Chapter 11 #2
For a moment, looking at the opals made him think of one night they had spent at Pemberley in his bed.
It had been a full moon, and he had not drawn the curtains around them.
Elizabeth had fallen asleep after their intimacy, and she remained unclothed, touched by the moonlight and turned into a luminous, ethereal beauty.
Her wild tumble of dark curls had only emphasised the effect.
The vision was so enrapturing, it had stolen his breath away, and he had sworn that his heart stopped beating for several moments while he gazed on her that night.
He opened the box and ran his finger lightly over the jewels. “You pale in comparison, although you are quite lovely.”
Closing the box, he leant his head back, thinking of last year at this time.
He had given her a beautiful fur-lined pelisse; she had given him a new set of books and a fine French brandy that her uncle had procured for her.
He had urged her to taste it with him, which made her look at him in that wide-eyed, startled look that he loved, but he had insisted.
The first tentative sip had caused her to choke a bit, but he had encouraged her to persevere, and the second went down a bit better. A few more generous sips, and she was giggly and flushed and delightfully responsive to his amorous advances.
The recall to his current location and situation was devastating, and thus it was, with the drops that remained of his fifth brandy still drying in the glass, that he offered himself a bit of a Christmas present in the form of a good prolonged period of quite unmanly weeping.
The year of 1813 began as would be expected in January, with a sleety, snowy rain that kept most of the inhabitants of London indoors. Darcy stood on the first day of the New Year, restive and unsettled, though he knew not why.
His anxiety for Elizabeth’s health had rapidly elevated in the days since Christmas, and he could not understand, in the absence of any new information, why it would be so.
The depth of his concern for her was even greater than it had been in the initial days of her disappearance.
He was now having nightly dreams of terrible fates befalling her, and even during the day, he could not push his concerns from his mind, experiencing a constant niggling fear that somehow she was not well, that wherever she was, she was ill or in grave danger.
Impulse drove him to run to her—and he would have if he knew where to go.
Instead, he stood at the window, frustrated and useless, wanting to scream out her name.
His butler entered the room. “Miss Caroline Bingley, sir.”
“Miss Bingley?” Darcy’s brows shot up. What on earth was Miss Bingley doing calling upon him? He agreed to allow her entry, irregular as it was.
He did not invite her into his study, rather choosing to meet her in the street-facing blue saloon. She was standing therein, gazing out the window to the street below. When Darcy entered, she turned, looking uncertain.
“Thank you for receiving me.”
“What do you want?” he asked sharply.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “I came to town hoping to see my brother’s child…”
“A bit early for that, are you not?”
“Yes.” She lowered her head. “Yes, I had hoped they would allow me to remain but…but I am needed in Scarborough.”
“What is it you want from me?”
She disregarded his attempt to come to the point. “Louisa tells me they will name her Elizabeth if she is a girl. As if…almost as if…”
Darcy stared coldly.
“Well, as if they think she is dead. Do you think her dead?”
“We are finished now.” Darcy walked towards her and extended his arm towards the door. “You will go. Thank you for calling, but do not trespass on my notice again.”
“A moment!” she cried. “Forgive me, I did not mean…I mean, surely it has crossed your mind?”
“Do you understand,” he said tightly, “that you played a substantial role in my wife being out on her own, yes, possibly dead, yes, possibly hurt? The blame is mine, but you do share it.”
“Yes, and I wish to apologise to you and hope that you would allow me to”—she licked her lips—“make it up to you.”
Darcy quickly backed away. “I do not know what you mean.”
Her voice husky, Miss Bingley reached for his hand. “What is the harm in you and I resuming our…particular friendship?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Darcy as icily as he could. “There is no particular friendship between us.”
“You are a man with a man’s needs, Darcy, and Eliza never could have filled them. The baser needs perhaps…but I think you will soon see that I can do it all.” A tall woman, it required very little effort for her to press her lips against his, her hand reaching around to pull him to her.
“Stop it!” Darcy leapt backwards.
Miss Bingley smiled, her hand lightly tracing her bodice. “Come, Darcy. Why be faithful to a wife who is lost to you?”
“I do not know—”
“What woman could ever love a man who treated her so very infamously?”
“Get out,” Darcy ordered, feeling his rage turning his face purple.
“You need me,” she said, with a knowing smile. “And I am willing to fill that need.”
She moved towards the door, pausing a moment to say, “We are not done here, Darcy. I shall tell everyone I know about our affaire de coeur, and how your country mouse simply could not abide it.”
“Do not dare spread your filth,” he hissed. “I shall see you ruined. Scarborough will be too good for you when I am done.”
The last fell on deaf ears as she had already quit the room. Darcy sank into a chair, running his hand through his hair. “Hateful, stupid woman.”