Chapter 9 In Love and War #2
With indescribable tenderness, he cradled her face and kissed her—without any urgency but in just such a way as left her in no doubt of his devotion.
She curled her hands about his forearms and leant into him, covetous of the intimacy after her brief but awful moment of doubt.
For one heavenly moment, the kiss deepened before he gently pulled away, straightened to his full height and once again enfolded her in his embrace.
“That was more in keeping with the greeting I had in mind,” he said gruffly.
She grinned into his waistcoat. “Shall we resolve all our quarrels in a similar fashion?”
“We should be in very great danger of doing nothing but quarrelling in that case.” He leant back and regarded her with a decidedly devilish glint in his eye. “I can be very disagreeable, you know.”
“Yes, I do know! Fortunately for you, my character is equally objectionable.”
“Then I look forward to many a pleasurable reconciliation. Cruellest, fiercest, Elizabeth.”
“Are you seeking inspiration amongst the flora, sir, or are you hoping to avoid more talk of wedding frippery?”
Bingley span around. “Mr Bennet! I, um…ah…” He ceased stammering as he became aware that his efforts to hear what was being said beyond the hermitage wall had led him to step into the flowerbed. He stepped out again, flapping at the thorns snagging his coat.
“Be not embarrassed, Mr Bingley. I comprehend. I, too, would rather hide in the hedgerows than hear another word on lace.”
Bingley would rather be anywhere than listen to another word on his wedding.
Next to offering for the wrong woman, he could not conceive of anything more ill-advised than standing at the altar with the right one, watching her exchange vows with somebody else.
He had spent the last three days cursing Darcy’s mention of stealing people’s places at the altar, which prompted him to suggest it.
“But surely your own shrubbery would have been more convenient for the purpose?” Mr Bennet concluded.
“Pardon me?”
“You could have concealed yourself just as well in Netherfield’s bushes,” he explained, turning away and walking towards the house.
“I had no wish to hide in my bushes,” Bingley answered, trailing after him.
“I suppose I ought to be flattered by your preference for mine, then!” Mr Bennet ushered him through the hall and into the parlour, announcing, “Mr Bingley! Freshly plucked from the rose bushes.”
Bingley was made welcome with refreshments and conversation, to which he made a concerted effort to attend despite his preoccupation with the events unfolding in the garden. After a short while, however, Jane observed that he seemed somewhat distracted.
“I confess I am. Darcy is here, you see. I overheard him with Lizzy in the garden as I exited the stables. They are arguing.” He could not tell from her expression what she thought of this; thus, he added, “They seemed to be at variance over the likelihood of her being scorned by Darcy’s circle.”
“I am not overly surprised to hear it. Lizzy can be very dismissive of rank. Mr Darcy will not like it if she does not respect his station or that of his friends.”
That was precisely the sort of thing that would offend Darcy, but Bingley had not the opportunity to say as much, for Jane then went off on a bit of a tangent, questioning him about his own circle.
He answered as best he could, though his mind frequently returned to the thought that, were he engaged to Elizabeth, an argument would not be the method he would choose to pass any moments of privacy in the garden.
Darcy forced himself to look away from Elizabeth’s face and consider what else he must add to his picture.
The discovery of Miss Catherine’s abandoned drawing apparatus beside the bench had prompted Elizabeth to request that he sketch Pemberley.
He was more than happy to oblige in principle, but their present attitude, opposite each other with their feet interwoven on the ground between them, made it impossible to concentrate on the task—that and the desire to kiss her again.
She entertained herself while he drew by proposing myriad reasons they might squabble in future. He was deeply dismayed to have quarrelled with her at all, but she, in her inimitable way, would be diverted, and she teased them both for their folly.
“It has been said that I give my opinion too decidedly for so young a person,” she said with a grin. “If only you had taken heed, you would not have ended up shackled to so impertinent a wife.”
“I have a very great fondness for the liveliness of your mind,” he replied, utterly enthralled and not a little aroused by the mischief flashing in her eyes. “Do I wish to know who said as much?”
His outline of the roof suffered somewhat when she leant towards him and placed a hand on—no, above—his knee and squeezed.
“I care for nobody’s opinion but yours, so it is of little matter who said it.”
