Chapter 8 #3
Darcy inclined his head and almost shyly cast his eyes to the floor.
He was gloveless, and his fingers toyed with the signet ring Elizabeth had always known him to wear.
She marvelled at his conduct, uncertain as to what action she ought to take for she had only ever seen him behave in a similar manner once before—last April before he had declared himself to her at Rosings.
With her heart in her throat, Elizabeth raised her eyes.
She observed his fidgeting fingers, noted the expensive fabric and gleaming gold buttons of his tailcoat and the fine linen of his artfully tied cravat.
At last, her gaze settled upon his face.
His eyes, she realised with a start, were no longer downcast, but fixed upon her with the same inscrutable intensity with which he had watched her throughout most of their acquaintance.
It was a look Elizabeth remembered well from Kent, from Derbyshire, and more lately from her dreams.
An extraordinary, all-consuming heat coiled from the base of her spine outward, warming her body from within, and with it came a wave of panic so acute she was almost crippled by the implications of it.
In danger of losing the last fragments of her fragile equanimity, Elizabeth suddenly wanted nothing more than to be away from him.
Before she could so much as look towards the door to the ballroom, Darcy reached out and boldly captured one of her hands between his own, preventing her escape. Elizabeth inhaled sharply at the contact.
“Miss Bennet,” he rasped, then paused to clear his throat. “My dear Miss Bennet. Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?”
Elizabeth could do nothing but stare at his hand, which held her own so firmly she could not think beyond the wondrous impropriety of it.
The exquisite warmth of his touch rapidly suffused her gloved fingertips, the length of her arm—her entire body.
Tantalised and tempted in ways she had always been forbidden to consider, she dared not raise her eyes to look upon his face, nor into the depths of his own eyes; his piercing gaze would only serve to discompose her completely.
She parted her lips, but words failed her utterly.
Since Lydia’s shameful elopement, Elizabeth had endeavoured to forget him but without success.
She had endured months of continued disappointment and regret, and it was only very recently—the matter of no more than a few short hours—that she felt she had finally begun to make some sort of progress, however slight, in tempering her longing for this impossible man.
Slowly, deliberately, Darcy’s thumb stroked the back of her gloved hand.
The inexplicable intimacy of the gesture sent another jolt of heat through her body and Elizabeth found herself growing furious, not only with Darcy for the liberties he was taking, but also with herself for her body’s traitorous reaction to his brazen ministrations.
A burning indignation, not only for his presumptive forwardness and impropriety, but also his lengthy absence and previous disregard, simmered in her veins.
Why had he sought her now, alone in a darkened hall, after he had deserted her months ago without so much as a parting word?
Elizabeth was no more equal to solving that mystery than she was remaining in his company.
She was flustered, bewildered, and in danger of losing her composure.
She needed time to think, and to do that she required distance.
She attempted to retract her hand from Darcy’s grasp, but he appeared disinclined to permit it.
“Mr Darcy,” she admonished in a tremulous voice. “We are in public. I do not wish to be the subject of a scandal, nor provide fodder for any of the gossips in attendance. I regret to inform you all my dances have already been claimed.”
Acute disappointment flooded every bone in Darcy’s body as he released Elizabeth’s hand at once.
“Of course,” he said. “Perhaps another time. Pray forgive me for my presumption.” With a heavy heart, he watched her gather her skirts and flee from him, slowing her pace to one of sedate respectability only as she neared the entrance to the ballroom. Not once did she look back.
Darcy did not attempt to approach Elizabeth again that night.
He was far too affected by the bittersweet memory of her hand in his, her intoxicating scent, the wide mix of varying emotions upon her face, and the indignation in her voice before she had run from him.
Why did he ever think it would be simple with her?
He had planned to take things slowly—to ask her to dance with him and take his cues from her, to see where the rest of the evening led them—yet he had reacted badly from the first moment he had seen her with another man.
Many hours later, Darcy ran his hands over his face, groaning as he recalled the enthusiasm with which Bingley had introduced him to Mr Jonathan Ellis.
He had been struggling for some time to master his emotions and was not at his best when he finally returned to the ballroom to see none other than Elizabeth’s solicitous partner speaking companionably with his friend.
Though Bingley performed the introduction with much apparent pleasure, Darcy and Ellis exchanged only polite civilities.
Their conversation was stilted and insipid as each took the other’s measure.
It was impossible for Darcy not to wonder what Ellis meant to Elizabeth, and what she in turn meant to Ellis.
Was it merely the protective concern of a childhood friend that drove the younger man to watch her for the rest of the night, or was it something deeper, more like a lover would feel?
It had alarmed Darcy to see the overly familiar manner with which Bingley’s new friend had touched Elizabeth’s arm earlier, and the way his mouth had formed the intimate syllables of her name.
