Chapter Fourteen #2
Darcy spoke softly and extended his hand to her. “Here, I could teach you.”
She placed her bare hand in his, letting out a low gasp as she appeared to recollect that she had stripped off her delicate lace gloves when examining some roses Lady Parker had especially admired.
He slowly moved their hands and arms into the correct position, and she stared intently up at him as their position brought their bodies so near.
“This is how we begin,” he whispered, not quite meeting her eye. “I have left enough space between us for you to observe the footwork, but at the assembly I shall hold you closer—that is, I—that is how the dance is done—close.”
“How thrilling,” she said, perhaps a hint of anxiety in her voice.
“You need not be nervous,” he said softly.
“The steps are quite simple, you need only relax yourself and follow my lead. I shall start with my right, and you with your left. Three steps in a quarter turn, and then the next step pivots us like so. Now, with your left, three steps again, and then pivot about. And another three, like so.”
Elizabeth’s skirts swirled in a becoming manner that appeared to please her as she gazed downward, watching their feet move in time together. She hummed a tune in triple meter to keep time as she made the steps, less hesitant with every turn. “I feel graceful; I hope I do not look a shambles.”
“That would be impossible,” Darcy breathed, laughing gently as she gained her confidence and began to hum faster. They quickened their movements a little, and he pulled her closer to him. “Can you do it without looking?”
“I think… yes.” Elizabeth tilted her head upward, her lips a perfect o of surprise. Her humming ceased.
It was the first time they had looked at one another since they began dancing, and now they were moving in absolutely magnificent harmony as their eyes locked.
And then a wonderful and terrible thing happened to Fitzwilliam Darcy.
He was struck by lightning—struck utterly dumbfounded—struck by a most inconvenient and incandescent discovery.
He was utterly lost to the love that roared in his heart for the wrong woman—for Elizabeth Bennet.
The best and worst part of it was that he saw all of this reflected back to him in Elizabeth’s shining grey eyes.
He drew her closer, their bodies nearly touching.
She stilled, her upturned face inches from his.
A few curls had come loose when she had removed her bonnet upon arrival, and they now blew around her face as a warm breeze swirled through the gazebo.
Her skirts billowed around his legs and she leaned into him, their hands still entwined.
Darcy peered down at her lips and imagined his arms encircling her.
He remembered what it had felt like to carry her in his arms that day in the rain.
He had relished the feel of her body, and he longed to do so again.
How would she react? The doctor’s elixir had rendered her overly agreeable at Trafalgar House, but she had agreed only to the pretense of courtship.
Would she be so agreeable now, or was this but a lark, the ruse an act of friendship—or worse, pity?
It was this disheartening notion that saved him from disaster.
Darcy recovered himself and slowly released her, dipping into a bow as he would have done in a ballroom.
Had he been obliged to speak, he might have lost all sense of his mission in coming to Sanditon, and even the blackmail that bound him to his purpose; he might have kissed her, claimed her, begged her to end the pretense and return his love in earnest.
But he could not do this, and he was happily recalled to his senses by distant shouting from the beach beyond the edge of the low cliff.
Perhaps fifty yards distant, a man on the beach called out to them in indistinguishable outrage.
Darcy took a guilty step away from Elizabeth. “I hope that is not your uncle.”
She moved to the end of the gazebo, squinting into the distance as she leaned forward on the railing. “The angle of the light makes it difficult to tell—oh! But it is only Sir Anthony.” She laughed and shook her head. “What a pity it was not Miss de Bourgh! I am sure we made quite a spectacle.”
Darcy had scarcely thought of Anne since nearly being run down in the thoroughfare by Sir Sidney.
But Elizabeth was correct, and he ought to hope they would make enough of a spectacle to stir Anne’s envy and break Sir Sidney’s hold on her affections.
He certainly hoped it would be soon, for his ruse with Elizabeth had taken a dangerous turn.
“Perhaps we should return to the house; you must be wishing to spend more time with your sister.”
Elizabeth removed her arm from Mr. Darcy’s as they entered the parlor, where Colonel Fitzwilliam had joined Mr. Bingley in chatting amiably with Jane and Marianne.
As she walked to the part of the room where her companions were seated, she realized they had all positioned themselves with a clear view of the gazebo.
Her face burned as she sat with her sisters.
