Chapter 27 #2
Elizabeth watched, dumbstruck, as Bingley’s aunt looked meaningfully in her direction, collected her candle, and bustled out of the kitchen, leaving them alone. She opened her mouth to protest, but it was too late. Mrs Lawrence had already gone.
Elizabeth glanced at Darcy and saw that he had not only reclaimed his chair but had raised his glass to his lips and was draining its contents. When he had done, he discarded his empty glass upon the table, shook his head with a rueful laugh, and cradled his head in his hands.
“Bingley’s aunt is as charming as she is entertaining, but a most neglectful chaperon.
Forgive me. I should have arranged for your sister to join us today as well, but I did not wish to take her from Bingley during their honeymoon.
I had not even thought to ask Mrs Gardiner until this evening and by then it was too late. ”
Elizabeth’s heart sank. “I am sorry that you feel as if I have inconvenienced you today, sir. I will importune you no more. Goodnight.” Irritation was at war with her disappointment as she rose from the table and made to leave. Darcy’s hand upon her arm prevented her progress.
“You mistake my meaning.”
“Today, it seems I have made many mistakes,” she replied stiffly, “and though I wish I could go back in time and undo them, I do not possess that power. I can only assure you what has been done was done in error, not on purpose. There was no calculated intent.”
“You have done nothing wrong.”
“Obviously, sir, I have. You are dissatisfied with me.”
“I am not dissatisfied with you,” he said exasperatedly.
“I find myself in uncharted waters. I have no idea what I am doing, Elizabeth. I only know that being alone with you—here, in my house, but more particularly in my bedchamber—has both tempted and tested my resolve beyond what I feel I am presently capable of enduring. I cannot deny I have handled the situation poorly. I ought to have sought you out afterwards instead of avoiding you, but I did not. It was unpardonably rude of me, and I am sorry. I should not have hidden myself away.”
“You are still hiding, sir. You have not looked upon me once since we entered this room.”
Darcy laughed without humour. “Of course, I have not. You are wholly indecent. If I were to look upon you now, I fear my self-control would fail me utterly. It is hanging by a thread as it is.”
She bowed her head and examined her appearance as well as she could, and saw she was wearing a nightshift, a robe, and a shawl. All belonged to Miss Darcy. Elizabeth was horrified. How on earth had she become so distracted as to have forgotten she was dressed for bed and not for dinner?
“So, I am,” she conceded miserably as a fresh wave of mortification surfaced.
She tugged her shawl more securely about her shoulders and attempted to tame the unruly mass of curls spilling down her back.
“It appears I am destined to behave in the most inappropriate manner imaginable today. Again, this was not my intent.”
“I know. And again, it is I—not you—who have behaved inappropriately. If you knew my innermost thoughts you would not remain a moment longer in my house, never mind in my presence.”
“And what do you suggest we do to remedy that, sir, for I find myself in uncharted waters as well.”
“I hardly know, but for the moment I would give anything to hear you play for me again. Perhaps I might then be able to sleep once we part for the night.”
His eyes sought hers, and he sighed as though in resignation.
“While it is my intent to remain a gentleman, I fear I am in no state of mind to ensure such a promise at present. You are an enchantress—an enticing nymph—and I am bewitched. As I look at you, I am reminded of Walter Scott’s The Lady of the Lake.
I have long considered you the handsomest woman of my acquaintance, but tonight you exceed my fantasies.
I have longed to see your hair loose and tumbling past your shoulders almost as long as I have desired to kiss you. ”
Elizabeth felt a flush of heat upon her countenance and bit her lip.
She desperately wanted to tell him he was welcome to kiss her, but the look in his eyes—a combination of blatant desire and self-conflagration—caused her to refrain from issuing such a forward invitation, especially after the emotional turmoil of the afternoon.
They were in dangerous territory, and though a part of her craved the reassurance of Darcy’s tender attentions, another part warned her to proceed with caution.
Instead of provoking him, she settled for reciting several lines from Scott’s poem:
“‘I ne’er before, believe me, fair,
Have ever drawn your mountain air,
Till on this lake’s romantic strand,
I found a fey in faerie land’.”
Darcy swallowed audibly. “You know it.”
