomed into her warmth, of finally being free to express all he had held back, twisted a knot of aching desire in his chest. It did not matter that their last words had been harsh, that their relationship was still a confusing muddle of unspoken fears and unsorted feelings. Right now, none of that mattered.

He would take whatever she was willing to give.

But when they entered her room, she did not pause. Elizabeth kept moving, pulling him through her chamber and out into the hallway again, her pace quickening. Darcy blinked, his breath faltering. Confusion began to creep in.

What… what was she doing?

His mind scrambled to keep up with her sudden change in direction. If not to her bed, then…?

She said nothing, her grip firm but gentle as she guided him down the hall, their footsteps muffled on the plush carpeting. His eyes darted between her face, set with determination, and the corridor stretching before them, lit only by the occasional candle. Darcy's stomach twisted with uncertainty. Where could she be taking him at this hour?

They passed by several rooms, and then it hit him. His heart clenched painfully when she led him directly to the threshold of that door.

Harry's room.

Darcy froze, his feet stumbling to a halt, but Elizabeth pressed forward, tugging him along until they crossed the threshold. He followed, albeit reluctantly, his steps slow, his gaze flickering back to the hallway. It felt wrong—this room was meant to be untouched, his silent monument to the memory of his brother. The air itself seemed to still in here, thick with ghosts of the past. Why would she drag him to this place?

His heart nearly stopped when she marched him into the middle of the room, halting in front of Harry's old trunk. The very sight of it made his chest ache, as if the air was being slowly pressed out of his lungs.

"Elizabeth…" His voice was low, hoarse. He could not look at her; his eyes were fixed on the trunk, on the dust-laden reminders of the man he had lost. "What are we doing here?"

She did not let go of his hand, but the firm grip of her fingers was now unmistakably deliberate. "You need to let go," she said softly but firmly, turning to face him fully. Her words were like a key unlocking something tightly wound within him. "Let go of Harry, William."

His head snapped up at the sound of his name on her lips. She had never used it before. She had always called him ‘Mr Darcy,' or even ‘sir'—had kept a distance in her formality that mirrored the distance between them in every other respect. But here, in the middle of the room where his brother's presence lingered like a spectre, she called him by his given name. And not only his given name, but the gentle moniker his mother used to use.

"I cannot…" he began, but his voice faltered. He could feel the cracks beginning to form, the dam he had so carefully constructed around his grief trembling at the edges. "Elizabeth, I…"

"You can ," she interrupted gently, her eyes searching his. "You must . This… this pain you carry, it is destroying you. You cannot go on like this."

"I do not want to talk about it," Darcy said sharply, pulling his hand free of hers. He turned away, running a hand through his hair, trying to regain control of the riot of feelings inside him. "I cannot."

"William, your brother is gone, and you are holding on to his memory like a chain around your neck. You need to let him go. Let go of the mistakes, the guilt. You did not kill him."

The words stung, sharper than any blow he could have imagined. He recoiled as if struck, his chest tightening painfully. His throat burned with the need to shout, to rage at the unfairness of it all, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

"Let yourself grieve him," Elizabeth said, stepping closer. "Truly grieve him, and forgive yourself. You do not have to bear this alone."

Darcy turned away from her, his hands trembling at his sides. His gaze fell to the trunk again, to the leather-bound memories of his brother's life. The ache in his heart was unbearable. How could he let go? How could he release the guilt that had defined him for so long? He had been there when it happened. He should have been able to save him.

"I should have done something," he rasped, his voice barely audible. His hands clenched into fists. "I should have been able to stop it, to make it right. But I did not… I could not !"

"You could not have saved him, Fitzwilliam. Sometimes… sometimes there is nothing we can do."

Darcy shook his head, swallowing hard against the lump forming in his throat. "You were not there, Elizabeth. You… you do not know what it was like!"

"No, I was not there," she said softly. "But I know you. And I know that if there were anything you could have done, anything at all, you would have done it. You loved him. But you cannot change what has happened, no matter how much you wish you could."

