Chapter 1 #2
“Now, if you will excuse me,” said Mr. Bennet, “I believe the card room beckons. I find I am in need of sensible conversation, a commodity in rather short supply in a ballroom filled with chattering mothers and their simpering daughters.”
Before Darcy could even respond to Mr. Bennet, the gentleman walked away, leaving Darcy frozen in place, his mind racing.
Miss Mary set the glass aside and hurried across the ballroom toward Miss Elizabeth, who was still trapped in conversation with Mr. Collins. The middle daughter bent close to her sister’s ear, whispering frantically, her hands gesturing in agitation.
Miss Elizabeth’s face transformed from practiced ennui to shock, then to fury. Without a word to Mr. Collins, she grasped Miss Mary’s arm and pulled her toward the library.
Something was very wrong.
Darcy surveyed the ballroom. No one seemed to have noticed the sisters’ departure.
Bingley danced with Miss Bennet, both smiling with that new understanding Darcy had only recognized.
Mrs. Bennet held court near the refreshment table, cackling loudly.
Miss Bingley moved through the room, playing the hostess with an air of superiority that grated on Darcy’s nerves.
Mr. Bennet had disappeared in the direction of the card room.
And Mr. Collins stood alone near the dance floor, looking about in confusion at Elizabeth’s disappearance.
Darcy set down his wine glass and moved toward the library door. He told himself he merely wished to ensure the ladies were well, that nothing untoward had occurred. But even as he formed the justification, he knew it for a lie.
Miss Elizabeth was in distress. And despite his pride, his concerns about her family, his hesitation—he could no more ignore her suffering than he could stop breathing.
He listened at the library door. He could hear voices within—Miss Elizabeth’s voice, raised in a way he had never heard before, acute with anguish and anger.
Darcy opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it softly behind him.
The sight that met his eyes would be forever burned into his memory.
Miss Elizabeth paced before the fireplace like a caged lioness, her hands clenched at her sides, tears stealing down her face that she swiped away with angry, impatient gestures.
Miss Mary stood near the desk, wringing her hands, her bearing a mixture of sympathy and helplessness.
“How dare he!” Miss Elizabeth exclaimed, apparently unaware of Darcy’s presence.
“How dare Papa decide my future without even consulting me. As if I were no more than a piece of furniture to be disposed of at his convenience. And he dared to share this information with Mr. Darcy before he told me his plans? Me, his own daughter? I will not marry Mr. Collins. I would rather—rather—”
Darcy purposely cleared his throat.
She broke off as both sisters spun toward him.
No one spoke. Miss Elizabeth’s chest heaved with the force of her emotions, her eyes bright, her face flushed. Even upset—she was magnificent.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Have you come to witness my humiliation? Or perhaps to offer your congratulations on my upcoming nuptials?”
The bitterness in her tone cut him deeply. “Neither,” he said. “I came to ask if there is anything I might do to help.”
She laughed, a broken sound that had nothing to do with mirth. “Help? Why would you help me, Mr. Darcy? What am I to you? A woman who is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt you? A member of a family you clearly disdain?”
Each word was a lash, and Darcy accepted them as his due.
“You are right to censure me,” he said, taking a step toward her.
“My words at the assembly were unconscionable. They were the words of a proud, arrogant, and ignorant man. I regret them more than I can express. If you can find it in yourself to forgive me, I will be forever in your debt.”
She stared at him, her expression unreadable. The silence stretched until it had weight. He had rehearsed nothing. Now he stood emptied of everything but the waiting.
“I did not anticipate your apology, sir.”
“What did you anticipate?”
Her shoulders shrugged. “Possibly excuses, justifications, perhaps even anger that I dared to throw your words back at you. Never a man of evident pride, lowering himself to genuine contrition. Sir, why did you not depart this room instead of face my hurt?”
He had been catalogued. Not flattered. Not condemned, necessarily. Simply understood, which was worse than either.
“Because your hurt was of my making,” he said, after a moment, “A gentleman does not wound and retreat. Or he should not.” A beat. “I should not have wounded you at all.”
Miss Mary added, “An apology. Something our father has never done.”
Miss Mary’s words struck him like a door swinging open onto a room he had not known existed. This is what we know. This is what we live with. He felt the ground shift slightly beneath his understanding of Elizabeth Bennet.
“Aye, Mary. He has not.” Miss Elizabeth took uncomfortable seconds to study his face. “You wish to be in my debt, Mr. Darcy? You wish for penance?”
He was not accustomed to being examined. Men of his position were observed. Appraised for wealth, for standing, for eligibility. But not studied. He did not know what she was searching for. Whatever it was, he was not certain he wanted her to find it.
“I do.”
She crossed the room until she stood directly before him, her eyes searching his face as though looking for some hidden truth. “Then kiss me.”
Darcy’s breath caught. The words took a moment to arrange themselves into meaning.
He was—for perhaps the first time in his adult life—entirely without a response.
Not because the request was incomprehensible, but because some treacherous part of him understood it immediately and completely.
That understanding shook him more than the request itself.
“I beg your pardon?”
If he had known a genuine apology would produce this, he thought wildly, he would have mastered the art considerably sooner. He made a silent, somewhat bewildered vow to apologize to her every day for the rest of his life.
