Chapter Three #2
She brought a hand to her breast, feeling the wild flutter of her heartbeat gradually subside.
How odd that a chance encounter with a stranger could unsettle her so thoroughly.
She prided herself on her discernment, her calm observation of character—yet Mr. Darcy had slipped past her defenses with ease, not through charm or flattery, but through sincerity.
His confession of social awkwardness, his gentleness toward his horse, the unguarded way he had smiled…
They lingered in her mind like the remnants of a pleasant dream.
Elizabeth let out a soft laugh at herself. “You are being fanciful,” she murmured, shaking her head. “You do not even know him.”
She could not deny the warmth curling through her at the prospect of seeing him again.
Gathering her skirts, she made her way back toward Longbourn with a step noticeably lighter than when she had set out.
Darcy breathed a sigh of relief as the road to London appeared before him. It would be several hours before he reached Darcy House. The ride would give him time to sort through his jumbled thoughts made even more tangled by the bewitching creature he had encountered.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he mused. She was a handsome woman, with dark hair and dark, sparkling eyes.
Such fine eyes he had never before beheld.
They were pools of chocolate brown, warm and rich with intelligence and expression.
A man could drown in their depths. Her figure was light and pleasing, doubtlessly toned by frequent walks about the countryside.
Though their conversation had been witty, she had not attempted to flirt or entrance him.
She was bewitching enough on her own without resorting to feminine wiles. As much as he had dreaded staying with Bingley because of his cloying, overly attentive sister, he now looked forward to being in Hertfordshire if only to know more of the fascinating young lady he had met that afternoon.
The rhythm of hooves striking the packed earth should have soothed him, but instead each stride seemed to echo his own conflicted thoughts.
Fool, he told himself; you know nothing of her.
A chance encounter in a field should not overturn all your careful inclinations.
Her image persisted—her smile, her unstudied grace, her frank intelligence as she spoke.
It was difficult to turn his thoughts to what he had discovered at Netherfield.
His mind wanted to meditate on the great pleasure a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman brought.
Stubbornly, he forced his mind to categorize everything he had learned and to contemplate the best way to present the information to Bingley.
He will need to be prudent, Darcy reminded himself.
It was a very good thing Bingley was young and not ready to take a wife.
To do so would add extra expense. Though if the lady had a healthy dowry, that would not be all bad, he reasoned.
His friend fell in and out of love frequently.
Bingley’s amiability drew women to his side like bees to flowers.
Darcy had often helped him to extricate himself when expectations arose.
And now, Darcy reflected with a wry twist of his lips, I must extricate him from a foolishly purchased estate instead of a foolishly chosen lady.
The thought did little to calm him. He would have to speak plainly to Bingley, perhaps for the hundredth time since their acquaintance began.
Bingley rarely took offense, but Darcy still dreaded the crestfallen look his friend sported whenever Darcy was forced to be bluntly honest.
Thoughts of Elizabeth Bennet intruded once again .
Thank goodness Bingley prefers blondes. The thought startled him—was he already contemplating Miss Bennet in such a light?
There was no such thing as love at first sight, but never in all his years parading through the marriage mart had a lady so thoroughly ensnared his interest. What could he do but pursue the inclination?
Perhaps it might lead to his future felicity.
You are ridiculous, he scolded himself. A man of your age and position should have more sense. Still…the hope remained. A small, stubborn spark that refused to be extinguished.
Patience, Darcy, he scolded himself. One cannot base an entire lifetime on a short, albeit pleasurable, conversation with a complete stranger. While that was true, he knew instinctively that he would like to know Miss Bennet better.
The fields gradually gave way to more traveled roads.
Carriages rattled past, London-bound; farmers drove wagons loaded with produce; riders in dusty coats urged tired horses onward.
As the sun sank lower, the sky blushed with streaks of rose and gold—not unlike the flush that had risen in Miss Bennet’s cheeks when she smiled.
By the time he neared the outskirts of the city, dusk had begun its slow descent.
London’s streets were bustling as he rode into the city.
The familiar cacophony of the city enveloped him: shouts from vendors closing their stalls, clattering wheels, the crack of a whip.
The scents of London—roasting chestnuts, horse sweat, coal smoke—mingled in the air.
Dusk was imminent, but it was still light enough to conduct business and navigate a horse safely to Darcy House.
Once in the mews behind his home, he handed the reins off to a groomsman.
Wearily, he entered the house and climbed the stairs to his chambers.
His valet, Brisby, helped him change into fresh attire.
Darcy ordered a tray for supper. The house was empty but for him, and it would be ridiculous to ask the servants to set a table for a single diner.
He sat heavily in his armchair as Brisby withdrew, leaving him alone with the muted crackle of the fire and the faint clink of porcelain as his supper tray was laid behind him. London felt colder, emptier than it had that morning.
What a strange day, he thought. What an unexpectedly strange, distracting, maddening, enthralling day.
And he knew—he knew with absolute certainty—that sleep would not come easily.