Chapter 19 #2
Mr Darcy turned around, every part of him seeming to brush against every part of her as he did so. “It will be well,” he whispered. “They will likely not remain for long.”
She nodded, though he would not have been able to see.
She could hear the voices now that she had stood still—not clearly enough to know what they were saying, but enough to know that they were there.
Enough to make her feel all the danger of the situation.
She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists, determined not to give way to anxiety.
It would be well, just as he said. When she relaxed again, she felt the fleeting touch of Mr Darcy’s fingers on her own.
It was impossible to know whether it was deliberate; they were in such close proximity, it might have been entirely unintentional.
As might the second touch have been. After that, there was no doubting that it was consciously done, on both sides.
What began as the merest caress progressed to tracing the contours of each other’s hands, to their fingers being first lightly, then tightly entwined.
Elizabeth’s heart thundered in her breast as Mr Darcy tugged her, oh so gently, towards him and leant closer to whisper in a voice that sent a shiver down her spine.
“This is becoming a habit.”
She nodded again. “At least you have not been drenched this time.”
He stiffened. “That is becoming a habit too. A far less agreeable one.”
Perhaps it was the darkness that made her feel safe; perhaps it was Mr Darcy, so close that she could feel the heat of him, driving all rational thought from her head.
Either way, she was quite sure there were no other circumstances that would have loosed her inhibitions so completely as to give such a candid answer.
“I am not averse to it.”
The closet grew even quieter than before as she held her breath.
It seemed as though Mr Darcy held his, too, for nothing at all moved.
Then he tugged her more firmly towards him, so that she bumped into him, her free hand coming instinctively to press into his solid chest as he held her there, cradling her face with his other hand.
She could feel his chest rising and falling beneath her palm, his breath on her cheeks; the smell of his cologne now filled her senses.
Then his lips were on hers, and she could not fathom the tenderness of it—how soft his mouth was when the rest of him was so hard and unyielding. She assumed it would be fleeting, a brief caress quickly doused by awkwardness, but there was nothing either awkward or rushed in the way he kissed her.
He enfolded her completely in his arms, making it feel as though the rest of the world was a million miles away, and only they mattered, and kissed her for a long time.
Occasionally, his mouth moved away from hers to touch upon her cheeks, her jaw, or the spot beneath her ear.
Every time, his lips returned to hers more hungrily than before.
Her head was cradled in his hand, and he tilted it slightly to whisper her name in her ear, his voice dripping with the same longing as welled like a furnace in her.
She answered it, rising to her tiptoes and sliding her arms around his neck and her fingers into his hair.
He moved his hands immediately to her waist to pin her against him, igniting every inch of her skin—and then he moved his leg, pressing forwards in a way that tightened her throat around a whimper of desire.
Then the trunk, so carefully arranged to frighten Lord Saye, toppled from its perch and crashed to the floor of the closet with an almighty bang.
They froze, both breathing heavily but otherwise still.
Mr Darcy held her so tightly she could feel his heart racing.
Nobody came. Nobody opened the door to proclaim outrage at their damning embrace.
Slowly, Mr Darcy loosened his arms, letting go of her just enough to crack the door open and peek across the room. “They have gone.”
Elizabeth let out a sigh of relief.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, gently brushing her hair from her temple.
“No, it missed me, thank goodness—”
“Darcy? Was that you?”
Elizabeth held her breath.
“It is Fitzwilliam,” Mr Darcy said. “I shall get rid of him. Wait a few minutes for me to lead him away, then leave.”
She nodded, too panicked to know what else to do. He stepped out, closing the door behind him just as Colonel Fitzwilliam came into the dressing room.
“There you are! What the devil happened to you?”
“Saye came in,” Mr Darcy replied. “I had to hide in the blasted cupboard! What is he doing here—I thought he was supposed to be in London!”
“He was waylaid by a wager, apparently.”
Mr Darcy made a derisive sound. “Has he gone?”
