Chapter Sixteen #2
Darcy choked on his wine, then quickly excused himself when all eyes turned to him.
What had he just heard? Had Collins just conspired with Mrs. Bennet for the man to wed Elizabeth?
The thought of the charming, vivacious, brilliant, unconventional Elizabeth being tied to his aunt’s foot-licker brought bile to his mouth.
He had realised he felt more than usual affection for her, nay—he believed he loved her—but had not considered what he ought to do about it.
He had repressed all thoughts of offering for her, knowing how unsuited were their stations, but he had somehow thought that she would always be there, waiting for when he was, at last, prepared to face his family.
Now matters had suddenly become more immediate.
If Collins offered for her, and if her mother and father insisted on her acceptance, he would have lost the one person in the world with whom he wished to spend his life. This would never do!
In a rush of emotion, he realised he must speak to her. He must confess his admiration and esteem, and he must do it soon.
From the faces around him, he surmised that the rest of the meal was delicious, but he did not taste a bite.
The dishes were plentiful and varied, the wine rich and abundant, and conversation flowed as smoothly as the drinks, but all he could think of was the woman across the table from him, talking with such animation with his cousin.
He almost felt a flicker of jealousy, but knew it was misdirected.
From his comments earlier, Richard knew of Darcy’s regard for Elizabeth, and he would not step between them. And yet...
There was a look in Richard’s eye, a gleam of interest that Darcy had seen so rarely.
For all his gregarious bravado, his cousin was not a man to give his heart easily, and when he did, his devotion was total.
Now Darcy saw that seldom-seen look, and began to fear not just Mr. Collins’ attentions, but of his cousin’s as well.
When at last the meal was over and the women had left to allow the men their port and cigars and bawdy talk, Darcy was one of the first to excuse himself.
Richard raised an eyebrow, and Hastings asked, sotto voce, if anything was amiss, but Darcy brushed both friends off and left them to talk about their common acquaintances and matters of interest.
The ladies were all sitting in a pretty arrangement around the drawing room when he entered.
Miss Mary was attacking some simple tunes at the pianoforte, her mediocre skills attenuated by the soft tones of the instrument, and the younger two girls were settled in a corner, giggling over some tale that Lydia was recounting to Kitty.
As Darcy entered the room, Lydia called over to Mrs. Forster—“Dear Harriet,” she was—and that lady entered into the discussion.
There, along one wall, Mrs. Bennet held court with Jane, Elizabeth, Charlotte Lucas and Lady Lucas around her, and on another sofa, Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst sat like statues, their faces betraying their distaste for everything and everyone around them.
Caroline was the first to notice him. “Oh, Mr. Darcy,” she cooed.
“Do come and sit by us. We are quite parched for conversation.” Mrs. Bennet, to her credit, did not cease in her oration, and Lady Lucas tittered particularly loudly at one comment, a snub to the two Bingley sisters upon the sofa.
“How droll, Franny,” she replied. “I shall have to retell that tale when next Sir William and I are in London at Saint James’s.
Oh, Miss Bingley!” she affected to notice the woman behind her.
“Have you been presented at Saint James’s?
I would be most pleased to introduce you.
” Whereupon she returned her smile to her friend and spared not another glance at the scowls directed at her back.
“Thank you, Miss Bingley,” Darcy kept his eyes cold, “but I find myself fascinated by Lady Lucas’ experiences at Court.
Do tell me more, Lady Lucas.” He looked for a place to sit and was gratified when Elizabeth moved over to allow him space on her small sofa.
As the hush that had descended over the room lifted and conversation began to fill the space once more, he leaned over and whispered, “I must talk to you. Is there somewhere we can converse in private?”
Her eyes asked a hundred questions, but he pinched his lips closed and gave his head a miniscule shake.
“Later, when the others return, I shall go to the library. Are you able to leave this gathering to wait for me there?”
His heart beat a wild tattoo in his chest, and the palms of his hands grew damp.
He would, in a few minutes, make a decision that upon successful resolution would make him the happiest of men, and mark his ostracization from his family and much of fine society.
Surely she would have him; his fortune alone made him a most eligible choice, and he truly believed she liked him.
His palms were damp, but this was in dread anticipation of the disapprobation of his relatives.
A lifetime of joy was more than compensation for his aunt and uncle’s scowls.
His only concern was for Georgiana; he wished for his sister and wife to be friends and began to plot out how to bring this about.
She has not yet accepted you, he schooled himself, yet his heart would not accept the possibility of a refusal.
He must convince her. He could never live with himself if he allowed her to be cajoled into marriage with Collins.
His hands perspired and his head swam, and he sat in agony as he awaited the return of the other men and his and Elizabeth’s departures to the library.
How long were their cigars? He wondered.
How many glasses of port must they drink, how many tales of improper wagers and jokes in questionable taste?
How long must this agony last? It seemed hours before the sounds of masculine voices filtered through the doors and then men entered, and then hours more before Elizabeth excused herself to find a book which she knew would have the answer to whatever question it was that Charlotte had asked.
He waited for three minutes after she left the room, counting the seconds according to the clock on the mantel.
As the company sat and stood and arranged themselves to take tea, he rose from his seat and slipped from the room when he thought no one was watching. He would not be missed for some time.
He knew this house well and walked with quiet, confident steps down the long passageway to the old part of the house where the library lay, with its hidden doors and secret stairs, wherein she was waiting for him. With a tap at the door, he entered.
He had been in this room before, when the wall opened, and the men walked out.
Now he had eyes only for Elizabeth, in her fetching pale green gown and her hair in ringlets and rosebuds about her lovely face.
She was standing by the open window, the flickering light from the lamp dancing across her skin, gilding her in loveliness.
She turned when he entered and cast a smile upon him that outshone the flame in the lamp.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured and moved towards her. She stood very still, lips slightly apart, eyes wide. He was willing to risk his family’s censure for her. He was willing to risk anything. “Elizabeth.” When had he begun thinking of her by her name alone? She did not seem to object.
“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”