The colonel greeted her warmly. “I should ask how do you do, Miss Bennet, but I can see that your face is flushed from the exercise of walking in the garden.”
“Do not tease her, that is my brotherly prerogative,” Mr. Bingley laughed. “But I shall save it for another time—Miss Lizzy is enjoying the warm weather far too much for me to tease her on so lovely a day. Let us go to the library—there are not many books, but there is brandy!”
“It is half ten in the morning,” Mr. Darcy muttered, but followed his friend and cousin from the room.
Bingley clapped him on the shoulder. “Shall I ask the cook for a piece of toast, too?”
Elizabeth watched him leave, but attempted to conceal that she had done so by feigning an admiration for the wallpaper. “This is a charming house, Jane.”
“Oh, Lizzy, we know you are thinking of Mr. Darcy—forgive me, but I told Jane and Mr. Bingley all about it.” Marianne gave Elizabeth a penitent look.
Beside her, Charlotte gave a playful shrug, as if to say that she would have told Jane if Marianne had not.
Charlotte had been quiet and peculiarly observant during their outing, and Elizabeth was sure that her old friend could see right through her.
Wild emotions, love and joy and panic, spun in her mind, and at present she was utterly mortified that what she had recently been assiduously denying had suddenly come to pass.
Her ruse with Mr. Darcy had begun to feel like something more.
She wished for solitude, time to convince herself that she had only been swept up in the moment, learning to dance so intimately. Instead, her three favorite ladies were staring expectantly at her.
“I should be afraid of being misled by my own sentimental heart, in such an unusual arrangement, but you have always been fond of a lark,” Jane said tactfully. “Are you enjoying the amusement?”
“I am,” Elizabeth said, with what she hoped was a measure of playful nonchalance.
“I thoroughly approve of Mr. Darcy,” Marianne said. “At first I thought him terribly imposing, but he likes poetry and music and Lizzy, which is just what any gentleman ought to do.”
“He likes Lizzy—he considers her a helpful friend—but let us not forget his affections are engaged elsewhere.” Charlotte offered their companions a feeble smile as she looked quizzically at Elizabeth.
Jane frowned and fidgeted with her bracelets.
“I rather pity Mr. Darcy. It is true I was shocked that he insulted you the very night I met Charles, but when he visited us last summer, I liked him much better. The poor man has lost his home, which I understand was very grand, and had been in his family for many generations—and then he was jilted by his fiancée! Is it true that she ended the engagement after the fire?”
“I believe so—I am not entirely certain of the timing.” Elizabeth felt her heart sink at the notion that Miss de Bourgh’s defection had been motivated by mercenary intentions. “Her affections certainly appear to be engaged elsewhere.”
“And Sir Sidney—Charlotte, I had thought you liked your brother-in-law well enough to think of him for Lizzy.”
Marianne rested her hand on Jane’s arm, bouncing a little in her seat as if anxious to disparage the man.
“Lizzy says he is horrid! And Mrs. Jennings heard that he is always drunk and uncouth, his conduct is often lewd, and that he is a rake and a laughingstock. Just the day before yesterday, Charlotte and I saw him nearly trample poor Lizzy and Mr. Darcy in the street with his reckless driving! Tell her, Charlotte!”
Charlotte gave a heavy sigh. “Jane, he is not at all the man I thought him to be when first I met Sir Thomas. A year ago, I thought him simply a lively fellow, not unlike your excellent Mr. Bingley. I believe he was a better man before his knighthood. Afterward, he fell in with a wild set, racing horses and gambling and—well, enjoying the company of certain sorts of ladies…. And yes, he has grown fond of spirits. I ought to warn you away from him, Marianne.”
Jane wrung her hands. “Is that necessary, if he is courting Miss de Bourgh? Oh dear, and she has thrown over Mr. Darcy for such a man? That must pain him very much. In truth, I think it would be paltry comfort to win her back by means of arousing her jealousy at seeing him happy with another. Would he rather not… simply find that happiness with another?”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and turned away from them, allowing herself a moment to agonize over this very question.
She began to wish—and perhaps had secretly desired all along—that Mr. Darcy would see that his wayward lady was no better than the wastrel she had jilted him for, that he would see all that had become so genuine in their performative courtship.
Elizabeth wanted Mr. Darcy to choose her.