Chapter Eleven #2
Before Darcy could respond, Elizabeth stepped closer to him and placed her hand on his arm.
The gesture froze Darcy in place, every muscle suddenly rigid with surprise.
Her touch was deliberate, her fingers curling around his forearm with a familiarity that went far beyond what propriety permitted between unmarried persons.
The pressure of her hand communicated intention, possession almost.
“I would much prefer to take a turn about the room with you,” Elizabeth said, and her voice carried a warmth that bordered on intimate. “If you would be so kind as to indulge me.”
Darcy stared at her, his mind refusing to process what was happening.
Elizabeth never touched him voluntarily.
Had always maintained careful distance, had rebuffed his few attempts at assistance with varying degrees of politeness.
He could count on one hand the number of times they had deliberately made physical contact, and each instance had been brief, formal.
Yet now she stood beside him with her hand on his arm, looking up at him with an expression that could only be described as encouraging.
“I...” Darcy began, then found he had no idea how to complete the sentence.
Elizabeth’s smile widened, taking his hesitation as agreement. She applied gentle pressure to his arm, guiding him away from the pianoforte toward the open space near the window. Darcy found himself moving with her automatically, his body responding even as his mind struggled to catch up.
They began a slow circuit of the room’s perimeter, Elizabeth maintaining her hold on his arm with that same deliberate pressure. She walked close enough that her skirts occasionally brushed against his leg, close enough that he could catch the scent of rosewater that she favoured.
Darcy glanced toward the other occupants of the parlour, half expecting someone to notice and comment.
But Lady Catherine remained absorbed in her conversation.
Fitzwilliam appeared focused on whatever topic he was discussing with Maria Lucas.
Charlotte watched them for a moment, her expression troubled, but said nothing, looking away again when her husband patted her hand to draw attention to Lady Catherine’s speech.
“This is much more pleasant than playing the pianoforte,” Elizabeth observed, her tone light. “Do you not agree, Mr. Darcy?”
“I suppose,” Darcy managed, though his voice sounded strained. He tried to organise his thoughts. “Though I confess surprise at your disinclination to play. I had understood you to enjoy the instrument.”
“Oh, I do,” Elizabeth said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “But I find your company far more agreeable this evening.”
The words should have pleased him. Should have sent warmth through his chest. Instead, Darcy felt only a deepening sense of wrongness.
This was not how Elizabeth Bennet behaved.
Not with him, certainly, but not with anyone, that he had ever observed.
She did not throw herself at gentlemen, did not make bold overtures or seek out physical contact with such obvious calculation.
Her independence manifested in maintaining distance, in asserting boundaries, in refusing to accommodate herself to others’ expectations simply for the sake of pleasing them.
Yet here she walked beside him, her hand on his arm, pressing close with a familiarity that suggested intimate acquaintance rather than the wary civility that had characterised their previous interactions.
Darcy’s free hand clenched into a fist at his side as they continued their circuit. He needed to understand what was happening, needed to reconcile this behaviour with everything he knew about Elizabeth’s character.
They reached the far corner of the room, the space near the tall window where shadows gathered beyond the candlelight’s reach. Elizabeth slowed their pace, turning slightly so that she stood facing him more directly, her hand still resting on his arm.
“I am so glad we have this opportunity to speak more privately,” she said, and her voice had dropped to a tone that suggested intimacy. “There is so much I wish to discuss with you, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy’s heart hammered against his ribs, though whether from anticipation or alarm he could not determine. This was what he had wanted, was it not? Elizabeth’s attention, her interest, her willingness to engage with him beyond bare civility. Yet receiving it felt wrong.
“Indeed?” he said carefully, searching her face for some clue, some hint of the sharp intelligence that typically animated her features. But he found only that same pleasant warmth, that encouraging smile that conveyed interest without complexity.
Elizabeth nodded, her fingers tightening slightly on his arm. “Indeed. I find your company most agreeable, Mr. Darcy. Most agreeable indeed.”
The repetition struck Darcy as odd, as though she were working from a script and had run out of variations. Elizabeth’s conversation never repeated itself, never fell into such pedestrian patterns. She found different ways to express the same sentiment, turned phrases with wit and precision.
“You know, Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, pitching his voice to carry a tone of mild observation, “I find I must confess that I cannot properly admire the figure of your walk when we are moving together about the room. Such admiration is best accomplished when the viewer is seated, allowing for more thorough observation.”
