Chapter 3 #2
A stifled giggle erupted from behind the palm she pressed to her lips. She coaxed a chuckle from him in return. It felt good to laugh with her, to let down his guard, to set aside his burdens for a while.
He wanted to kiss her. The impulse brought him back to reality. She wouldn’t welcome his advances, nor would she make him a suitable wife.
They walked again in silence. He broke it by saying, “The truth is, I haven’t allowed myself to become known here in Hertfordshire.
Not beyond the superficial. I’m not accustomed to pursuing friendships.
Usually, I’m the one pursued. And since we’ll only be here until Christmastide, and probably not again until Easter…
It didn’t seem necessary or wise to form any sort of attachments. ”
“That seems a rather lonely way to live,” she observed.
“For some, I suppose it might be. I’m happy with a small circle of friends, and few social obligations.”
She nodded in understanding. “That sounds like my father. Some days we can hardly coax him out of his study.”
“I understand the impulse.” He grinned. “Bingley let Netherfield for only a year. I’m hoping he’ll make his permanent home in Derbyshire, nearer to me. But if he develops a tenderness towards one person in particular…”
Elizabeth made a small gasp, seeming to comprehend his words.
“Well,” he continued, “if that came to pass, I’d likely spend quite a bit of time here in Hertfordshire.”
She seemed to choose her next words carefully, speaking without her usual humour. “You wouldn’t object to such an arrangement?”
“It’s too soon to draw any conclusions, of course. From what I’ve seen, the match could prove mutually beneficial.”
She didn’t answer right away. “I agree.”
With a sidelong glance, he could see the small smile that brightened her features. The understated joy in her expression warmed his heart. “I’m glad we’re of the same mind on it.”
“That makes one thing, at least,” she teased.
“Two things. Neither of us considers Bingley’s penmanship to reflect poorly on his character.”
She laughed at that, and seemed unable to stop. He looked at her questioningly.
“Forgive me,” she said at last. “I’m thinking unkindly about the value of praising a man’s handwriting as a mode of courtship.”
Her frank words surprised and delighted him. He’d thought the same thing, but could speak of it to no one. He must make it plain to Caroline that he would never marry her.
Perhaps he ought to marry someone else instead.
The thought came to his mind unbidden—taking Elizabeth as his bride, taking her to his bed.
It brought out an animal possessiveness he’d never known before.
Mine, it growled in his head as he looked at her flushed cheeks, her sparkling eyes, her windblown hair.
He clenched his fists to avoid taking her into his arms as he longed to do.
He looked away and asked, “How is your sister this morning?”
“Still no fever, and she slept well last night.”
He couldn’t mistake the sudden tension in her tone. “You’re more worried about her than you let on.”
Her smile crumbled, but she quickly regained her composure. “It’s a cold. It will pass.”
He nodded pensively. “The two of you are close.”
“As close as two sisters can be. We’ve always done everything together. And now, Papa is teaching the two of us to manage the estate together.”
“The heiress and the spare-ess,” he joked.
Her lips parted. Tears filled her eyes.
Immediately, he recognised his mistake. “Forgive me,” he said, placing a comforting palm on her arm. She let out a choked sob.
He froze, unsure how to respond. He had little experience with crying females. Tentatively, he raised his hand to her shoulder, and she leant towards him. Following her cue, he drew her close.
She accepted the embrace, laying her head against his chest. She sniffled, then stilled, but didn’t pull away. He held her as long as he dared, tenderness blossoming into longing. He wanted this woman more than was prudent.
He took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, knowing the action was less than discreet. Yet he yearned to care for her, to dry her every tear.
What was happening to him? He’d never felt this way about a woman before, this ache to claim her. He’d always thought the poets exaggerated, but now he understood.
Returning the handkerchief to his pocket, he rested his gloved hands on her shoulders. “I’d wager you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since your sister grew ill.”
“You would win that wager. I know it’s silly—”
“It’s not silly.” He spoke with more vigour than he’d meant to. “I have a sister. I love her more than life itself. The thought of losing her fills me with unspeakable terror.”
Elizabeth nodded, looking down, then turned her gaze to his. “Thank you for your consideration. I didn’t expect this kindness from you. I believe…I’ve misjudged you.”
“I’d like to have your friendship.” The words escaped his lips before he knew he intended to speak them. She looked taken aback, but he could not regret them.
She gave him a level look, seeming to assess his character. “I’ve warned you,” she said, her expression brightening. “I tease my friends mercilessly.”
“That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.” He offered his arm, and she took it—her eyes as bright as sunshine, her cheeks as pink as rose petals.
∞∞∞
Later that morning, Lizzy stood at a window in Jane’s room whilst her sister slept. Lizzy’s body vibrated with eager excitement. Darcy had been… No, she couldn’t let herself think it. She hardly knew the man. The first time they’d met, he’d insulted her. And yet…
She must banish these thoughts from her mind. She was no silly schoolgirl. Her fifteen-year-old sister Lydia might indulge in such musings—but Lizzy was a grown woman. She had more sense than that.
But what if…what if Darcy did want more than friendship from her? Could she esteem him? Could she—could she come to love him?