"I failed him," Darcy choked out, his chest heaving as his hand swept over his eyes. "He was my brother, my younger brother! I was supposed to look out for him, and I could not save him!"

Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision. He blinked rapidly, trying to fight them back, but it was useless. The floodgates had opened, and the sorrow he had kept buried for so long came rushing to the surface.

Elizabeth moved closer, her hands gentle as she reached out to him. "You have not failed him," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm to the rawness of his grief. "You loved him. That is not failure."

Darcy's shoulders trembled as the first tear slipped down his cheek. He tried to hold it back, tried to push it all down again, but it was too late. The grief he had been carrying for so long broke free, and before he knew it, the tears were falling in earnest.

He let out a shuddering breath, his chest wracked with sobs. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, his hands gripping the edge of Harry's trunk as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Elizabeth knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around his trembling shoulders. "William," she whispered. "It is all right. Let it out. Let it go."

Darcy leaned into her embrace, his body shaking with the force of his sobs. He had never wept like this, not since the day Harry died in his arms. He had kept it all inside, the grief, the guilt, the anger, until it had festered and consumed him.

Now, in Elizabeth's arms, it all came pouring out.

"I am so sorry," he gasped between sobs, his voice strangling in his throat. "I am so, so sorry…"

Elizabeth held him tighter, her hand stroking his hair as she whispered soothing words in his ear. "It is not your fault, William. You did everything you could. You loved him, and that is what matters."

For what felt like hours, Darcy wept. The weight of his grief, the burden of guilt, all of it came tumbling out in waves, and Elizabeth held him through it all.

When the storm of his tears finally began to subside, Darcy pulled back slightly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His face was wet with tears, his body exhausted from the effort of it all.

Elizabeth's eyes were full of compassion as she looked at him, her hand still resting on his shoulder. "You are allowed to grieve, William," she said softly. "But you are not allowed to carry this burden alone. Not anymore."

Darcy nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He had never known such tenderness, such understanding. He had always believed he had to bear his pain in silence, that it was his duty to shoulder the responsibility alone.

But now, in Elizabeth's arms, he did not have to.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Elizabeth smiled softly, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "You are not alone," she repeated, her voice a gentle promise.

Darcy closed his eyes, letting her words wash over him. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt something loosen in his chest—a release, a small breath of relief from the suffocating weight of guilt and sorrow that had hung over him for so long.

He drew a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes, looking into hers, and for a moment, they simply stayed like that—silent, connected, and understanding more in that stillness than any words could express.

"Elizabeth…" he whispered her name softly, as though tasting it for the first time. There was so much he wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he tightened his grip on her hand, drawing strength from the steady, unwavering presence she offered.

Slowly, she smiled at him, a soft, knowing smile, and that simple gesture was enough.

I t was like he could breathe again. Darcy had a new lightness to him as he led her back to his room. After the tears and the rawness of his emotions, part of her feared he might retreat again—back behind the walls he so often hid behind. When his hand lingered at the small of her back, guiding her through the door and gently pulling her into his room, it was that he was no more ready to part from her than she was from him.

He closed the door softly, the latch clicking shut as if sealing them off from the rest of the world. Without a word, he crossed to the side table, pouring two glasses of brandy, the amber liquid catching the glow of the firelight. Elizabeth stood quietly by the hearth, watching him as he poured. There was something reassuring in the way his hands moved—steady and relaxed, despite everything they had been through.

When he turned, he caught her eye, offering the glass with a small, tired smile. "For you," he said, his voice low and rough. He handed it to her, then tugged a warm blanket from the bed and sat on the large sofa in front of the fire.

Elizabeth seated herself beside him, curling her legs underneath her and leaning against his shoulder as she took her first sip of the brandy. It was stronger than anything she was used to, and she coughed lightly, her eyes widening at the burn it left in her throat.

Darcy glanced over at her with concern. "Too strong? I can send for something else if you prefer."

