Chapter 16
Darcy closed the door behind him and lay back in the large armchair by the window. Alone in his apartment, he found it difficult to credit that the morning walk was real.
Had all the nights of struggle, disappointment, anger and self-reproach finally come to an end—and so easily? Had he only to be honest and openly display his feelings for her to make a choice in his favour? And did she truly choose so readily?
For some time she had led him to understand that her feelings for him had changed and she was not opposed to accepting his attentions. However, her expressions, her reception of his confession, her acceptance of his kiss—all so exceeded his hopes that he still feared their reality.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be overcome by the feelings he tried so long to deny.
When he could gather himself enough to think rationally, he realised they had not actually come to an understanding, but how could there be a more complete understanding than the way they spoke to each other?
They confessed their past faults and mistakes, their present feelings and desires, and their future hopes.
‘I trust you,’ she had said, and that statement was all he needed and desired. He did not actually propose to her again, but he allowed her the complete freedom of her wishes.
He had kissed her on her cheek cautiously, careful not to upset her; he knew he should not take that liberty so soon, but he was not strong enough to fight the temptation.
She was not upset, however—surprised, nervous, and shy but surely not upset.
He smiled to himself as he remembered that his lips stopped near hers—almost touching them—and she had timidly moved her head towards him.
If he had turned that kiss into a real one, she would not have rejected him, of that he was certain.
They had been alone with their newly discovered and shared feelings, and the temptation to allow his love and passion to conquer her was overwhelming and difficult to control.
However, it was not quite as difficult as it was to bear the sweet torture of their shared journey home.
She did not hesitate a moment when he asked her to ride with him; she said she trusted him, and she proved it.
He could feel her tension and perhaps even fear—especially when Thunder clambered down the hill—but he knew she had entwined her fingers with his from more than mere fright.
She enjoyed the caress of their hands as much as he did; he was certain of that, but he was also certain that their nearness affected her less than it did him.
He whispered to her a few times, and her scent as well as the silky warmth of her skin made him dizzy.
Each of the stallion’s steps brought her closer and brushed her against him such that every fibre of his body was painfully aware.
As he felt her relax in his firm embrace, with every passing moment, he became tense, nervous—and angry with himself for behaving like a schoolboy.
And the kiss—the real kiss—was her desire as much as his. He had allowed her the liberty to decide—and she did. He smiled with tenderness at her obvious lack of experience while his heart paced wildly at the remembered soft taste of her lips.
He startled violently when a servant insistently called his name, bringing him back from his thoughts. He was expected downstairs for breakfast. Yes, it was breakfast time; he should have known that.
As he apologised for the delay and took his seat at the table, he glanced at Elizabeth; she was speaking with her aunt, but his eyes made her turn towards him, flustered.
He was suddenly aware of a dilemma: should he wait until they returned to Hertfordshire to speak to Mr Bennet or should he write him immediately?
In any case, it was imperiously necessary that he clarify with Elizabeth the nature of their understanding just to be certain there were no misunderstandings remaining.
Moreover, he absolutely must call her Elizabeth—at least when they were not in company.
∞∞∞
“So—are you ready?” Lord Matlock inquired impatiently. “The horses are waiting.”The party was prepared for the ride, planned the previous day. While the others were eager to spend time outdoors, Georgiana seemed worried as she approached Elizabeth.
“You know, I think I should stay with you. After all, I am riding Duke, and I surely do not need to become accustomed to him.
Elizabeth gently took her hands and laughed. “I shall be forever grateful for your care, my dear friend, but you must not worry for me, truly. I have already rejected Jane’s offer, and I would feel guilty if you cannot enjoy your ride because of me.”
“But it is such a lovely day! Perhaps I should ask uncle to prepare a carriage.”
“I know it is a beautiful day; I had a wonderfully long walk earlier. In fact, I am a bit fatigued; I think I will rest a little while you are out.”
“My dear, we should go,” Mr Darcy said, smiling at them. “I would suggest that Miss Bennet rests a little while we are gone,” he added, and both ladies laughed.
“Elizabeth just told me she wished to rest a little.” Georgiana explained their amusement.
“I see… Well, it pleases me to see that Miss Bennet and I share the same thoughts,” he replied, looking pointedly at Elizabeth.
“I thank you both for your care.” Elizabeth smiled. “Please enjoy your time; I shall see you again soon,” she added as the Darcys reluctantly left the house.
Elizabeth followed them with her eyes then hurried to her room.
She opened the window and hid herself by the curtain as she looked with great interest at the departing group, attempting to recognise each person.
Even from a distance, it was not difficult to recognise Mr Darcy and Thunder, just as it was not difficult to recognise Lady Sinclair, riding impetuously near him.
Elizabeth had to admit to herself that jealousy—even when unjustified and unreasonable—was a disturbing feeling.
She stood at the window, gazing after them for a while until they became small, restless points moving across the fields; she was soon nestled in her bed under the covers.
She knew she should be happy, relieved, trustful and grateful for everything that unexpectedly happened that morning, but she was still not convinced it was real.
Her fears, wonderings, questions and doubts were at an end.
He opened his heart to her—again—and offered her hope, answers, and certainties.
He admitted his errors and took all the blame upon himself; he was generous in vanquishing her guilt, and she enjoyed receiving his generosity though she knew she did not deserve it.
Her heart melted as she remembered how easily her words brought joy to his handsome face.
She was no longer afraid to admit to herself what she began to understand but feared to hope for so long: he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her.
His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would answer all her wishes, and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she would receive a benefit of great importance.
It would be a union that—she hoped—would be to the advantage of both.
She knew he needed little to complete his character, and she had little to offer him except her feelings, but perhaps—yes, perhaps—her ease and liveliness would soften his mind and improve his manners.
In the solitude of her bed, she smiled, recollecting the way his manners towards her had improved since they first met—well, perhaps not improved but certainly softened.
Slowly, her mind returned to their early meeting: every word, every glance, and every touch.
She recalled his fingers entwining with hers, his arms holding her tightly, his warmth, his strength, the intoxicating feeling of his lips on hers, his voice and his gaze—the feeling of having a bond between them… and the chill as he left.
She briefly considered that she was exhausted and needed to sleep a little before she spent time with the children. It took only an instant for her to fall into a deep sleep.
Elizabeth did not wake until a din of voices from the yard invaded her room through the open window. The party had returned from riding, and she was still in bed!
As if she were late for an important meeting, she hurriedly changed her clothes and put up her hair as well as she could. It was quite late in the afternoon—or so she thought.
She expected the others to be in the drawing room, but there it was all silence.
She met a young maid who smiled, greeted her politely, and then informed her that the guests had retired to their rooms and she expected them down in an hour’s time for tea and refreshments.
The children, the maid said, were in their apartments, sleeping.
An hour—of course, what was she thinking? Surely, everyone needed to rest and change from their riding clothes! She felt slightly embarrassed by her childish eagerness as she thanked the maid. She had an hour to wait and needed to find a way to employ her time.
She briefly considered returning to her room but abandoned the idea and walked towards the library instead. She would find something to read.
Even before she opened the heavy door, curiosity began to war with her better judgement. The temptation to take another look—closer and more attentive—at the pictures of Mr Wickham was compelling.
She entered the large room and walked slowly along the walls, glancing at the impressive shelves, then stopped in front of the small paintings, studying them with great interest.
“Miss Bennet?”
She startled so violently that she needed a moment before she finally turned and lifted her eyes to meet Darcy’s inquiring ones. He smiled, obviously pleased to see her.
“Forgive me—did I frighten you? I just came from the drawing room—a maid told me you might be here—and to be honest I hoped I could speak to you privately a moment.”