Chapter Six
Darcy
“I daresay Miss Elizabeth is even more charming than she was in Kent,” Fitzwilliam enthused.
The men had retired to the drawing room for brandy after the evening’s dinner, though Darcy noticed with relief that his cousin had taken only the smallest glass.
“She is a very fine young lady,” Bingley agreed. “I find her company most entertaining. She seems to have such effortless grace; I envy her skill in conversation. She never seems to trip over herself or use a word wrong.”
“Whatever does she see in Darcy, then?” Fitzwilliam teased, knocking back his brandy. “She has said more since her arrival in London than he has said all year!”
“Exaggeration is a poor quality in a soldier.” Darcy muttered.
Fitzwilliam laughed outright at that.
“And no sense of humour is an even worse quality for a husband! Mark my words, Darcy. Miss Elizabeth will have her work cut out for her keeping you in good spirits.”
“I doubt Elizabeth would seek to ‘keep me’ in any way,” Darcy countered with measured calm, though the corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. “She values honesty and sincerity most highly. You have been consistent in the nonsense you have spoken, cousin, since finding out about my engagement.”
“Nonsense?” Fitzwilliam’s eyebrows shot up in mock offense. “Why, I provide a valuable service, keeping you from lapsing into insufferable seriousness.”
Bingley chuckled, raising his glass in a gesture of camaraderie.
“If anyone can lighten Darcy’s sombre moods, it is Miss Elizabeth. No one else dares to challenge him as she does. I daresay I have even seen him laugh in her presence!” Bingley smiled, though his brow creased as he continued on. “I must confess, I am still a little surprised at the depth of your affection towards one another. I had no suspicion of it at all. All those months!”
Darcy said nothing; he was pleased only that his feelings had remained as private to others as they had to Elizabeth (and, to some extent, himself), for he had not wished to be the subject of speculation or gossip during his time in Hertfordshire.
“You were no doubt consumed with your own affection to notice Darcy’s! I must tell you, Charles, I like Miss Bennet very much,” Fitzwilliam said, draining his glass. “She’s a shy thing, isn’t she”
Darcy once again cursed his own short-sightedness when it came to his previous assessment of Miss Bennet’s character. How was it his cousin had made such deductions after a few hours in the Bennets’ company, yet he had failed to see the true nature of Miss Bennet in all the weeks he had observed her?
“When we are alone,” Bingley began, his cheeks tinting pink, “she is another person entirely. She is so kind, and very amusing. I am privileged to see a side of her that is not often displayed to the world.”
“It is quite sickening,” Fitzwilliam said cheerily. “The pair of you are certainly hopelessly in love. If only I could find such a match. Alas, she would have to come with a sizeable dowry and a home of her own.”
Darcy glanced at his cousin with a raised brow, his tone dry.
“You claim to be a romantic, Fitzwilliam, yet your priorities seem remarkably practical.”
Fitzwilliam shrugged with a grin, his easy humour undimmed.
“A soldier’s life is rarely conducive to grand romance, Darcy. I must consider my circumstances. Unlike you, I cannot rely on a sprawling estate and endless funds to sustain my dreams of marital bliss.”
“Perhaps,” Darcy replied, “but you may find that when the right person appears, such calculations become less pressing. The heart has a way of undermining even the most carefully laid plans.”
Bingley nodded in agreement, his expression earnest.
“It’s true. I thought myself a practical man, but then I met Jane, and suddenly, all else seemed insignificant. Her happiness became the only thing that mattered.”
Fitzwilliam looked between the two men with a theatrical sigh.
“How disheartening it is to be surrounded by such paragons of romance. Perhaps I shall take my leave before I am entirely overcome with envy.”
“Your cynicism is transparent,” Darcy observed, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his voice. “You may jest, but I suspect you would not be so dismissive if you were to meet someone who truly challenged you.”
Fitzwilliam arched a brow.
“Challenged me? I think not, Darcy. I prefer to remain unchallenged and unencumbered. It makes life far more predictable.”
“Predictable, perhaps,” Darcy said, his gaze steady, “but hardly fulfilling.”
Fitzwilliam chuckled and drained the last of his brandy.
“Well, my dear cousin, I shall leave you to your wisdom. Let it never be said that I do not admire your conviction, even if I do not share it.”
Bingley smiled, his tone light.
“I imagine you’ll change your tune soon enough, Fitzwilliam. After all, if Darcy can find himself thoroughly besotted, there is hope for everyone.”
The colonel stood, stretching lazily as he set his glass aside.
“We shall see, Bingley. For now, I will content myself with my bachelorhood and the freedom it affords. But rest assured, I shall be the first to toast your marital bliss when the time comes.”
With that, Fitzwilliam excused himself, leaving Darcy and Bingley alone in the drawing room. The fire crackled softly, casting warm light over the polished wood and gleaming crystal.
Bingley turned to Darcy, his expression thoughtful.
“Do you think Fitzwilliam truly believes what he says? That he is content as he is?”
Darcy considered this for a moment before replying.
“He may believe it now, but contentment and happiness are not always the same. Fitzwilliam is a man of great loyalty and honour. I suspect that when he finds someone who values those qualities as much as we do, his perspective will change.”
Bingley nodded slowly, a small smile playing on his lips.
“You’re probably right. And in the meantime, we shall do our best to set a good example of wedded harmony.”
Darcy allowed himself a rare smile, the corners of his mouth lifting in genuine amusement.
“Indeed. Though I suspect Elizabeth and Jane will prove far better examples than we could ever hope to be.”
The two friends shared a quiet laugh, the warmth of their camaraderie as steady and reassuring as the firelight around them.
“Well, the hour grows late. I ought to return home.”
“Very well.”
“Isn’t it wonderful to have them here in London?” Bingley said dreamily. “I cannot wait for a time where I will never have to say goodbye to her, only goodnight – and we will wake side by side.”
“You will share a bedroom?” Darcy asked with a raised eyebrow. “That seems highly unusual.”
“My parents always shared; I thought nothing of it. I know some keep separate quarters, but I always believed that seemed rather a poor show. She will be my wife; why should I want any distance at all from her?”
Darcy said nothing. He had not even considered that a man and wife would share a bed together. His own parents, though they had married for love, never had. It was natural to desire privacy, and marriage would surely not change that.
“Oh dear,” Bingley said, “you’re thinking again, aren’t you? Now that your cousin has gone, you may speak to me. I will not laugh as he would. Are you feeling alright about everything?”
“What do you mean?”
“I may have been in my cups at the club the other night, but I was not beyond comprehension. I saw your unease, and you have not been yourself since. He has gotten under your skin.”
“Nonsense.”
“We are both men, Darcy, and I am as inexperienced in love as you. You have this dreadful habit of keeping everything you think and feel carefully hidden. You must feel as though you are going mad!”
“I am quite well, I assure you, and looking forward to my marriage. There is nothing more to say.”
“It is not a shameful thing, you know, to desire your wife. I do not know what ideas have been put in your head, but…”
Darcy’s expression tightened, and he turned his gaze to the fire, the flickering flames a welcome distraction from Bingley’s probing words. The warmth of the room suddenly felt stifling.
“Bingley,” Darcy said, his tone clipped, “this is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion.”
Bingley leaned forward slightly, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
“It may not be the time or place, Darcy, but it is necessary. You’re my closest friend, and I cannot stand by while you tie yourself in knots over something that ought to be a source of joy.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, his shoulders stiff.
“I am not… tied in knots, as you put it. My thoughts are simply preoccupied with the logistics of the wedding, the move to Pemberley, and Elizabeth’s adjustment to her new life. It is only natural that I feel some trepidation.”
“And yet,” Bingley said gently, “I have never known you to feel anything but certainty in all that you do. Tell me - are you worried that you and Elizabeth will not suit?”
“Elizabeth and I suit perfectly. She compels me to be a better man. It is myself I question, not her.”
Bingley nodded encouragingly.
“Go on.”
Darcy hesitated, searching for the words.
“I have spent my life guarding my emotions, presenting a facade of control and reserve. With Elizabeth, that facade is often laid bare. She sees through me in ways no one else has. While I value her perception, it leaves me... exposed.”
Bingley smiled faintly. “And that frightens you.”
“It unsettles me,” Darcy admitted. “I have always sought order, predictability. Elizabeth is far from predictable. She has an air of chaos about her, and I fear that I will be lost to it.”
“That does not sound like something to fear,” Bingley said. “It sounds like love.”
Darcy turned his gaze back to his friend, his expression conflicted.
“It is love, Bingley, of that I am certain. But love alone does not dispel the habits of a lifetime. I did not believe myself to ever be worthy of her, and now I am sure I will disappoint her.”
Bingley’s smile broadened, and he clapped a hand on Darcy’s shoulder.
“My friend, if Elizabeth Bennet has chosen you, it is because she sees in you the man you are and the man you strive to be. She does not strike me as someone easily disappointed.”
Darcy allowed himself a small, wry smile.
“You have more faith in me than I do.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Bingley said brightly, standing and smoothing his waistcoat. “Now, get some rest. It would not do to stand at the alter with those dreadful shadows under your eyes.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Darcy. And remember - sometimes chaos is just another word for passion.”
With that, Bingley departed, leaving Darcy alone in the drawing room. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across the walls as Darcy stood in thoughtful silence. He took little comfort in his friend’s words, for he was certain Bingley did not understand the depth of his confusion, nor the terrible lust that had consumed him.
