Chapter 17 #3
He wanted to know all about her: childhood, family, pets, and schooling.
He was beyond pleased to learn she’d won the fifth-grade trifecta: school spelling bee, fastest fifty-yard dash, and poetry prize.
He was sympathetic that Jane’s allergies prevented the family from having childhood pets beyond turtles and fish, so Elizabeth had bonded with the dogs she’d walked for an elderly neighbor.
He marveled at her soccer career and the accolades and honors she’d earned.
His brows furrowed as she breezily described the bone fracture that led to the end of her days on the field.
He grimaced upon learning about the slow drift apart in her parents’ dysfunctional marriage and the abrupt departure of her mother.
He kissed her fingers lightly as she told the story, smiling wryly as if it were a funny anecdote about “what happened the day after my eighth birthday.” Elizabeth brushed off his sympathetic words, claiming it was Sylvia’s loss; as for herself, she’d moved on.
His heart broke a little for her, and he stored away the brave expression she wore. He knew that face well.
But Elizabeth refused to dwell on anything bad, no matter the vintage. She was too happy, he was too handsome, and they were together at long last. We’ve wasted too much time talking about things that don’t matter. I want to talk about us.
Until today, they’d only had a few conversations of any depth.
He’d talked a bit about his mother when they were at Pemberley, and he’d written about his family in his letter, but she wanted to keep this evening light and airy and focused on the two of them.
Talking in detail about her family was not the way to achieve that, nor was asking about his family or discussing the contents of the letter he’d written her and the risk he’d taken with his mother’s reputation to save hers.
She treaded lightly but canvassed him as well.
As she expected, he spoke little about himself.
His job was huge and the work never-ending.
He oversaw H. A. Darcy Ltd. divisions and properties on both the East and West Coasts and in eight countries.
He was trying to slow down, delegate more, and rely more heavily on the firm’s veteran management team, but he’d needed to learn every branch of his great-grandfather’s empire before he could do so.
Wide-eyed and a bit overwhelmed, Elizabeth fingered his black tie and asked whether working for MI6 would perhaps prove less stressful.
After coaxing a grin from him and an avowal that he truly did enjoy the business world, she asked the same questions he’d posed to her.
She learned that he, too, played soccer, or football, as a boy but learned to love cricket while at Eton and developed a better than average pitching arm for the pickup baseball games demanded by his American cousins.
This seemed safe ground, so Elizabeth gently probed about Rich’s family and Annabella.
Rich’s two older brothers had married young—heading to Boston and Dallas—and he was the “fun” uncle who sent silly birthday cards to the nieces, bawdy ones to the nephews, and was the goofy glue that held the family together.
Annabella De Bourgh was three years Darcy’s senior, and she’d spent most of his childhood ignoring him or explaining everything he did wrong.
“A classic big sister,” he said, wryly, “who likes to break things and see what happens.”
“It sounds as if she might have been well-suited for the sciences,” Elizabeth mused. “Blowing up beakers and discovering black holes.”
Darcy nodded. “Except she has this duality of intelligence and sloth. My Aunt Patricia, Rich’s mother, has long claimed Annabella has oppositional defiant disorder. She couldn’t get along in school and couldn’t commit to anything outside of it.”
“Has she found her calling in the art world?” Elizabeth asked delicately. “She seems to enjoy its provocative aspects.”
He took a drink of wine and looked at her for a moment. “Er, no. ‘Insight is the first condition of art.’”
Elizabeth dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. Another side of Fitzwilliam Darcy emerges. “Hmm…I don’t think C.K. Dexter Haven said that. I’ll go with Dilbert.” She stared at him until he cracked a smile.
He shook his head mournfully. “No points for Gryffindor, I’m afraid, Miss Bennet. George Henry Lewes, the Victorian-era philosopher.”
“And theater critic,” Elizabeth said smugly, thrilled at his look of happy surprise. Such fun to match him, point for point. She sighed and leaned into him.
When their server came and cleared the first course, their hands found each other under the table.
Darcy’s fingers brushed against Elizabeth’s bare knee, and he found himself desperate for her.
He wanted her, all of her, her mind and her body and her soul—or the parts of it she could share without losing her most essential, most wonderful self.