He watched her face carefully as he spoke, searching for any flicker of recognition, any sign that she understood he was repeating their previous exchange.
Surely Elizabeth would remember. It had been a significant moment in their acquaintance, one of the few times she had engaged with him directly in Hertfordshire.
But Elizabeth’s expression showed only confusion. Her brow furrowed slightly, her head tilting as though she were trying to puzzle out his meaning. The smile remained fixed but lost some of its confidence.
“I... I beg your pardon?” she said, and her voice carried genuine bewilderment. “Are you suggesting I should sit down?”
The question landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples of alarm through Darcy’s consciousness.
She did not remember. Did not recognise the reference to their Netherfield conversation.
Treated his words as though he were making a new observation rather than deliberately echoing an old exchange, and worse, had actually misunderstood his meaning.
Elizabeth Bennet would have remembered. Would have recognised his jest immediately, would have either laughed at his audacity in repeating it or delivered some cutting remark about his apparent inability to move beyond stale observations. She would not have stood there looking confused.
Before Darcy could formulate a response, Elizabeth’s expression transformed.
The confusion cleared, replaced by something that made Darcy’s stomach turn with uncomfortable recognition.
She smiled at him again, but this time the expression carried a quality he had seen before on entirely different faces.
Caroline Bingley smiled at him that way. With calculated coquetry, with deliberate flirtation designed to captivate male attention. It was a smile that announced its own calculation.
Elizabeth’s eyelashes fluttered in what could only be described as batting, a gesture so theatrical that Darcy nearly took a step backward in sheer surprise. She leaned closer to him, pressing against his arm with enough force that he could feel the warmth of her body through layers of fabric.
“You find my figure worthy of admiration? How kind of you to say so, Mr. Darcy,” she said, and her voice had taken on a breathy quality that made Darcy’s skin crawl with wrongness. “I confess I find your observations most flattering. Most flattering indeed.”
She reached up with her free hand and placed it on his chest, her palm resting just above his heart in a gesture that exceeded every boundary of propriety. The touch was bold, deliberate, unmistakably forward.
Darcy froze, every muscle going rigid with shock.
This was not merely uncharacteristic behaviour.
This was something else entirely, something that bore no resemblance whatsoever to Elizabeth Bennet’s natural manner.
Elizabeth would never touch him so boldly, would never employ such obvious flirtation techniques, would never bat her eyelashes like some silly debutante trying to captivate a wealthy suitor.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy managed, his voice emerging rougher than he intended. “I think perhaps you have misunderstood my meaning.”
But she only smiled wider, her fingers curling slightly against his waistcoat as though claiming possession. “Oh, I understand perfectly, Mr. Darcy. You wish to admire me. And I am most happy to be admired by you.”
The words were wrong. The tone was wrong. The entire manner of delivery was so fundamentally unlike Elizabeth that Darcy felt as though he were speaking with a stranger.
Elizabeth did not seek admiration. Did not angle for compliments or employ obvious flirtation.
When she engaged with someone, she did so with genuine interest and sharp intelligence, with conversation that challenged and provoked rather than simpering agreement.
Even when she disliked someone, her engagement carried more substance than this hollow performance.
Darcy carefully removed her hand from his chest, holding it briefly before releasing it entirely and taking a definitive step backward.
Elizabeth’s expression flickered with something that might have been irritation before settling back into that inviting smile, but she did not pursue him, did not press her advantage.
“I believe perhaps we should rejoin the others,” Darcy said, his mind racing. “My aunt will notice our prolonged absence.”
Elizabeth’s smile faltered slightly, but she nodded and allowed him to guide her back toward the centre of the parlour where Lady Catherine held court. As they walked, Darcy’s thoughts turned over the evidence that had been accumulating throughout this impossible day.
Elizabeth’s apparent lack of anger about his interference with Bingley and her sister.
Her coldness toward Fitzwilliam when she had always enjoyed his company.
Her meek submission to Collins’s pompous authority.
Her pleasant warmth toward Darcy himself despite having every reason to despise him.
Her complete unconcern about Anne’s obvious distress.
Her forward behaviour and calculated flirtation.
And now, her complete failure to recognise a reference to a conversation they had shared mere months ago.
Stranger and stranger, Darcy thought, utterly confused as to what might possibly have happened to cause such a fundamental change in character.