It was a painful scene Darcy knew would not soon fade from his memory, one he had already replayed repeatedly in his mind.
Darcy yanked his cravat from his neck in the dim interior of his bedchamber at Netherfield.
After tossing the long strip of linen onto a chair with his previously discarded coats, he strode to a window that gave him a bird’s eye view of the darkened landscape illuminated by the stark glow of the full moon.
The long, skeletal shadows of barren trees stretched across the park lawn.
Darcy’s shoulders slumped. The full weight of his disappointment in his meeting with Elizabeth felt like a crushing blow.
Would he never do anything correctly regarding her?
Would his lovesick brain ever be able to find the right words with which to convey his tender feelings?
Even more importantly, would Elizabeth ever be able to forgive him his past offences and come to care for him, if only a little?
He closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the window, and welcomed the sharp chill of the glass as it seeped through his skin, into his bones, and wrapped itself around his aching heart.
At Longbourn, safe within the walls of her own bedchamber, Elizabeth’s thoughts were of a similar bent.
She closed her eyes against the eerie canvas outside her window and sighed.
Her breath left a filmy cloud upon the pane.
She removed her fingertips from the glass and pressed them to her cheeks as the curtains fluttered closed, willing the chill to soothe the agitation she had felt since the assembly.
After she left Darcy so abruptly in the hall, Elizabeth feared he would not respect her desire to put some distance between them, but her fear had been unfounded.
Though his eyes had sought her continuously throughout the evening—more so, it seemed, than ever before—he had kept his distance.
Rather than remain in the background, as he had done during his previous visits to Hertfordshire, he had stunned her by exerting himself and conversing with her neighbours.
True to her word, Elizabeth was not without a partner for the remainder of the night.
She danced every dance. Her sore feet and a slight hole in the toe of her new slippers were testaments to her popularity as a partner.
She was grateful that Mr Ellis had not, in his concern for her, arranged to dance with her a third time.
Such a pointed attention would have incited certain expectations, not only with her mother but with the rest of the neighbourhood as well.
As was his custom, Mr Bennet chose to remain at home and, not for the first time that evening, Elizabeth was glad for his aversion to such a gathering.
She would have dreaded hearing her father’s opinion of her encounter with Darcy on the dance floor, as well as his observation of Mr Ellis’s attentions to her.
Across the room the bed creaked as Jane shifted in her sleep.
Though she knew she ought to be abed herself, Elizabeth felt more agitated than tired.
She desperately wished it was morning, so she might escape the restriction of the house and feel the freedom that being out of doors afforded her.
She longed for time alone to decipher her current emotions, to better contemplate Darcy’s boldness, his piercing looks, their strained conversation in the darkened hallway, and what it all meant.
That he had purposely sought her out was not something Elizabeth could easily dismiss, nor was the reality that he had chosen to do so while she was alone.
But why? she wondered. What could possibly result from such a clandestine meeting?
Nothing, she knew, other than more pain and mortification for both had they been discovered.
Darcy, no matter what he might have to say to her father in his defence, would have been reviled by the neighbourhood and trapped—honour-bound without recourse in the event of their discovery.
As for Elizabeth, her reputation, much like her heart, would have been in tatters.
Such uncharacteristic, almost desperate behaviour on his part made Elizabeth question whether he honestly regretted her, or whether he simply desired to make peace with her away from the prying eyes and untoward expectations of an audience.
With a quick, frustrated breath, she extinguished the flickering candle upon the mantel.
Darcy had been in Hertfordshire for no more than a few hours yet had already succeeded in discomposing and confusing her more than ever.
Should he remain in the country until the wedding, the next few weeks would be difficult at best. Elizabeth would have to find a way to steel herself against the effects of his presence until after her sister and Bingley married.
Only then would he leave the country and return to London, or to Derbyshire, or to Kent.
Mr Ellis’s pronouncement flickered in the back of her mind, and Elizabeth struggled to extinguish it.
Though every rational sentiment she possessed rejected the idea of Darcy settling for his dour cousin, she could not find peace.
Perhaps he did not intend to remain in Hertfordshire until his friend’s wedding at all but was merely passing through on his way to Kent.
The very idea of Miss de Bourgh—or any lady other than herself—becoming his wife left an ache in her heart that could not be ignored.
It was at that moment, with her head full of past regrets, that the painful reality of her situation carried its point with finality.
Forgetting Fitzwilliam Darcy would be impossible; but equally impossible was the prospect of being at ease with him.
There was no doubt in Elizabeth’s mind she would be unequal to meeting him with the appearance of indifference any time soon.
So long as he remained in Hertfordshire, Elizabeth resolved to avoid being alone with him as much as possible.
It would do her no good to subject herself unnecessarily to his magnetic presence any more than it would to subject Darcy to her society.
For the sake of her sanity, she would do what she could to ensure both their reputations and their respectability remained intact.