Chapter Sixteen #4
Darcy had been watching one dark curl that had freed itself from its pin and was taken aback. “Stop what?” he asked.
Miss Elizabeth made a face. “Stop looking at me as though I was Mrs. Thistlewaite’s chocolate cream.”
He laughed in surprise, he could not help it. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh,” she said with an aggravated sigh, “never mind. You cannot marry Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Mr. Darcy.”
“What…why is that, Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy asked. What is she saying?
“Because,” she said, rooting through her drawings and removing several of them from the collection before sitting, “you do not know who I am, and I certainly cannot figure you out. This is hardly a good foundation for a betrothal.”
“What do you…”
“Hush,” Miss Elizabeth said forcefully. “For a man who hardly ever speaks, you are having a terrible time following my request.”
“It was not a request at all,” he complained, the volume of his voice increasing.
“Shh,” Elizabeth whispered.
He lowered his voice. “It was a command.”
“And you cannot take commands from anyone, sir?” She sniffed. “A poor quality in a husband.”
He watched her eyes sparkle. “I was of the belief, madam, that it was the husband who issued most of the commands,” he countered. There, let her chew on that.
Miss Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. If she had not been holding several drawings, Darcy was sure her balled-up fists would have traveled to her hips, and he tried not to smile.
“Are you truly going to argue with me? Now?” She frowned at him. “This is a singular sort of proposal, sir.”
“You refused my proposal, Miss Elizabeth.” There was a small gasp from the doorway to Miss Bennet’s room.
Damn. I forgot Miss Mary was there. He closed his eyes, opening them to see Miss Elizabeth laughing at him.
Not out loud, but he could see it in the lifted shoulders, the hand covering her lips.
“You cannot marry Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” she said when she had regained her composure. “Because my full name is Miss Elizabeth Bennet… Russell.”
Darcy blinked. “I do not understand…”
Miss Elizabeth’s face was serious, and her eyes fixed on something over his shoulder. “Do you recall what you heard about my leaving Longbourn at ten years of age?”
He nodded. “It was only last night. Of course I remember.”
“It is true. But I went to live with my Uncle Phillip, not my Uncle Phillips. My Uncle Phillip and Aunt Olivia Russell. Mrs. Russell née Bennet.”
“Phillip and Olivia…” he repeated. It cannot be. There are dozens of branches of the Russell family in England.
“Russell. Yes. Of Weymouth House.”
Darcy looked across the room at Miss Mary, who nodded and shrugged.
He felt the blood rushing from his face and felt a little dizzy.
“Why… why did you not say? You are Elizabeth Russell?” His mind was whirling.
“You are Georgiana’s very best friend. You knew my father. Why would you not tell me this?”
“Had you deigned to be introduced to me at the assembly,” she fired back, “you would have known it all from the first.” She glanced up at him.
“My father instructed me not to use the Russell name here in Meryton. It bothers my mother. Still, I would have told you if you had in any way invited such a confidence.”
“Oh,” he breathed. His head began to ache again. “That is a significant secret.”
“It is not a secret, sir,” Elizabeth replied. “Everyone in Meryton knows it, though in deference to my mother and father they do not openly discuss it.”
He felt a rush of heat—embarrassment, but also anger. “So everyone has known? All this time? Were you making fools of us, Miss Elizabeth?” He bit his lip. “Or shall I say Miss Russell?”
“You made a fool of yourself, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Elizabeth responded, growing more irritable with each exchange, and she lifted the drawing from the table to wave it at him before dropping it.
“Must I remind you so soon?” She removed the top sheet of drawing paper from her stack and slapped it down on top of the first. “After the assembly, you and Mr. Bingley met us at the bottom of Oakham Mount, do you recall that?”
Darcy saw another sketch of his face, this time surprised. He recalled the discussion with Richard and his first sight of Miss Elizabeth’s horse.
“Kensington,” he murmured. “Kensington.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Good God, I knew that mare looked like a Pemberley Arabian. She is, is she not?”
Miss Elizabeth was nonplussed. “Yes.” She waved the drawing at him. “Is that all you see here?”
He took the portrait from her and examined it. “You stopped my heart that day,” he muttered, discomfited.
“What did you say?” she asked, disbelieving.
He cleared his throat. Well, it is out in the open now.