Darcy doubted she intended to be so overtly provocative. Unlike him, Elizabeth was insensible to the potency of her charms. God help him the day she learnt to wield them by design. He stoically set about drawing some more columns, and after a last, devastating squeeze, she withdrew her hand.
“Speaking of your relations…” she said with excessive archness.
It had been Lady Catherine, then! He looked up. She quirked an eyebrow, and the east wing lost its chimney. He cleared his throat and dashed off a few more windows. “What of them?”
“Shall I meet any more of them while I am in Town?”
“I am sure Fitzwilliam will want to see you. I regret I cannot vouch for my uncle. Though he is typically less belligerent, in this instance, he may prove as inimical as his sister.”
“Oh, I have great hopes of finding him absolutely insufferable. So far, you only have one awkward relation to my half a dozen. I might feel their impropriety less keenly if you could produce somebody half as embarrassing as Mrs Philips.”
She grinned wickedly, and Darcy’s charcoal snapped.
“Enough talk of family! I am done.” He detached his sketch from the board and passed it to her. “Elizabeth Bennet, I give you Pemberley.”
Though he had come to enjoy Elizabeth’s singular manner of teasing, he would be the first to admit he had not yet learnt to be openly ridiculed, and he knew not quite what to do when she took one wide-eyed look at the drawing and erupted into unreserved peals of laughter. “You are displeased with the house?”
She sucked in a vast breath and said in a slightly more sedate tone, “It is not quite what I was expecting, no.”
Her entire countenance was contorted with the effort of suppressing her laughter, and in spite of himself, Darcy felt his own lips begin to twitch. “Am I to be included in your joke, madam?”
“’Tis only that I must be sure to inform Miss Bingley that I have found a fault in you after all.”
“I hardly think Miss Bingley would agree that Pemberley is a failing.”
“And neither would I, but honestly, Fitzwilliam, who taught you to draw?” She turned the sketch, holding it up so that only her eyes were visible above the page—and a perfectly arched, perfectly derisive eyebrow.
He tore his gaze away from her to look at what he had drawn. “Oh.”
She began laughing again. “Please tell me our apartments are not in this wing,” she begged, pointing to the part of his sketch where he had apparently seen fit to squash some nine or ten exceedingly irregular windows into a space not large enough for six. “I do not think we shall both fit.”
He smiled wryly and shook his head, revelling in her teasing once more.
“Though the other wing is little better with the roof pitched as it is. Perhaps we could put the nursery there. The children would have no need to stoop.”
He bit the insides of his cheeks, determined not to laugh and thereby allow her a complete triumph, but she was not done.
“However does one see out between all these columns? And is that a ghost on the roof? Is the house haunted? Or is it on fire because this chimney has fallen over?”
It really was ridiculous how dearly he loved her. “In my defence, you have been distracting me since we sat down.”
“You cannot talk and draw at the same time?”
“Elizabeth, I can barely think in your presence. You must know this. I have been afflicted thus since I first laid eyes on you.”
“I think not. I distinctly recall your being decidedly unimpressed on that occasion.”
She spoke in jest, but Darcy was at once all seriousness. “I beg you would forget the things you overheard me say that evening. I was determined to be displeased with everything, and so I was. And I have paid a heavy price for it. You must know you are so much more than tolerable.”
She looked wholly unpersuaded. He reached for her hands, setting the sketch aside.
“I have not the talent to compose you a poem to convince you of your loveliness, but I can tell you that I forget to breathe when you smile, that my heart races when I hold you, that I am at my least gentlemanly when this eyebrow arches just so.” He ran a thumb along her eyebrow, pressing it upwards at the centre with the slightest pressure.
“And I can tell you that kissing you is both the greatest pleasure and the greatest torture I have ever known.”
A gentle blush suffused her countenance, but she shied not from his gaze.
“I am mindful that I have said much worse of you than you said of me that evening. I am afraid I owe you quite the panegyric now.” She broke into a broad smile.
“But you shall not rush me. Mr Collins assures me that superior flattery cannot proceed from the impulse of the moment, and so you must allow me time to arrange a suitable compliment.”
God, but this woman made him happy! “By all means, take as long as you need,” he told her. “I would wait a lifetime for you.”
Netherfield
17th June
To Lady Catherine de Bourgh,