Chapter Three
Darcy paced up and down his bedroom, muttering to himself.
How could he have been so stupid? He had spent the last fifteen minutes speaking to Mr Jones and trying to make himself abundantly clear that should a word of what he ‘thought’ he had observed in the library spread among the staff, or worse still the residents of the house, there would be severe consequences.
The man had refused to take any money for his discretion which seemed a bad sign, or perhaps a good one—Darcy could not be sure. But then there was the maid, who Mr Jones had assured him he would take care of. Surely she would gossip and then the situation would become impossible to manage.
He sat heavily on his bed and groaned. He had made such a cake of things.
From the moment he had seen Elizabeth (she would always be simply Elizabeth in his own thoughts) he had been transfixed.
With her dark auburn hair arranged softly, one loose curl spilling down her neck and her round hazel eyes and pale skin, she appeared like a fairy queen.
Her beauty was perhaps not classical but somehow ethereal and bewitching.
He had watched her flashing eyes as she danced with true enjoyment and how she raised an elegant eyebrow whenever she displayed her wry humour, which was often.
He had never experienced anything like it.
It was like his body had a physical pull to her and it would listen to no arguments that a simple country miss was not formed for Mr Darcy of Pemberley.
When his friend Bingley had encouraged him to dance with her, he had responded meanly, "She is tolerable I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.
" It was his way of trying to sever any potential connection before it had begun.
He was sure that once he took her small hand in his and guided her to the dancefloor, he would be forever lost.
Then her sister had become ill and he had been stuck under the same roof as the object of his desire—and torment—for three intolerable weeks.
She was in the parlour, in the library, sat across from him at dinner, her scent was everywhere, and it was all he could do not to fall on his knees and beg her to run away with him.
He had always been an ordered man, a man in control of his own desires.
As the master of a large estate with hundreds of people dependent on him, he could not afford to give way to whims and follies.
So he lived his life under tight regulation, ordering his work and leisure carefully, always conscious of his position in society and the responsibilities his parents had drummed into him.
How had one woman undone him so completely?
He could not tear his eyes from her when they were in the same room.
And he found himself talking utter nonsense whenever he gave into his desperate desire to interact with her.
He would say things he knew were untrue or controversial just to have her direct her sparkling wit and flashing eyes in his direction.
She had called him "intolerable" and the "most vexing man in the world.
" But the truth was that he was so overwhelmed in her presence that he felt incapable of proper conversation.
At dinner that night, she had eaten so little and the thought of her being unwell or upset was so awful that he had to say something.
He knew he had come across as officious and nonsensical and she had made her feelings quite clear.
She hated him. And he had nearly kissed her.
The daughter of a gentleman who had made her feelings abundantly clear, and he had acted like the worst sort of cad.
If the rumours did spread she would be ruined.
He could not even do the right thing, for he knew that her dislike of him was so strong that she would never consent to marry him.
He had to remove himself, from this situation and from this woman who had possessed his mind and body so completely that he thought he would run mad. He got up and poured himself a glass of brandy. If he could not escape these feelings he could at least drown them for a while.