“You heard me.” Her voice was unruffled, though her hands trembled at her sides. “Give me my first kiss, Mr. Darcy. Let it be of my own choosing, with a man I select, rather than a duty extracted by a husband I do not want. That is the penance I require.”
He had not imagined penance could take this form. He was certain it did not qualify as punishment.
He should refuse. He should remind her that such an action would compromise her beyond repair. He should behave as a gentleman and leave this room immediately.
From near the desk came an audible gasp. He did not look away from Miss Elizabeth. He could not. Somewhere to his left he was dimly aware of Miss Mary raising her shoulders as if to say, Do not look at me.
He did not.
Miss Elizabeth raised her chin, her eyes defiant, but he could see the vulnerability beneath the bravado. This was not merely a request for a kiss. This was a woman seizing her autonomy before it was stripped from her forever.
“As you wish,” he whispered.
He stripped off his gloves. His fingertips brushed her face gently, giving her time to retreat if she desired. Her skin was soft, still damp with tears. As they considered each other, Darcy felt his heart hammer against his ribs with such force he wondered if she heard it.
Then he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.
He had meant a mere brush of a kiss to satisfy her request. But the moment their mouths met, every carefully maintained tenet dissolved. Her hands clutched his coat, and she made a small sound—surprise or pleasure, he could not tell—that undid him completely.
He deepened the kiss, his mouth slanted over hers, tasting the salt of her tears, the sweetness of her lips, and an essence indefinably, entirely Elizabeth.
His hands roamed from her face to her waist, pulling her closer.
She came willingly, molding her body against his in a way that sent fire racing through his veins.
Then Miss Mary cleared her throat, breaking the spell.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Darcy had to exercise every fragment of self-control he possessed to keep from pulling her back into his arms. Elizabeth’s eyes were wide, her lips parted and swollen.
She looked dazed, thoroughly kissed, and more beautiful than any woman had a right to be.
“I—” She seemed to have lost the power of speech.
Darcy released her reluctantly, stepping back to put proper distance between them. His hands burned to hold her again. He clasped them behind his back. “Am I forgiven?” His voice came out rougher than he intended.
Miss Elizabeth blinked, as though returning from some distant place. “Yes. Yes, you are,” she whispered.
They stared at each other, the air between them charged with possibilities and dangers.
“Lizzy, tell him what he needs to do,” said Miss Mary, her voice an intrusion.
“Mr. Darcy,” Miss Elizabeth said, her voice quiet, “if you wish to help, there is a necessary task you have the power to perform.”
Darcy forced himself to focus on the practical matter at hand. “Name it.”
Miss Elizabeth had regained some of her poise, though her color remained high. “Before I tell you what I hope to acquire, you must know that there are two reasons I cannot marry Mr. Collins. The first is that I do not respect him and could never love him. We would make each other miserable.”
“A perfectly sound reason,” Darcy agreed.
“The second is perhaps more important. Mary cares for him.”
Darcy turned to Miss Mary in surprise.
The middle Bennet daughter colored but met his regard. “It is true. Mr. Collins and I share similar dispositions and interests. We have had several conversations about theology and music that I found most stimulating. I believe we would suit each other well.”
“And yet your father has decreed that your sister must marry him,” Darcy said, understanding dawning.
“My mother’s influence, no doubt,” Miss Elizabeth said bitterly.
“She believes I am too particular, that I will never accept any man, and so she has convinced my father to force my hand. But if I were not here—if I were removed from the situation—she would turn her attention to Mary. And Mr. Collins, I suspect, would be amenable to the change.”
He turned to the younger sister. “I beg your pardon, but I need to ask. Are you satisfied with not being his first choice?”
Miss Mary scoffed. “I often find that decorative, gilded tooling on a book will catch my eye, only to discover a perfect fit amongst the more practical covers. I cannot condemn Mr. Collins for doing the same when it comes to a bride.”
“I admire your pragmatism, Miss Mary.”
She accepted his compliment with a tip of her head.
Turning to Miss Elizabeth, he asked, “Then what do you suggest?”
“Help me get away.”
The three stood in silence, the enormity of what she suggested hung in the air between them. Darcy saw in both sisters a courage that matched his own.
“If you run away,” Darcy said slowly, “Where will you go? What will you do?”
“I have a little money saved. I will go to my uncle in London. Perhaps I could find a position as a governess or a companion to some elderly lady. Anything would be preferable to marriage to Mr. Collins.”
“No.” The word came out more forcefully than Darcy intended, and both sisters startled. “That is not a viable solution. A young woman alone, without references or connections? You would be vulnerable to every kind of danger.”
“Then what would you suggest?” she echoed his words.
Her eyes flashing and her chin raised in defiance, Darcy knew what he must do. He had hesitated for weeks, letting his pride and his concerns about propriety guide his actions. But there came a time when a man must act, hang the consequences.
“Marry me instead.”
He was standing in a room he had not intended to enter, saying words he had not intended to say, and meaning every syllable with a ferocity that frightened him considerably.
Never in his life had he so badly wanted to take back a sentence—not because he did not mean it, but because he meant it entirely, and she gave him nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat.