Some Particular Evil

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

E lizabeth had been hesitant to take Lady Catherine up on her offer to look over Sir Lewis’s library, but as Charlotte had taken Maria with her to visit with some of her husband’s parishioners, she was without female company to pass her time. Mr Collins, who thought himself above such visits when his esteemed patroness might call upon him to attend her at any moment, found it impossible to be in a room alone with Elizabeth without reminding her of her friend’s good fortune. Upon his hinting that Lady Catherine would not have been able to countenance pert opinions and hoydenish habits in her vicar’s wife, Elizabeth decided she must take herself away from the parsonage. She did not inform her host of her destination, as he was more like than not to offer to accompany her, which would have defeated her purpose altogether.

As she strode up the long, packed-gravel drive towards the great house, Elizabeth noted a closed carriage waiting in front of the grand stone stairs. Assuming that Lady Catherine was entertaining company of some sort, she wondered if the butler might agree to show her to the library without having to announce her. She did not wish to be caught in one of Lady Catherine’s soliloquies on her own understanding.

Approaching, she found the door partially ajar with no servant about. She breathed thanks and slipped in unnoticed, thus accomplishing the first part of her plan with relative ease. She padded silently through the great reception hall, espying the back of a grave, brawny man all in black walking towards Lady Catherine’s parlour. She had made it this far unseen; now, she just had to determine where the library was.

Elizabeth knew the general direction in which to search and hoped the whole Rosings party was paying court to Lady Catherine and her guest so she might open a wrong door or two with relative impunity. This she did, first coming upon a narrow stair, apparently for the use of the servants, and then opening into a dark room with tall bookshelves lining the back wall. She entered, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low light, for just one candle flickered upon a great mahogany desk, and heavy brocade curtains along the opposite wall shut out the sun almost completely.

When her vision cleared, Elizabeth could see she was not in the library, but rather a gentleman’s study. She noted several ledgers lying open upon the desk, full of handwritten notations and sums, as well as the remnants of a tea yet to be cleared away. Just then, the heavy oaken door clicked shut behind her, and she gasped as a tall silhouette appeared at her right, silently looming over her. She sighed with relief when a closer look revealed only a black wool jacket hanging upon a standing coat rack. Peering further into the room, she noted a waning fire and the silhouette of a half empty bottle of brandy on a small table. She was then struck by an ominous sensation as she took in the form of a man slumped into a heavily tufted chair, as still as death.

She inched her way towards the place where the man was seated, wondering who it might be, and whether he was all right. She hoped whoever it was was only asleep. But who would be sleeping in Sir Lewis’s study? And at this hour? Surely, it could not be one of the young gentlemen of the house. It was barely four in the afternoon; young men would not need a nap at this time of day! Besides, Lady Catherine would consider it the height of rudeness for either of her nephews to be absent while she was entertaining guests. Something must be wrong with the gentleman.

A sense of dread momentarily swept over her when she caught sight of an arm swathed in white linen hanging limply over the chair’s side.

As she stepped closer, her attention was so intent upon the still figure that she did not see the edge of the rug before one of her feet had slid under it, causing another sharp intake of breath as she lunged forwards, barely catching herself on the arm of the man’s chair and jarring it noticeably. Untangling her slipper from the thick rug, which had bent to follow her, her body twisted in such a way that she wound up facing the form on the chair, her hand still upon its arm to steady herself. Her eyes darted towards the face of the man who was now only inches from her.

Mr Darcy!

At her interruption, he lifted his head and blinked up into her face. Before she could register what was happening, his eyes fell closed again and he gave a quiet, almost pained moan.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered in what she could only call a tone of desperation.

Her indignation at his presumptuous use of her given name—and confusion at the manner in which he had spoken it—was replaced by relief when she saw his body relax once more. Was he going back to sleep? Perhaps, she thought, if she stood very, very still, he would fall more deeply into his previous state of slumber, and she could slink away unnoticed.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” he mumbled again, his eyebrows furrowed. She was shocked at that moment to feel a strong, masculine hand light upon her neck and travel up to cup her cheek. “My dearest love,” she heard Mr Darcy say before he pulled her to him and placed his lips on hers.

Mr Darcy was kissing her— kissing her ! And was she mistaken, or had he just called her his love? What was she meant to do?

She knew she should push herself away. She should scream. Slap him. Run. But not only was she too shocked to move, Elizabeth found herself mesmerised by the smell of his shaving soap and the tenderness of his touch as well as the gentle hunger with which his mouth explored hers. The mix of agony and ecstasy playing upon his brow as she watched him kiss her was nothing short of intoxicating. He was clearly still sleeping—dreaming—yet his touches were very real.

And the yearning in his voice as he said her name.

Indeed, he had left no room for doubt she was the object of his assurances. She could not even attempt to fool herself that he was dreaming of Anne de Bourgh while kissing her. He had said, ‘Elizabeth, my dearest love’.

Love ? Mr Darcy, self-righteous master of Pemberley, loved her? Preposterous! It was simply unbelievable that this proud man could hold such tender regard for her, Elizabeth Bennet, an upstart country nobody from an obscure corner of Hertfordshire. She was sure he disliked her as much as she did him! But what had he said that morning about holding her in high esteem? Could she have been so wrong?

Inexplicably, she felt in herself a newfound charity towards this Fitzwilliam Darcy and wondered what else she might have been wrong about.

After a moment, he drew his lips from hers, manoeuvred her head to his shoulder, and began to stroke her temple as he rested his head against hers and settled back into his slumber.

Who was this man, so adoring and attentive? So wrapped up in his dreams of her that he did not even awaken when the reality stood before him?

She pulled herself away from him. Was it possible for her to extricate herself without waking him? If she could escape this study without disturbing him, Mr Darcy might never realise she had been there. Or, if he did remember anything, he might simply count it as a pleasant dream. She was lying to herself. If he experienced anything near what she did, he would call it an astonishing, wondrous dream, one full of yearning and fulfilment, of surprise and need and contentment and a thousand words he could not find.

If only she could get out of this room!

Just as his arm stole around her waist and gently pulled her down onto his lap, a loud knock resounded from the study door.