Chapter 26 #2
The mistress’s chamber overlooked the garden, barren now that winter had tightened its hold upon the natural world.
Fat drops of icy rain splattered the windows, the sides of the house, and the ground below.
“In the springtime there are tulips there,” Darcy said, pointing to a spot on the far side of the space, “and irises and hyacinths there. In the summer months several varieties of roses climb the trellis and lilies bloom near the fountain. The fragrance is heavenly.”
“I can well imagine. Do you spend much time in town in the summer?”
“No. It is often too hot and disagreeable to remain if there is no need to do so. As lovely as this garden is when it blooms, I promise you Pemberley’s gardens are ten times more beautiful.”
“I remember,” she said with a wistful smile. “I confess I am looking forward to seeing Pemberley again. It was stunning in summer, but I imagine it must be equally magical in winter.”
“It is lonely,” Darcy remarked, thinking of the endless days confined indoors with only Georgiana for company, to say nothing of the long, cold nights. “This year will be very different, though. I will have a beautiful, impertinent wife to entertain me.” The corners of his mouth turned upward.
“So, you shall, and I will have a handsome husband to keep me well occupied. I imagine we shall think of many ways to pass our time most pleasantly, particularly in the evenings.”
Not for the first time that afternoon did Darcy feel a powerful inclination to kiss her.
Instead, he indicated a painting that hung above one of the chests of drawers in a gilded frame.
It was a landscape—Pemberley at dawn—that was both expertly and beautifully executed by a local artist from Lambton.
Elizabeth recognised the prospect at once.
“This is wonderful. One can almost feel the mist as it rises from the lawn, the crisp morning air of the park. That I will be so fortunate to see this prospect—both real and imagined—nearly every day as your wife brings me such joy. Thank you,” she said feelingly.
Standing upon the tips of her toes, she placed her hand along his jaw and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you for choosing me, for loving me, for wanting to share your life with me.”
Darcy’s eyes closed of their own volition.
He was nearly overcome by the sweetness of her kiss.
It was not a lover’s kiss by any means but innocent and gentle, wrapped in a sincerity he was not used to receiving from anyone other than Georgiana.
He took a moment to steady himself. His impulse to return her kiss with one far less innocent, but no less heartfelt, warred with his determination to remain a gentleman.
Her hand slipped from his face. Beside him, he heard a door handle turn, the quiet swish of Elizabeth’s gown, and then silence. Darcy opened his eyes and saw he was not only alone, but that the door to the master’s chamber had been opened.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, and hastened after her.
She had not ventured far but far enough for the situation to stray from improper to wholly inappropriate.
Darcy’s breath caught as he beheld her, standing beside his bed as though she were temptation incarnate.
He could see nothing beyond her delicate femininity in his masculine space—the utter loveliness of the pale pink muslin of her gown against the deep, midnight blue backdrop of his counterpane, his dark, richly papered walls, and the soft, luxurious pile of his Persian carpet.
In fact, Elizabeth’s gown perfectly matched the roses in the crystal vases his housekeeper had placed upon the bedside table, the chest of drawers, and the small mahogany table by the hearth.
Darcy’s throat felt conspicuously tight. If it had been imprudent for him to accompany her into the mistress’s chamber without a chaperon, being alone with her in his own bedchamber was a thousand times worse.
With a heavy exhalation he stepped forward, but advanced no more than a few paces before he forced himself to stop.
The scent of roses permeated the air, hitting Darcy with the force of a thunderclap.
He swallowed thickly, realising too late the scene before him was far too reminiscent of his dreams for him to remain in this room with Elizabeth and keep a level head.
Agitated, he raked his hands through his hair, only to realise they were shaking.
He uttered a quiet oath. He had no idea what to do.
Elizabeth had barely moved.
Like the heady, fragrant air of the room, the cravat about his neck threatened to suffocate him. “You should not be here.” His voice sounded rough to his own ears. He could only imagine how it must sound to hers.
“Forgive me,” she stammered. She turned to face him but did not meet his eyes. “I had no idea that door led to your private rooms, sir. If I had known I never would have presumed…”
“I am at fault, Miss Bennet.” He dared not call her by her name.
Not here, not now. Calling her by her name would only further enflame his ardour and give voice to his wildest, basest fantasy.
He was terrified that at any minute he might throw off every ounce of gentlemanly restraint he possessed and give in to his desire to enfold her in his arms, lay her upon his bed, and taste every inch of her skin as he made passionate love to her.
“I should have told you where that door leads. I should have been more attentive.” Darcy hardly knew how he was capable of speech.
Without meaning to, his eyes settled upon the neckline of Elizabeth’s gown.
The heated blush upon her countenance had spread lower, and Darcy realised the lovely flush of colour upon her otherwise pale skin likely encompassed her entire body.
It was a detail that did nothing to ease his discomfort; it only served to make his situation worse.
She raised her eyes and regarded him from beneath her lashes—so long and lovely and dark—and Darcy’s equanimity slipped further. “Excuse me,” he rasped, then turned abruptly on his heel and strode from the room.