Page 26 of You Willfully Misunderstand Me

"Please do not,” she started. “I have decided to help you, and nothing you say will change my mind, Mr. Darcy. Now, let us get this done with."

He paused. The firmness in her voice left little room for argument. And, he found it delighted him.Darling, Elizabeth,he thought, recalling her special attention to Jane while her eldest sister was ill, during his stay with his friend, Mr. Bingley.

"I had only intended to say that there is no need for you to trouble yourself."

Elizabeth decided not to respond to that comment. She lifted her chin, in an impertinent gesture, and pointed towards the chair nearest the hearth and took her place before him.

“Sit just there, Mr. Darcy, if you would be sogood.” She emphasized the last part, and he knew she was teasing him, or at least attempting to.

The scene was so ordinary that Darcy found it almost more unsettling than any extraordinary circumstance could have been. The woman he loved had turned her attention fully toward him. Not toward Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, not toward the gentleman whose fortune, lineage, and position made him an object of admiration, expectation, or resentment. She was not tending to a name, a title, or a reputation. She was tending to him, simply him.

The realization struck him with such force that his breath caught. His heart quickened, beating with a nervousness he had not felt since his early manhood. It was astonishing, almost humbling, that the woman who had once challenged his pride and exposed his faults now possessed the ability to unsettle him with nothing more than a look of genuine concern.

What she does to me, he thought,unable to hide the warmth that rose within him.

He followed her instruction and crossed the hearth, lowering himself into the chair Elizabeth had indicated. For once, he did not question her direction or attempt to asserthis own judgment. He simply obeyed, allowing himself the rare privilege of being cared for. And perhaps that was the most extraordinary thing of all.

She settled next to him, and took his right hand first, carefully cleaning his fingers and palm, wiping the warm cloth to clean the small scratches across his hand.

Feeling an unfamiliar mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction as she guided him, quite effortlessly, into doing precisely as she wished, Elizabeth made a bold observation while carefully cleaning his injured hand.

“You are very quiet.”

The simple remark caught him entirely unprepared. Darcy, who had faced difficult conversations, public scrutiny, and even his own errors of judgment with far greater composure, found himself suddenly unable to arrange a coherent response. His thoughts, which had moments before been so full of her, scattered into confusion.

“I was merely thinking,” he answered at last.

Elizabeth’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “I have heard that can be a dangerous activity.”

The corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it. Her teasing had become familiar to him, but it still possessed the remarkable ability to disarm him. His reply came so naturally that even Elizabeth appeared briefly surprised by the ease of it.

Looking down at his hand resting in hers, Darcy allowed himself a rare moment of honesty, “I was considering that I have rarely received such careful attention for so small a matter.”

The words lingered between them.

Elizabeth did not answer immediately, as she had been equally surprised at his forthrightness. Instead, she continued her gentle work, her expression softening as though she were considering not only his words, but the meaning beneath them.

“Perhaps,” she said quietly, “because you rarely allow anyone to offer it.”

The observation struck far closer to home than he had expected.

Darcy looked at her, momentarily unable to dismiss the truth of it. He had spent years believing that independence was a virtue, that self-sufficiency was a sign of strength. He had accepted assistance when duty required it, but kindness offered freely, comfort given without obligation, was something he had seldom permitted himself to receive.

Yet here she was, holding his hand as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And he found, to his surprise, that he did not wish to pull away.

Elizabeth did not press the point further. Instead, she finished with his right hand and gently released it, though the absence of her touch was felt almost immediately.

“Your other hand,” she said, looking up to Darcy.

He looked at her with a faint expression of surprise, as though he had momentarily forgotten that she had not finished tending to him, “My other hand?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, the hint of amusement returning to her voice. “Unless you intend to convince me that only one hand requires attention.”

A quiet smile touched his features, and he offered his left hand without argument.

She took his left hand into hers, and once again he was struck by the sensation of her touch. Her fingers were warm against his skin, her movements careful and deliberate. It was a small thing, something he would have once considered insignificant, but with Elizabeth every small thing seemed to possess a meaning he had never before recognized.

The gentleness of her touch unsettled him more than any reprimand she had ever given. He shifted his gaze from their hands to her face. In it, he saw the slight furrow of concentration between her brows, the tenderness in her eyes, the complete sincerity with which she cared for him.