A grin tugged at her lips despite the warmth spreading down her chest. "No, no." She raised the glass to him, her eyes sparkling with a playful glint. "I will survive." Another cough escaped, but she swallowed it down, determined. "See? I am quite well." To prove it, she took another sip, nestling closer to him under the blanket.

He chuckled softly, pulling her nearer, his arm wrapping securely around her shoulders so she could pillow her head against him. And in a gesture of pure sweetness, he tugged the blanket high up on her shoulders, tucking it snugly around them both. Elizabeth relaxed into the warmth of his body, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek.

The brandy left a comforting heat in her belly, but it was nothing compared to the quiet contentment of being in his arms. For a long time, neither of them spoke. They did not need to. After the emotional toll of the evening, words seemed like too much effort. It was enough just to sit there, letting the fire warm them as they shared the same breath.

Darcy's fingers had stretched to cup her neck and played absentmindedly with a strand of her hair. Elizabeth closed her eyes at the sensation, tilting her head slightly to give him better access. The simple touch sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn't help the sigh of pleasure that escaped her lips. He had never touched her so tenderly before—not like this. It was as though, for the first time, he allowed himself the indulgence of just being close to her.

She shifted slightly, her toes brushing against his calf beneath the blanket. She paused, then wiggled them mischievously against his leg. His immediate flinch told her all she needed to know.

"Good Heavens, Elizabeth, your feet are freezing!" Darcy exclaimed.

She laughed. "Have you gone soft?" she teased, looking up at him with a smirk. "Surely a little cold should not bother you like that."

"A little cold? These are blocks of ice!" He raised an eyebrow, feigning indignation. "There is a vast difference, madam, between a little cold and solid glaciers being pressed against one's skin."

Elizabeth grinned wickedly and leaned closer, her breath warm against his neck. "Perhaps," she murmured, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper, "I shall have to find a way to warm you up."

Darcy's breath faltered, his chest rising beneath her hand as her words seemed to settle between them. His dark eyes glittered in the firelight, filled with a curiosity—and something more. "What did you have in mind?" he asked softly, his voice rough with the unspoken emotions he'd been holding back.

Elizabeth did not answer immediately. Instead, she reached up, her hand sliding to the back of his neck. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, his pulse quickening slightly at her touch. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned up, her lips just inches from his, and whispered, "This."

Before he could react, she kissed him.

She felt his surprise, the briefest hesitation as though he was unsure if he should let himself fall into it. But Elizabeth did not hold back. She poured everything she felt into that kiss—the longing, the weeks of frustration, the growing warmth between them. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer as if she could close the space between them forever.

Darcy groaned softly against her lips, and suddenly, the dam holding back his restraint broke. His arms tightened around her, his hands tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss, returning her passion with a fervour she did not know he was capable of. Was this her reserved, restrained husband, who never had a hair out of place and probably thought "passion" was a word reserved for anger? He kissed her as though she were the very air he needed to breathe, his lips moving over hers with a hunger that sent shivers racing down her spine.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were panting, their foreheads resting against each other as they tried to catch their breath. Elizabeth's heart was pounding—no, racing in a way she had never experienced before. His hands were still in her hair, his fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw.

"I love you," she whispered against his lips, her voice trembling with the weight of the confession. "Foolishly. Irredeemably. Whether you love me or not."

Darcy's response was immediate, his voice rough with emotion. "I love you too," he breathed, his forehead pressing harder against hers. "You are my life's blood, Elizabeth." He kissed her again, more gently this time, but the intensity of his emotions was unmistakable.

Without another word, he stood, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. Elizabeth gasped, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carried her across the room toward the bed. His eyes never left hers, the depth of his feelings shining through every glance, every touch. Gently, he laid her down on the bed, his body hovering over hers as he stared down at her, his breathing ragged.

"William," she whispered, her fingers tracing the lines of his face. His name, spoken like that, felt like a promise.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to hers again—slowly, reverently, as though this moment was something sacred. And for all she cared, it was.