Chapter 5
Elizabeth had not expected walking beside Mr. Darcy to feel so very easy.
That was the danger of it, perhaps; that after all her resentment, all her mortification, all the long inward arguments since Hunsford, he should come to her not as the proud man she had once condemned, nor even as the injured man whose letter had humbled her, but as a gentleman anxious for her comfort, attentive to her smallest expression, and almost painfully careful not to presume.
She could not deserve that he should still look at her so, yet he did.
Not continuously, not improperly, but often enough that her skin became sensible of his gaze before her eyes could confirm it.
Each glance seemed to touch the place where shame and hope had become entangled, and she found herself wondering, with a trembling she could not entirely subdue, whether his regard had altered less than she had supposed.
She had thought of him since Hunsford, more than she would ever confess.
She had thought of him in the morning over her tea, at night while Jane slept peacefully beside her, and during those unguarded minutes when the mind, wearied by resisting, admits what pride has forbidden.
Last night, after learning they were to visit Pemberley, even sleep had betrayed her, and the recollection came upon her now with such force that heat rose instantly to her face.
In the dream, she had been at the Lambton inn, though the chamber had seemed half her own and half some hidden room of Pemberley, all shadow, moonlight, and heavy silence.
She had stood beside the bed in her nightdress, the thin linen clinging softly to her skin, her bare feet cold upon the floor, her breath already unsteady before the door had opened.
Then Mr. Darcy had entered, and he had spoken her name.
The sound of it had gone through her like a touch felt in her throat, her wrists, the hollow beneath her ribs, and lower still, where no proper thought ought ever to travel.
She had known she should be shocked, should summon indignation, should cover herself and command him to leave; but in the dream, there had been no fear in her, no shame, no wish to be rescued from him.
There had only been the terrible sweetness of want.
He had crossed the room slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, and every step had made her breath shorten.
She had seen the rise and fall of his chest, the dark intentness of his gaze, the restraint in the hands he kept at his sides as though touching her too soon might undo them both.
When he reached her, he did not seize her.
He waited, close enough that she felt the warmth of him through the fine linen of her gown, close enough that her own body leaned before her sense could forbid it.
She had reached for him first—and the memory of that dream-boldness made her fingers curl now inside her glove.
She had set her hands against his coat, felt the solid strength beneath the cloth, and lifted her face with a recklessness that had seemed, in sleep, like truth.
His breath had changed, his composure broken by a fraction, and then—his arms were around her, hard and careful at once, gathering her against him until she could feel the heat of his body, the fierce beat of his heart, the tremor in him that answered her own.
He lifted her as if she were precious, not fragile; desired, not merely admired.
Her arms had gone about his neck, her cheek had brushed his, and the shock of that almost-touch had sent a bright, helpless ache through her.
When he laid her back upon the bed, he followed only so far as honour permitted even in a dream, bracing himself above her with restraint drawn tight in every line of him; yet his gaze had moved over her face, her loosened hair, the rise of her breath beneath the linen, with such naked longing that Elizabeth had felt seen to the very center of herself.
Desire, in that impossible dream-world, had not felt dangerous—it had felt like being chosen with reverence.
“Are you fatigued, Miss Bennet?” Mr. Darcy asked. Elizabeth blinked hard and fixed her eyes on the stream, startled out of her reverie.
“No,” she said, too quickly, then laughed at herself because she must do something with the confusion in her chest. “That is, not from the walk. I was only considering whether Pemberley’s waters are as determined to expose my thoughts as its gallery has been.”
His mouth softened, and the faintest smile altered his whole countenance. “I have found the stream very discreet. It keeps what is entrusted to it.”
“Then I shall prefer it to portraits,” she said, and was rewarded by his low laugh, a sound so unexpectedly warm that her own spirits rose to meet it.
They continued in easier conversation, speaking of the valley, the changing trees, and the walks he had favored as a boy. Elizabeth found herself laughing more than once, and each time he looked at her as if her amusement were not a trivial thing, but a gift.
At length she glanced back and saw her aunt and uncle at some distance, watching the hedgerow with great interest, though Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes had plainly strayed toward the pair by the stream.
Elizabeth’s blush returned at once.
“My aunt and uncle will wonder at your showing me such attention,” she said quietly.
Mr. Darcy’s steps slowed. When she looked up, his expression held that same gravity which had once intimidated her, but now there was something in it that made her breath catch.
“I cannot regret being observed,” he said, “if what is observed is only that I wish to attend to you. I would not force my notice upon you, Miss Bennet, but if you would have it, I should not be ashamed for anyone to see it.”
Elizabeth stared at him. The air seemed to thin between them, warm and trembling; the sounds of water, insects, and distant voices receded until she heard only her own pulse. A soft, helpless sigh escaped her before she could prevent it.
“I cannot understand it,” she said. “After the way I misjudged you, after the things I believed, after the pain I must have given you—how can you still—”
The words failed, but his eyes did not release her. He drew breath as if to answer, and Elizabeth felt her whole body incline toward the reply.
Before he could speak, carriage wheels sounded upon the drive, followed by the sharp call of a servant and the approach of a carriage through the trees.
Mr. Darcy turned at once, duty reclaiming him in the set of his shoulders, and Elizabeth stepped back, cold with the sudden loss of what had almost been said.
Whatever answer had risen between them was pulled away, leaving only the stream to keep it.