“It is a favourite of mine. My father was fortunate enough to procure a copy last year for his collection and I have since read it more times than I can count.”
He raised his hand and tenderly brushed a wayward curl from her cheek. “Come,” he said softly, and took her hand in his, pressing a lingering kiss to her fingertips.
Hand in hand, they made their way to the music room and entered.
Darcy, who had held fast to her as they moved through the darkened house, surrendered her hand and walked to the hearth to add more wood to the dying fire, coaxing the bed of glowing coals into a roaring blaze.
Once the entire room was bathed in warm, burnished light, he escorted Elizabeth to the pianoforte and deposited her upon the bench.
Rather than take a seat on the couch, he walked to the door and shut it with a quiet click, then returned to Elizabeth and claimed a seat beside her.
Elizabeth shook her head at him. “This is highly improper, Mr Darcy.” Her tone contained far more of a teasing lilt than any admonishment. “What will Mrs Lawrence think if she discovers us thus?”
Darcy snorted. “It is well past midnight. She has consumed an entire snifter of brandy with her tea. I doubt she will come in search of us tonight.” He looked at her then, and she saw his unwavering love for her reflected in the expression of his eyes.
“Play something, Elizabeth. Please, else I go distracted and do something scandalous with you in this room meant for music and polite conversation.”
Any words Elizabeth thought to utter became tangled in her throat. She had no idea how he did it—how his saying something so seductive and forbidden could make her body ache in such a glorious, equally forbidden way.
She drew a fortifying breath and began to play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata from memory while Darcy watched her with hooded eyes.
Her heart beat erratically. She could feel the heat of his body against hers, the solid press of his thigh, and made a valiant effort to give herself over to the music; but it was difficult to focus on playing with Darcy in such proximity to her, so closely attending her every movement.
He lifted his hand to caress her hair with utmost gentleness, carefully combing his fingers through her loose curls before brushing them aside to gain access to her skin.
Slowly, torturously, he traced the tip of his nose along the column of her neck, inhaling her scent.
Elizabeth’s breath hitched, her eyelids fluttered closed, and she felt the warmth of Darcy’s breath, the insistent softness of his lips, and the velvety wetness of his tongue as he tasted her.
His fingers skimmed her shoulder and Elizabeth’s fingers faltered on the keys.
The discordant sound of her fumbling was a stark contrast to the enticing harmony of Darcy’s deft ministrations.
When both of his hands found purchase upon her waist, Elizabeth found herself complying with his unspoken request by turning towards him of her own volition.
With her hands upon his shoulders, he guided her upward and over, arranging her with care upon his lap.
The hem of her nightshift was raised well past what was proper, exposing her feet and her calves, her knees, and a scandalous sliver of thigh.
Despite the coolness of the air against her bared flesh, Elizabeth felt a delicious, searing heat spiral outward from the base of her spine as Darcy eased her closer.
“Lizzy,” he said on a breath, and claimed her mouth in an ardent kiss. His fingers tangled in her hair, anchoring her in place as he deepened his assault on her mouth.
He had never called her Lizzy before; that he had chosen to do so now, in the heat of passion, served to fuel her desire for him even more.
The deep cadence of Darcy’s voice, so rough yet so intimate, held an underlying desperation that was never present in her family’s staid pronunciations of her name.
She raised her hands to his beloved face, traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips, and slid her hands into his hair, savouring the novelty of being able to touch him so freely and intimately as she returned his fervent kisses with equal ardour.
As though he sensed her inability to formulate a coherent thought, Darcy slowed his passionate onslaught.
With utmost tenderness, he trailed trembling fingers along the underside of her breast, to her ribs, and finally her waist. His kisses grew unhurried as well.
They became more languorous—less demanding, but no less loving.
With one last lingering kiss to her mouth, Darcy released a shuddering breath and embraced her tightly, pressing his lips to where her shoulder met the curve of her neck. “This was not what was supposed to happen,” he whispered unsteadily against her skin.
“What did you suppose would happen?” Elizabeth asked, her voice equally quiet and unsteady. Her hands sought his hair again, and she proceeded to comb her fingers through its softness, as much to soothe herself as to soothe him.