Tell her the truth. Convince her. “A puff of dust and there you were, like a genie from a bottle. Looking… that riding jacket, and your eyes in the sun.” He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.
“I had no idea what to do. I have never felt…”
Her eyes widened. “Stop,” she ordered, her voice almost squeaking. She plucked a third portrait and set it down on the table. “What of this? You cannot possibly expect me to believe this is anything other than disapprobation.”
When Darcy saw the sketch, he thought that for the first time in his life he might faint.
Had he ever been so wholly unable to control himself?
He was staring as though… Oh, good God. If her father ever saw this stare, he would kill me where I stood, and I would have no defense.
Darcy had a vivid recollection of watching her in the drawing room, always with an answer for Miss Bingley’s barbs that said more than the words themselves.
The knowing smile that played upon those perfect lips, the teasing expression in her eyes as they rose to meet his own…
“That is not… disapprobation, Miss Russell,” he said through gritted teeth, unconsciously shifting his legs closer together.
That is desire. He dared not look at her.
She is a maiden, Darcy, she is a maiden.
Think of something horrible. Richard in a dress.
His breathing began to slow. Holding a parasol.
Better. And a brandy. The danger passed.
“What is it, then?” Miss Elizabeth asked him, scrutinizing the picture, honestly bemused. “It is certainly not approval.”
Darcy grimaced and signaled that she should move on to the next drawing.
Instead, she separated the first three in order.
“First, you refuse to be introduced.” She touched the second.
“Then, you seemed surprised to learn that I can ride.” She lifted the third, and Darcy felt his cheeks heat.
“Then, well, you say this is not disapproval, but I am not yet convinced.” She made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat and touched the last.
“Then,” she said, “you smiled at me.” She shook her head. “I cannot make you out, Mr. Darcy. One moment you are critical, the next you are smiling at me like… that.” She jabbed a finger in the middle of the page, nearly piercing his lips.
Darcy relaxed as he gazed at it. “I like this one very much, Miss Elizabeth,” he said gently. “I mean, Miss Russell.”
She shook her head. “Please continue to call me Miss Elizabeth while I am here. I do not wish for Miss Bingley or her sister. . .” she blushed. “It is only that…”
He held up a hand. “No matter, I do comprehend you.” Would that I had another name to use. He moved to get a better look at the final portrait. “May I?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. He picked up the drawing, at the same time managing to slide the third one beneath the second. She frowned at him but did not move it.
He was smiling. His eyes were soft, for he was gazing upon her, and he was happy. Here he was as he hoped she would always see him. Smiling. At her. For her. “Burn them,” he said suddenly.
Miss Elizabeth appeared horrified. “No, sir.”
“Please,” he said, his voice intense as he turned the final portrait out for her to see. “Let me begin again from this moment.”
Her brow creased, yet her expression was somehow softened.
“I would not have you think I do not care for you, Mr. Darcy,” she said haltingly.
“Despite your confounding changes of mood and attitude, your sister has long described you as the very best of men, and I have seen some of that in you as well.”
Dear Georgiana, he thought, elated. She shall have whatever she wishes for her come-out, no matter the cost. “Do you accept my offer, then?”
She frowned and considered. “Courtship, Mr. Darcy. I believe we need to know one another better, but I would have no objection to a courtship.”
He took a deep breath. It was not what he had asked for but given the behavior she had captured in her sketches, more than he deserved. He reached out to take her hand; this time she did not flinch or move away.
“Do you always negotiate with your suitors, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, both joyful and amused.
“You would be surprised how sharp my negotiation skills are, Mr. Darcy,” she replied archly.
Miss Mary snorted.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, relief, gratitude, and love spilling out into those two words. “You do me great honor. I thank you.” He kissed her hands. “May I speak with your father?”
“When Jane and I go home,” Miss Elizabeth said.
He frowned. “Must we wait?”
The tip of Miss Elizabeth’s tongue darted out to wet her lips. “Mary is afraid she will say something unforgiveable if she is forced to remain and you know I will have to depart once our courtship is announced.”
“Very well,” Darcy replied. “I shall be patient. But I have your word?”
There was a small scraping sound as Mary nearly jumped from her chair. “Yes,” she hissed. “You have her word. Lizzy, get me out of this house!”