She was running away with herself. In all the time she’d known him, they’d had one civil conversation. And now she was thinking about love? She must not…she must not—
Blast it all! She had to admit, she was attracted to him. But she wasn’t sure she liked him. His arrogance was…well, but he had apologised. She hadn’t expected that.
And the way he’d understood her worry over Jane. That had been kind. He’d looked at her with a sweet, searching expression…his eyes dark and sparkling like moonlit pools…
Moonlit pools? Was this what he’d reduced her to? A babbling idiot?
She needed to move, to walk, to clear her head. But when she turned, Jane was stirring. Lizzy smiled and went to her sister’s side.
Jane sat up. “What time is it?”
“Not quite noon. Are you hungry? You didn’t finish your breakfast. I kept the porridge warm by the fire. And I can ring Constance to bring some tea.”
“That would be lovely.”
Whilst Jane ate, Lizzy said, “Do you have any books I can return to Mr. Bingley?”
Something in her voice must have betrayed her, because Jane’s eyes widened. “What do you—that is, why would you—”
“Don’t distress yourself.” Lizzy clutched her sister’s hand. It was dry and warm, but not hot. “It’s sweet that he hides messages in books for you.”
A fierce blush rose in Jane’s cheeks, like clouds at sunset. “I know it’s not proper,” she said weakly.
“What choice does he have? He can’t come to your sickbed. How else can he court you?”
Jane’s eyes widened, a mix of hope and caution alighting there. “Do you think that’s his intention?”
“It had better be. I’ll think him dishonourable otherwise.”
Jane’s expression seemed to dismiss the possibility. “My parents would approve of the match, I think.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Oh, Lizzy! I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ve known him for all of three weeks.”
“Three weeks is time enough to fall in love.”
A smile unfurled on Jane’s face. “Is it wrong of me to want this, when he hasn’t declared himself?”
“I hardly see why one should depend on the other. Besides, I expect he’ll speak to my father soon.”
Jane sighed dreamily. “Perhaps I will let myself hope a little.”
Lizzy squeezed her sister’s hand. She couldn’t deny the hope growing in her own breast—hope for them both.
∞∞∞
Caroline walked with Louisa through the cobbled streets of Meryton. The town was like others in the English countryside, with its de rigueur little shops. Linen-draper, haberdasher, dressmaker. Cobbler, cabinetmaker, blacksmith. It all seemed ordinary to Caroline, who was accustomed to London.
Still, the town was picturesque, with its spired church and clapboard facades. The buildings were neat and sturdy, and the pavements clean. It looked like a prosperous place—which explained why the militia regiment had chosen to winter there.
As they approached the milliner’s shop, two men in officers’ uniforms walked towards them. Caroline soon recognised one as Mr. Denny. The other was unknown to her.
As the men grew closer, Caroline stopped in her tracks. The stranger was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. High cheekbones. Strong chin. Broad shoulders and chest that added a swagger to his walk.
In contrast to Denny’s fair colouring, the stranger’s hair was dark brown, his eyes sharp obsidian. He looked mysterious, perhaps even dangerous, and as decadent as a chocolate dessert.
Denny stopped and tipped his hat. He spoke with a cultured accent. “Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, delightful to see you. Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. George Wickham. He’s our newest officer—signed up today.”
A flicker of something—recognition? apprehension?—crossed his features before he schooled them. Caroline, too, had the strangest feeling she’d seen him before.
“It’s a pleasure,” Wickham said. “I confess I didn’t expect to encounter such fashionable ladies in a small town like this. Surely you’re visiting from Mayfair.”
“How astute you are, sir,” Louisa said. “My husband and I reside in Grosvenor Street. We’re visiting my brother, who has let Netherfield Park for the coming year. He and his friend Mr. Darcy are here for the shooting season.”
Wickham’s jaw set hard. “Could your brother be Charles Bingley?”
“You know him?” Louisa asked.
“We were at Cambridge together—though he was three years behind me, and we travelled in different sets.”
“Maybe our paths crossed then,” Caroline said. “I have the impression we’ve met before.”
“Perhaps. Though I doubt I could forget a face as beautiful as yours, Miss Bingley.”
His rich baritone voice vibrated through her belly. Heat rose in her cheeks, and her lips tingled.
“You’re a charmer, Mr. Wickham,” she said once she’d caught her breath. “We must not detain you—but I’m sure our brother will wish to renew your acquaintance.”
“Of course. It will be my pleasure.” The gentlemen bowed and departed.
A thrill bloomed in Caroline’s chest. She shouldn’t feel this way. She was committed to winning Darcy. He was stable, reliable—the sort of man who would prove an amenable husband. By contrast, something about Wickham seemed dark and dangerous—but oh, so alluring.
Dared she risk a dalliance with him? It would give her something to do in this dreadful town. No other man had caught her eye. Something told her he would be skilled at bed sport. Skilled in the ways they could enjoy each other whilst keeping her purity intact.
For now, though, she returned her attention to her reason for walking to Meryton. Her brother’s birthday was in a few days, and she meant to buy him a gift. But she hoped to also pick up something she could give to Darcy.
They stepped into the haberdasher’s and looked about. She needed something intimate but not too intimate. Something that told Darcy she was his for the taking.
She was tired of playing the demure miss. It was time to win him, once and for all.