Bennet, Pride Before the Fall (Love Austen 3)

“It’s not out of my way,” Darcy said.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He could barely string a coherent thought together. The soft woodsy scent drifting from Darcy wasn’t helping—it made him want to curl into it, breathe deeply, and be cradled to sleep.

He plucked at threads of reason. Thought of Caroline’s visit. Of her insistence Darcy was faultless. “You’re so not perfect.”

Darcy looked at him, startled. “Of course not. None of us are.” He waited a beat. “Where did that come from?”

“Never mind.”

“I do mind. You’ve not stopped frowning at me since I came in.”

The words escaped in a rush. “Did you kick Will out of the hospice when your wife was dying? Shit, that was insensitive, sorry—”

“It’s fine.” Darcy’s dark expression hardened. “I most certainly did kick him out.”

There. From the horse’s mouth. He didn’t even sound ashamed.

God, this headache would not give up.

He cracked open the juice and drank deeply. The sweet rush gifted him enough energy to push onto his knees. The movement brought him within a foot of Darcy. Bennet wanted to lean into the comforting scent . . .

No.

Last person Bennet should ever want to lean into.

Sure, there was no denying the man was absolutely gorgeous. That dark hair, smoldering eyes, broad form . . . But physicality was only one-third of the necessary ingredients for attraction. There was also mental stimulation and emotional connectivity . . .

Fresh air!

He crawled past Darcy, whose concern was visibly deepening, and stumbled onto the pavement.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Hissing, Bennet shielded his eyes. White blinded him and he wobbled.

Warmth curled around his waist; a strong arm supported him.

“Bennet? Are you all right?”

If Bennet wasn’t feeling so horrible, he’d have blushed with shame and frustration. It was a trifling headache, he shouldn’t have practically fainted into Darcy’s arms.

At least two pedestrians witnessed the whole scene too, and Bennet was almost positive they’d reached for their phones . . .

“Just . . . a little headache.” God he sounded nasally.

“Right. You need to rest.”

Darcy steered him towards home and Bennet, truly miserable now, let him.

“Lyon,” Darcy called, and Bennet vaguely made out his brother and William across the street. “Your brother’s unwell. Take care of the library?”

“Keys in my pocket,” Bennet murmured.

He meant it as an explanation. But before he could dig into the pocket himself, Darcy plunged his large wriggly fingers in there.

Well, if that didn’t make him fainter. Thankfully the rummaging was over almost as soon as it started, and Lyon was swatting keys out of the sky.

“Benny? You okay?” Lyon asked.

“Fine. Headache,” Bennet murmured.

“I’ll get him into bed,” Darcy said and gently urged him along the street.

This time Bennet pulled his house keys out before Darcy could dig around, and at last they entered the cool, blessedly shaded hallway.

Heat leaked against Bennet as Darcy shifted, holding him close as they squeezed up the narrow staircase.

Darcy’s attention seemed gravely rooted on getting him to his apartment.

“You know,” Bennet murmured, “we should probably trade numbers.”

“We should?”

“Probably should have done it ages ago.”

“I thought the less interaction between us, the better?”

“Yes. No. I mean, keep your friends close, and . . .” He waved a hand between them. “Closer.”

They reached the door, and Darcy worked the key into the lock. Bennet sagged against the frame, waiting, and jerked when instead of opening the door, Darcy palmed his forehead.

“You’re hot.”

“Admitting it at last. Good for you.”

Darcy ignored him and opened the door. “Let’s get you in bed.”

A swell of pain in his head stifled his cheeky reply. “Probably a good idea.”

Darcy deftly navigated the attic, all six feet of him braced at Bennet’s side, a large hand on his hip, steering him up the mezzanine staircase. He wasted no time with awkward hesitancies and stripped back Bennet’s bed, urging him to sit down.

Bennet kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the pillow. He fumbled with his jeans and scrunched them to his thighs. The effort required to lift himself again, to push them to his feet, was too much.

“Fine.”

Fingers bumped along the skin of his outer thighs and calves and finally he was free of denim. Darcy’s heavy full-jawed grimace reminded Bennet of a treasure chest, full of special things, the promise of answering every hope and dream, locked and untouched for years and years.

He laughed off the bizarre thought and then winced at a shaft of lightning splicing his head.

He writhed with the pain. Darcy murmured something and left, returning with water and painkillers. He clasped the back of Bennet’s head, holding him up, and tipped the glass to his mouth.

“Sorry. This is . . . sorry.”

Bennet fell asleep, and later woke shivering, too cold despite the blankets heaped on him. Later, he sweated until he was drenched and clumsily tried to strip himself. Lyon was back by then, looking terrified, and called out for Darcy to help. Between the three of them, the sheets were changed and Bennet was cleaned up and settled back into bed.