Chapter 10 Wilful Misunderstandings #4
“Of what are you speaking?” Catherine demanded.
“Why, when you and I spoke on the matter, you conceded that a person’s intellect might not be dictated by their descent.”
“I acknowledged your success in teaching a boy to read. Nothing more.”
“You see?” Lady Metcalfe announced airily. “Our minds will never be moved on this subject.”
Thus, the trap was sprung, and Matlock received his first, exceedingly satisfying taste of the cleverness that had caught his nephew’s notice.
“That is precisely as I would have expected, madam,” Mrs Darcy said drily.
“You achieve nothing with this shameless sauce but prove your own want of good breeding,” Catherine snarled in a harsh whisper. “I am not in the habit of being toyed with. Do you still not comprehend who I am?”
“By your own admission, you are one of my husband’s nearest relations and, hence, mine also.”
Her ladyship sucked in a breath, instigating a virulent fit of coughing. Shaking her head, she choked out, “Being my relation does not qualify you to bandy words with me!”
Mrs Darcy’s eyes flashed. “My point exactly.”
“For the love of God, Catherine, desist!” Matlock hissed. “You are making a fool of yourself.”
“She is making a fool of me!”
“No, she is merely holding doors open. You are striding unhindered through them.”
“Am I to be betrayed by my brother as well as my nephew?” she replied in a rasping whisper. She reached for her drink only to discover her glass was empty.
“Where is the disloyalty in saving you from humiliation?”
“If that was your design, why did you do nothing to prevent Darcy marrying her?” She coughed again, more strongly than before.
“Enough!” Darcy hissed furiously. His expression was thunderous.
“This will not do.” He motioned for a footman to fill Catherine’s wine glass.
“You are not well, madam. Pray, leave off squabbling over unalterable particulars and recover yourself.” He stood, held out his hand for Elizabeth and left the table.
Chagrined that Darcy’s unfailing restraint had made him look a fool by comparison, Matlock shook his head at his sister. “He does not deserve this from you. He is a fine young man.”
“Of that, I am fully aware, Reginald! Why in heaven’s name do you think I am so angry? Who will care for Anne now?”
He had to assume the question was rhetorical, for she then left the table, taking Lady Metcalfe with her and abandoning him to the company of four empty seats and one Mrs Tabitha Sinclair.
He gritted his teeth and waited for her inevitable acerbic commentary.
Some ten minutes later, he was cursing the vexing old baggage’s ability to wield complete silence and an infuriating, self-satisfied smirk to infinitely greater effect than any of her usual persiflage.
There was not enough air in the room for so many candles and Elizabeth to burn so hot.
Her chest heaved with the effort of claiming her share as she span through the figures of the La Boulangere.
Over and again, Darcy reclaimed her from the tangle of dancers in the centre of the circle to swirl her vis-à-vis, his grip emblazoning her skin as though she wore no gloves at all and the brand of his touch eclipsing the feel of every other man’s as she danced away again.
The circle of dancers skipped wildly to the left and then all the way back to the right. Bingley lurched along with them, chasing Elizabeth in one direction then Jane in the other, the weight of each of their hands naught to that of the turmoil in his heart.
Though he had struggled, after his calamitous proposal, to resign himself to his fate, he had thought his endeavours to be content with Jane as a wife and Elizabeth as a sister largely successful. Only as the sun set on his ill-fated wedding day had he acknowledged how spectacularly he had failed.
The circle slowed to a halt. His heart cavorted in time with his feet as he performed a turn with Elizabeth in the centre, but too soon, she spiralled away from him, spinning about with the other dancers in the ring.
He accepted Jane’s hand once more, assumed third position, and fought a losing battle against his guilt.
Entering his study uninvited late on Tuesday evening, his sisters had left him in no doubt of his offences. Why, Caroline had railed, had he thought it politic to neglect his own bride at his wedding breakfast?
Another of the ladies swept him into a frenzied turn before moving on to the next man. He resumed his place beside Jane.
How, Louisa had demanded, were they to convince the world of Jane’s worth in the face of his flagrant disesteem?
Heat erupted across his palm as Elizabeth reclaimed his hand. He looked about. Everybody was returned to his and her positions in the circle. They all set off again, prancing leftwards in a vast sweeping arc, and he found himself once more chasing Elizabeth in circles.
