Page 13 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

She reached for the crutch.

He looked at it, and then at her. "The terrace steps are steep," he said. "And that thing is taller than you are."

She left the crutch where it was. She hopped to the door. He slid his arm around her waist. He kept the bandaged hand curled loosely at her far side, touching nothing. She put her arm across his shoulders because there was nowhere else to put it. He took her weight on his side, and she hopped, and they went down the passage that way, very slowly.

It was a great deal more intimate than being carried. His arm was firm around her waist. Her hip pressed against his with every step. She could feel the warmth of him all down her side, through the thin muslin of Louisa's gown. He smelled of lime liniment and clean linen, and faintly of the fire, still.

"Lean on me," he said, at the terrace steps.

"I am heavier than I look."

"You have mentioned it."

"I mention it because it is true."

"And I answer because it is not." He took her down the two shallow steps, one hop at a time. He lowered her onto the stone bench in the sun. "You weigh precisely what you ought."

He sat beside her. The sun was warm on her face. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, and felt him look at her.

When she opened her eyes, he was not looking at the park. He was looking at her mouth.

He glanced away at once. But she had seen it, and he knew she had seen it.

His mouth, she thought, with a kind of despair. Now I am thinking about his mouth.

Her father passed along the terrace an hour later, on his way to the stables. He stopped when he saw them. He looked at Mr. Darcy, and at his daughter in the sun. Then he looked at the space on the bench between them, which was not large. "I see you have taken up the office of crutch, Mr. Darcy," he said mildly. "It is a more useful accomplishment than the pianoforte. Miss Bingley should add it to her list."

He walked on before either of them could answer. Elizabeth stared hard at the park. She heard him make a small, stifled sound. It was a laugh.

Parrish left for London on the twelfth.

"The smoke has got into everything, sir," he told his master at breakfast. "Your coats, your linen, your boots. I have tried vinegar. I have tried the sun. I shall write to town for fresh things."

"No," said Mr. Darcy. "Go up yourself, and bring them back. You know what is wanted better than anyone."

Parrish had held his cup for him every morning that week. Mr. Darcy did not look at him once while he said it.

"Very good, sir," said Parrish, after a moment.

"How long?"

"Three days, sir. Perhaps four." Parrish hesitated. "Mr. Bingley's man has offered to attend you in my absence."

"I shall manage," said Mr. Darcy.

He did not manage.

Elizabeth found him in the library at six o'clock that evening. He was dressed for dinner in one of Mr. Bingley's shirts, which was too short in the sleeve. His waistcoat hung open. He was trying to push the top button through its hole with the edge of his bandage. He had clearly been trying for some time.

"Where is Mr. Bingley's man?" she asked from the doorway.

"Attending Mr. Bingley." He kept his eyes on the button. "And Mr. Hurst. And I will not have the whole house knowing I cannot button my own waistcoat."

"The whole house already knows you cannot button your own waistcoat."

"Then I will not have them watching me fail at it."

She hopped across the room. He heard her and looked up, alarmed, and started toward her.