Chapter 6
Darcy had only just turned from Elizabeth when the carriage came fully into view, its wheels flashing briefly between the trees before it emerged upon the drive.
The interruption, though not unwelcome in itself, struck him with a violence wholly disproportionate to the occasion.
A moment before, Elizabeth had been looking at him with uncertainty, softness, and that bewildered pain which had undone every defence he possessed; another breath, and he might have answered what she had not quite asked.
Now duty claimed him.
He watched the carriage approach, drawing in a long breath and setting his shoulders as he had done a thousand times before receiving guests.
Georgiana had come early, then, and with her, as he soon perceived, were Bingley, his sisters, and Mr. Hurst. He was glad to see his sister; he was truly glad.
Yet his body, traitorous and heated, remained aware of Elizabeth at his side, of the nearness that had just been broken, of the words still lodged in his throat.
“I believe your party has arrived,” she said.
“Yes,” Darcy replied, and forced himself to look away from her. “My sister, and some friends who were expected later.”
“How fortunate for them that Pemberley is prepared to be admired at any hour,” she said, with a faint return of archness.
He almost smiled, but the carriage stopped, the servants came forward, and Georgiana’s pale face appeared at the door. Darcy went to her at once, offering his hand as she descended, and the familiar tenderness of her shy, grateful pressure did much to steady him.
“Georgiana,” he said, “you are earlier than I looked for you.”
“I hope it is not inconvenient,” she answered, blushing. “Miss Bingley wished to travel before the heat increased.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Miss Bingley cried, stepping down with every appearance of elegance and dissatisfaction. “We should have been here sooner still, had Mr. Hurst not required refreshment at the last inn.”
Mr. Hurst murmured something unintelligible; Bingley, springing down behind him, brightened at once.
“Darcy! We have surprised you, I see. But not unpleasantly, I hope?”
“Not unpleasantly,” Darcy said, and meant it as well as he was able, though his gaze had already strayed past Bingley’s shoulder.
Elizabeth stood a little apart, the breeze moving about her gown with a freedom no gentleman’s hand could claim.
For one unguarded instant the light muslin pressed close, shaping itself to her waist, her hips, the soft rise and fall of her breath, and Darcy felt the sight strike him with such force that his own breath stopped.
She lifted one hand to secure her bonnet, and the motion drew the fabric tighter across her figure, only for a moment, only enough to reveal what propriety usually softened and concealed; yet that moment entered him like heat.
He looked away at once.
Or tried to.
His eyes obeyed before his body did. The blood had already risen beneath his skin, thick and hot, gathering at his throat and lower in his chest with a force that made him feel less like master of Pemberley than a man perilously close to forgetting himself.
He had desired her before—at Netherfield, at Rosings, in the long torment of memory after Hunsford—but now desire came altered by tenderness, and that made it harder to master.
He did not merely want the beauty of her.
He wanted the blush she hid, the quickness of her breath, the private warmth of her laughter, the right to stand close enough that no summer wind might know the shape of her before he did.
The thought was so intimate, so possessive, that shame flashed through him at once.
Darcy turned his gaze to the gravel, jaw tight, hands still at his sides, while every disciplined part of him laboured to contain what one careless gust of air had awakened.
To step between her and the wind would have been madness; to wish to do so was hardly better.
Yet he wished it.
“Darcy?” Bingley said.
Darcy collected himself. “Forgive me. There are guests upon the grounds whom I must present to you.”
Miss Bingley’s attention sharpened, but he had already moved toward Elizabeth and the Gardiners, who had now joined her.
He made the introductions with as much composure as he could command, though Bingley’s open pleasure at seeing Elizabeth again, Georgiana’s timid curiosity, and Miss Bingley’s instant calculation all passed before him with uncomfortable clarity.
“Miss Bennet,” Bingley said warmly, “this is an unexpected pleasure.”
Elizabeth smiled, and Darcy, though he had no right to resent the ease of it, felt the old prick of jealousy like heat beneath the skin. Yet her eyes returned to him almost immediately, and the look steadied him.
“Since chance has been so generous,” Darcy said, before prudence could argue him out of it, “I hope you will allow Pemberley to extend its welcome a little further. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, Miss Bennet—would you do us the honour of dining here tomorrow?”
Elizabeth’s lips parted slightly. Mrs. Gardiner looked pleased and surprised; Mr. Gardiner bowed with proper gratitude.
“We should be honoured, sir,” Mr. Gardiner said, “if it is not an imposition.”
“None,” Darcy replied, and though he addressed them all, his eyes found Elizabeth. “It would be a pleasure.”
Her blush answered before her voice did, rising with such softness beneath her skin that Darcy felt it like a touch against his own.
It coloured her cheeks, slipped lower to the tender place beneath her ear, and made him think—God help him—of warmth spreading where his mouth had no right even to imagine resting.
“Then we thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she said.
The words were perfectly proper. Everything about the moment was proper: the gravel beneath their feet, the servants near the carriage, Bingley smiling beside him, her aunt and uncle standing by with innocent gratitude.
Yet Elizabeth’s lashes lowered for the briefest instant, and when she raised them again, there was something in her look that entered him slowly, dangerously, like heat beneath a closed door.
She knew he watched her. Worse, she seemed to feel it.
Darcy bowed because he must, because the whole world stood between them; but as he bent, his body remembered the weight of her when he had caught her, the narrow warmth of her waist beneath his hand, the startled softness of her breath.
Hope and desire gathered together low in him, not sudden now, but deep and banked and mercilessly alive, a flame hidden under ash, waiting only for air.