What possible reason, Louisa had wanted to know, had Jane for dismissing the maid with a marked resemblance to Elizabeth? When, Caroline had demanded, would he overcome his reckless fascination with Mrs Darcy?
The circle changed direction. It was now Jane who pulled him onwards and Elizabeth’s scorching presence chasing him relentlessly back to his place.
Again and again, he had denied any misconduct to his sisters, his shame deepening with every reiteration of the lie.
It was his turn to lead Jane through the complicated figure in the centre. They forged headlong into the fray, moving in good time if not perfect unison.
At what point had he ceased concerning himself with her feelings?
He was swept into a dizzying turn with another of the ladies then flung back to his wife.
He knew full well his regard for Jane had been neglected once his feelings for Elizabeth emerged.
He staggered about in a disorientating pirouette with the next lady before being returned to Jane’s more steady presence, falling more quickly into step with her this time.
He had made no attempt to discover why she dismissed Amelia, grateful only that the woman was gone and more resolved than ever to conquer his feelings for Elizabeth.
He lost Jane to Lord Vale, who whisked her off into a turn in the centre.
Bingley watched her dance. The candlelight afforded her countenance a soft, delicate sheen.
She truly was an astoundingly handsome woman.
Vale span past, delivering her back to him.
Bingley took hold of her hand and smiled, earning himself a look of hopeful surprise.
Was this not rectifiable? Given time to nurture his regard—away from the distraction of either Elizabeth or Amelia—had he not every reason to hope that his feelings for Jane would grow to surpass all other desires?
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.
Perchance she might be ready to receive him this evening.
Then they might begin their journey to felicity in earnest.
He set off into the next round ahead of tempo, willing the set to end that he could escape the place and return home into the arms of his beautiful, serene, uncomplicated wife—away from the terrifying, fierce and insuperable passion of her sister.
Elizabeth grew giddy from Darcy’s effect upon her senses as they wheeled feverishly towards the end of the set.
He drew her closer, held her tighter, and released her later with every glancing convergence.
The feel of him so close behind, as he pursued her through the dance’s closing steps, set her heart to racing, emboldening her to stop two steps early and wait—heart thundering, eyes closed and all anticipation for that moment he would, inevitably, capture her.
They came together with too much force, toppling onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and lust to enact a dance all their own, the tempo fierce and the steps urgent.
They moved fervently, Darcy incandescent with desire.
No other woman had ever roused in him such ferocious lust. Elizabeth was sublime, her skin flushed in the candlelight and exquisite gasps of pleasure on her lips as he loved her.
He welcomed the familiar coil of tension when it began and increased his pace, pursuing his bliss.
Elizabeth’s passion rose to meet his. Her hands tangled in his hair, and she bucked against him muttering incoherent half-formed words ’til, without warning, she cried his name, and Darcy was sent reeling violently into the rapturous denouement of the most exhilarating dance he had ever performed.
He lay still, unmoving but for his heart thundering in his chest, and fought to catch his breath. Into the stunned hush came Elizabeth’s sultry, passion-drenched voice.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy, had I known you could do that, I should have said yes the first time.”
Saturday 18 July 1812, London
The following afternoon, Jane sat in her parlour, her hands idle and her mind engaged in reflections answerable for the blush overspreading her cheeks.
She and Bingley had at last consummated their union, binding themselves eternally in body where she was certain their hearts must soon unite.
Such reveries rendered her already somewhat discomposed—and therefore apt to become even more so—when none other than Lady Ashby came calling.
Her ladyship blew into the room in an eddy of hauteur and installed herself ceremoniously upon the chaise longue.
“I did not expect to see you so soon, Lady Ashby,” Jane began nervously.
“Come now, did we not agree you would call me Philippa?”
“Forgive me.”
“Never apologise, Jane. It is unbecoming.”
A footman delivered some refreshments, and Jane poured tea for her visitor, glad of some activity to steady her hands.
Lady Ashby accepted her cup with a wide, close-lipped smile. “Now tell me, how did you enjoy my ball? You seem the sort of woman to appreciate finery.”
This began a discussion on all things refined and admirable, from Miss Christopherson’s exquisite performance at the pianoforte to the divine shade of Lady Frances’ gown.