“No, he is downstairs. Where is Miss Bennet?”
“Dashed if I know. She said she was coming to find you.”
Their voices faded as they walked away into the house.
Elizabeth sank down onto the toppled trunk, clasped her shaking hands together, and took a deep breath.
She had no idea what had just happened—whether it was tantamount to a declaration of his affections, whether he would marry her now, or whether he had simply got carried away in the moment.
And who could blame him if he had? I certainly did!
There was but one thing she knew for certain: whatever they had just shared, she had enjoyed it. Very, very much.
She waited for her hands to cease shaking before making her way downstairs.
Everybody was milling about in the vestibule, and none of them noticed her straight away—except Mr Darcy.
When he saw her, he smiled in a way that made her skin tingle at the recollection of his touch, and she looked away quickly, thoroughly flustered.
“Miss Bennet, I did not know you were here too,” said Lord Saye.
“Nor I you, my lord.”
He frowned. “I was not supposed to be. I was to go up to London but then I ran into Fred here, and he persuaded me to come to Raggett’s.
There is a game on in—” He looked at his fob watch.
“Gads, a quarter of an hour now.” He looked as though he would leave directly but then stopped and, pointing at his friend, asked, “Have you met?”
Elizabeth replied that they had not and was duly introduced to Sir Frederick Moore. She paid little attention. Mr Darcy was watching her, that same complacent expression on his countenance, and all she could think about was the feel of his hands on her hips.
“It is a charming house, Miss Bennet,” Sir Frederick said.
The taste of his tongue on her lips. “Thank you.”
“It is haunted, you know,” Miss Hawkridge said. “Someone died here.”
“Good lord, is that true?” Sir Frederick asked Elizabeth.
The sensations that coursed through her when he pressed his leg against her. Stop it, stop it, stop it! “Perfectly true,” she mumbled, nodding.
“Are you quite well, Miss Bennet?” Lord Saye asked.
“Yes, thank you.” I think.
He squinted at her dubiously for a moment but then gave up with a little shake of his head and turned to his friend. “Well then, shall we get on?”
“Yes, let us go. Will you join us, Darcy? Fitzwilliam?”
The colonel readily agreed, but Mr Darcy faltered over his reply, glancing worriedly at Elizabeth.
“No excuses, Darcy,” Sir Frederick insisted. “Come on.”
“Do not concern yourself, Mr Darcy,” said Miss Hawkridge. “I shall see Miss Bennet safely home.”
He continued to hesitate, but there was clearly no way to escape the invitation without drawing undue attention to what had transpired between them. Elizabeth released him with a smile. “Good day, sirs.”
He gave her an apologetic look and, as he passed her on his way to the door, said quietly, “I shall call on you.” His fingers brushed hers, then he and the others were gone.
“Faith, that was close!” Miss Hawkridge said once the door closed behind them.
“What was?” Elizabeth asked guiltily.
“Saye coming home. Our little ruse was almost exposed.”
“Oh yes, of course.” Elizabeth reached up to smooth her hair, suddenly concerned she might look…as though she had been in a closet, kissing.
Miss Hawkridge peered at her more closely. “Did you find somewhere to hide the bones in his room?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Mr Darcy put them up the chimney.”
Miss Hawkridge had a slight smile playing on her lips, and Elizabeth prayed it did not portend any suspicions. “Excellent. And…did you discover anything else of interest while you were in there?”
Elizabeth shook her head, perhaps a little too insistently. “No. Did you?”
“No.” She was smirking, Elizabeth was sure of it.
“I really ought to be getting home, Miss Hawkridge. My aunt is expecting me.”
After what felt like an interminable pause, she relented. “As you wish. Let me just fetch my bonnet.” She walked away into another room, and Elizabeth opened the front door to get some air—and squeaked in surprise. Mr Hartham was on the top step, his arm raised to ring the bell.
“Mr Hartham! What are you doing here?”
“Miss Bennet—Elizabeth—I must say this before I lose my nerve. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”