He stood alone in the parlour, gazing at the dwindling fire burning in the grate. After some time, there was a gentle knock at the door. He did not answer, but the door opened all the same. Elizabeth stood there, a soft smile on her face.
“There you are!” she said, crossing the room and standing beside him. “I wondered where you had got to. The rest of the party has retired for the night, and Mr Bingley has returned home. I wanted to make sure you were still willing to marry me after spending so long with my mother.”
“I was thinking, that was all.”
“Oh?”
“I am afraid that I am not a passionate man, Elizabeth. I may not give you what you require of me.”
“Require of you? I don’t understand.”
“There are things a husband must be, and I worry I will not be enough.”
“What has started all this?” she asked, taking his chin in her hand and turning his face towards her. “I must confess, the kiss you gave me in the woods felt as though you were a passionate man. I have not stopped thinking of it.”
“I should not have taken such a liberty.”
“It is no liberty; I am yours, Fitzwilliam. I would make no apologies for our love, no matter what my mother says.”
“What has your mother said?”
Elizabeth hesitated, and he knew the tightening of her jaw and furious flash of her eyes well. Her mother had caused her true offence beyond her usual irritation, and he felt his own jaw tighten in response.
“She stated that we were so closely chaperoned because – and I still cannot understand this – of the way we look at each other.”
“The way that we look at each other?”
“It is absurd! Oh, I cannot repeat what my mother said to me! It is dreadful.”
“You may tell me anything, dear Elizabeth. There is nothing that you must hide from me.”
“She accused me of encouraging impropriety. She said no man wants a wife who behaves like a harlot.”
He inhaled sharply.
“I am sorry she said such a thing to you. It is an unforgivable slight of your character.”
“My mother slights my character as easily as other people breathe, it is usually of no consequence to me. I must admit, I am unsettled by her words. Is it wrong, Fitzwilliam, to love you as I do?”
“No.”
“And is it wrong that I dream of your lips against mine?” she whispered. “Oh, I have dreamt of more than that. Forgive me, but sometimes I feel like I will die when I wake from those dreams. My body aches for you.”
Darcy took a step closer, the distance between them shrinking until he could feel the faint warmth of her body. His hand moved tentatively, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his fingertips lingering against her temple.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “you speak of dreams. Do you not see? I live in torment, for my waking thoughts are no different.”
Her lips parted, her breath catching as she looked up at him.
“Torment?”
He nodded, his hand sliding to cup her cheek.
“To stand so near and yet restrain myself… It is agony. Every glance, every word you speak - each one ignites a fire within me I scarcely know how to contain. And yet, I must, for you deserve a man who honours you, who does not succumb to his baser instincts.”
Elizabeth reached up, her delicate hand covering his as it rested against her face.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute, “I do not wish to be honoured at the expense of your love. I want all of you, just as you are.”
He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with the storm of emotions her words provoked.
“You cannot know what you are asking.”
“Then show me,” she whispered, her free hand curling into the fabric of his waistcoat. “Show me what it is you feel. Do not hide yourself away from me. Let me carry some of this burden you bear.”
The plea in her voice was his undoing. Darcy lowered his head slowly, his breath mingling with hers as he hovered a fraction away from her lips.
“Elizabeth…”
When their lips finally met, the kiss was not the hesitant brush of first lovers but the culmination of weeks of longing and restraint. His hand slid into her hair, tangling in the soft curls, while her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer. He felt the soft press of her tongue against his lips and could not help the groan that escaped him. He was drowning in her, her sweet perfume filling his senses.
Darcy broke the kiss reluctantly, his forehead resting against hers as they both struggled to catch their breath.
“I fear I shall never have enough of you,” he admitted, his voice hoarse.
“I am glad,” she smiled, “for I do not intend to ever stop loving you as I do.”
He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against him. She wrapped own arms around his waist, her cheek resting on his chest. She inhaled deeply, the scent of him filling her senses. She would surely never tired of this; to be held in such a way was perfection in her eyes.
Perfection could never last.
There was another knock at the door, and the two sprang apart.
“Come in,” Darcy said reluctantly.
The door opened slowly and Miss Bennet peered round. She fixed Elizabeth with a hard stare; far more severe than he had ever seen from the most mild-mannered of the Bennet sisters. He knew he had made a terrible mistake in allowing Elizabeth into this room without another soul present. He knew he had made a far more grave mistake in kissing her so passionately.
“Forgive my intrusion, but Mama wishes to see you.”
“Of course. Goodnight, Mr Darcy.”
“Goodnight, Miss Elizabeth. Miss Bennet. I trust everything is to your liking.”
“Quite so, thank you. Come, Lizzy.”
With a final glance, Elizabeth and her sister retired from the room with the briefest of curtsies, and Darcy was once more left alone to contemplate his desires.