Chapter 2.19 #3
He looked around in complete panic and realised he was alone in the small room. Of course she was not there. Of course it was only another mortifying fabrication of his troubled mind.
He rushed to wash his face then opened the window widely. The rain had stopped —that was the only fact. He opened his shirt as he still felt he could not breathe. A gentle breeze was blowing, and he leant out the window as much as he could, allowing the wind to chill his inner heat.
Everything was dark except for the torches that guarded the inn. To his left on the lower floor, another window was open.
He remained still, and his knees weakened as he recognised Elizabeth’s figure wearing nothing but a nightgown, her hair playing in the wind. He wished to withdraw but had not the strength to abandon the bewitching image.
When she turned to him, their eyes met; it was too dark for him to read the expression on her face, but she did not avert her gaze.
He knew he should say something, or at least wave to her or give the reasonable response of a proper gentleman.
But he could not; the taste of her lips and the memory of her scent —though not real, just the result of his imagination —were too vivid to allow him to think rationally.
So he just took a step back and closed the window. The room became unbearably warm, and it appeared to shrink, weighing heavily on his shoulders. So he opened the window again but remained away from its frame. Finally, he dared to steal a glance; the window of Elizabeth’s room was closed.
∞∞∞
The night was late and dark; the patter of rain had stopped after hours of splashing rhythmically on the window, and it was the perfect, complete silence that awoke Elizabeth.
At first, she was confused about her location.
She felt herself shivering and wrapped herself in the blankets.
But then she became warm and thirsty and went to the small table to pour herself some water.
She glanced back at the large bed with its four pillows.
Two of them were not even used. Both the bed and the pillows were too large for her, just as the bed in the smaller chamber was probably too small for Darcy.
She should have taken the other room, but he would brook no argument.
He wished to be certain she was comfortable, but she was not, and her sleep was restless.
The image of him sleeping in the same bed on another night was disturbing. Not unpleasant. Not distressful. Only disturbing, thrilling, stirring.
She knew that her thoughts were unreasonable, embarrassing, even shameful, but she could not escape them.
Just as she could not escape the recollection of his closeness, his touch, or his scent that had troubled her since dinnertime.
She had never known such a storm of feelings from the mere nearness to a man.
She could have moved her chair a few inches away to be sure their bodies would not brush against each other. But she did not. He could have done the same if he wished. He was at the end of the table —for him it would have been even easier. And yet, he preferred not to.
What was happening to her? She was there to keep Georgiana company.
To take care of her. To provide that sweet girl the peace, comfort, and support she needed.
Instead, she was making a fool of herself.
She must gather herself and keep her head clear.
She had to be more careful. She should avoid being too close to him.
Her behaviour was neither proper nor reasonable in his presence.
She turned to the bed again, and a sense of panic enveloped her. Should she go back to sleep? Or perhaps just wait for morning to come?
Elizabeth opened the window, yearning for fresh air, and she breathed deeply the scent of early autumn washed by the rain.
There was little to be seen as the moon and the stars were hidden by the clouds.
A few torches lit the yard of the inn, their fire flickering with the breeze.
A sense of calm enveloped her, and she closed her eyes, bending out over the window frame.
Then a shiver ran down her spine, and her heart fluttered for no apparent reason.
She opened her eyes and glanced up the dark wall of the building.
She startled then remained still, astounded, her gaze frozen.
On the upper floor —at a small window lit by the torch burning behind it —stood Darcy.
He was looking outside, his white shirt unbuttoned and his hair in disorder.
Mesmerised, Elizabeth watched his head slowly turn, his gaze falling upon her and seeming to burn her face.
Their eyes met and held for a long, heavy moment; then he gradually retired and closed the window.
She needed time to regain her composure and reluctantly do the same. With hesitant steps, she returned to the bed, lay down, and pulled the blankets around her. A few minutes later, she took one of the extra pillows and embraced it, but the tremor inside her was not to be soothed until dawn.