He’d never felt so alive as when he was with her, and this proximity, after experiencing her kisses and feeling her body pressed so close to his earlier that day, was sweet torture.
He ran his finger under her knee and felt her slight intake of breath.
Darcy kept his eyes on the server as he brushed up crumbs and set down fresh silverware.
He started to ask Elizabeth about the book she was working on, at her interest in a dark page of American history, but he sensed her attention had drifted.
He glanced at her and then followed her gaze.
A couple walking toward another table was staring at them.
“Friend or foe?” Elizabeth asked quietly, shifting her knee and bringing her hands up to the table.
“What?” He was bereft without the feel of her in his hands. He took a long drink of water.
“The blonde and the guy with the arty glasses coming at us.”
Darcy looked up. Penelope Stewart and Xander Kim. How bloody wonderful.
“Hey, Darcy, how are you?” Xander stuck out his hand.
Penelope smiled and waited for Darcy to stand. “Hello, babe. Missed you. It’s been ages.”
Elizabeth sat very still, listening to the breathy English voice and watching her air-kiss Darcy.
“Busy summer,” Darcy replied in a flat voice. “Lots of travel.”
“The Boulefeur-Pryce deal?” Xander asked.
“That’s one of them, yes.” Darcy’s tone was formal, even cold.
The couple’s attention drifted to Elizabeth. A waiter stood, menus in hand, discreetly to one side.
“Pardon me,” Darcy finally said. He gave Elizabeth a small, beleaguered smile. “Elizabeth Bennet, this is Xander Kim and Penelope Stewart.”
Penelope smiled in that brittle way familiar to many women. “Lovely to meet you, Elizabeth. Are you and Darcy old friends or new acquaintances?”
Elizabeth met Penelope’s eyes. “Very good friends,” she said evenly, a small smile playing on her lips. “He’s my boyfriend.”
Darcy turned to her, an incredulous, happy smile on his face. He slid back down into his seat. Elizabeth reached under the table and captured his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Elizabeth.” Xander had a small smile on his lips, but the rims on his sharp-angled eyeglasses didn’t quite conceal his raised eyebrows. He noticed the waiter behind him.
“Penelope, we should get to our table.”
“Really, Darcy?” Penelope said, in a quietly controlled voice. “I had no idea you did that sort of thing. Enjoy.” She turned and glared at the man holding the menus. “We’re supposed to have a table in the center room.” Xander nodded at Darcy and Elizabeth and followed Penelope.
The server approached with their second course, and Darcy stole a glance at Elizabeth.
Although still holding his hand, she was looking off thoughtfully, as if deciding what to say.
He was conscious, very conscious, of how much they hadn’t talked about, of how much both of them—but especially he—had held back.
Too much bad life, too much sadness and awfulness to stir up on this beautiful night.
The last thing he wanted to bring up was his past, even if it suddenly seemed necessary to explain a few things.
He owed her that much. Then her words hit him again.
Her boyfriend. Did she really mean that?
He still couldn’t read every thought Elizabeth Bennet had, but he’d make it his life’s work if she’d let him try.
Elizabeth knew she was a bit too quick-witted and always too fast with a sarcastic retort.
It had certainly caught Fitzwilliam Darcy’s notice last fall and then colored, tainted, and twisted their relationship for months.
And now, she’d laid claim to him as her boyfriend just to show up some Brit twit?
Was she being territorial? No, she was being honest and finally did what the man next to her had done so many times in the past: put herself on the line for him.
She knew her cheeks were red, and she felt his eyes on her.
Elizabeth slipped her hand out of his and sipped her wine.
“Elizabeth?”
She picked up her fork and speared a piece of cauliflower velouté.
“I hope that wasn’t too presumptuous of me.
I didn’t say it just to protect you from an old girlfriend.
” Her voice held a slight tremor. “I meant it. If that’s what you want.
” She took a bite and kept her eyes averted.
Elizabeth knew she was an idiot to feel unsure of herself, but this thing between them was so new and fragile, and her bravado was failing her a little.
“Elizabeth?” He put his hand on her arm. “You can’t imagine how much I want that.” He fumbled for words, unsure how to convey what her gesture, her protective territorial instincts, meant to him. Color burnished his cheekbones. “It’s an honor worth the earning.”