Chapter 9 #2
It was not the reaction he was hoping for, but as she had not withdrawn her hand, Darcy persevered.
“I know we have only been reacquainted with each other for less than a week, but I have loved you for three years, Elizabeth. I would wait three more if it meant you would be my wife at the end of them.”
She was silent for what felt like a small eternity, staring fixedly at their joined hands.
With each second that passed, Darcy felt his heart constrict a little bit more within his chest. He had been so certain that she returned his feelings, if not entirely, then at least partially.
The idea that he might have mistaken her inherent friendliness for affection—again—mortified and disappointed him beyond measure.
He recalled the way she had looked at him the other evening, with sincerity in her smile and tenderness in her eyes.
And yesterday, when he escorted her home, she had clung tightly to his hand until they had reached the house.
It had not been a figment of his imagination.
It was real. As real as his love for her.
His eyes travelled from her face, the expression upon which appeared far too serious for his liking, to their hands, entwined so neatly, so perfectly upon her lap.
Even now, in her silence, she permitted him such a liberty.
Silently, berating himself for his impulsivity, he relinquished her hand with a gentle squeeze, determined to give her whatever time and distance she required so as not to compound her distress. “You are very good,” he said to her. “It was not my intention to importune you in such a manner.”
“You have not,” she told him gently. “I was not expecting to receive a proposal of marriage this morning. You have caught me off guard.”
“And for that I apologise. Seeing you again. Speaking with you much in the same manner as we had done at Pemberley…” Darcy shook his head.
“You need not give me an answer today, but I would be honoured if you would permit me to pay court to you in the meantime. However, if you feel even that is too much too soon, perhaps I could call on you instead, in the presence of your family, of course?”
“Accepting you,” she told him softly, “is not the issue. Any hesitation on my part has nothing to do with my heart. It has to do with your family. They have been very kind, but they will undoubtedly have decided opinions regarding your choice of wife.”
He was taken aback by her declaration. “My family adore you—”
“Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth insisted, “knows far more about my family than either of us should like. Mr Collins saw to that, and more.”
“Hang Lady Catherine,” he told her vehemently. “She never leaves Rosings. And hang Collins, too. He is an imbecile. What lobcock is daft enough to inform anyone so wholly unconnected to him of such sensitive and private matters within his own family?”
“I cannot deny that my cousin is a singular creature, especially regarding the rather unhealthy obsession he has with your aunt. But you know as well as I do that Lady Catherine must write to your uncle—”
“Who happens to like you.”
“He does not know me, sir. None of your relations here do, not really.”
“Fitzwilliam knows you.”
“Yes,” she allowed, “but does he also know of my troubles?”
Darcy pursed his lips. “He is my dearest friend and closest confidant. That said, he has never thought less of you for your sister’s indiscretion.
He was only surprised to learn that it was Wickham with whom she eloped.
Even that transgression was not enough to make him wish to withdraw his support. ”
“You cannot tell me that your aunt and uncle or the viscount and viscountess will be pleased to welcome me as your wife should the truth about Lydia become known. By the grace of God, news of her scandal has not followed us to Yorkshire. Whenever Lydia’s name is mentioned by any of us, which is but rarely, people assume that she has died.
We have done nothing to correct their misapprehension.
” She expelled a harsh breath. “As much as it pains me to think of her that way, it may be true. We simply do not know.”
Wanting nothing more in that moment than to reassure her and offer her what comfort was within his power, Darcy extended his hand to her.
He was not only heartened but relieved when she accepted it without hesitation.
“You shall know something soon enough,” he promised.
“Fitzwilliam left this morning for London. He has various…connexions, shall we say, who have proved endlessly useful due to their resourcefulness if not their stellar characters. God willing, he will be able to learn something of your sister’s fate from them. ”
“And if he does not?” she asked quietly, sombrely, unwilling to meet his eyes.
“Then he will continue to make enquiries until you are satisfied.”
“Should he learn something of my sister that society deems utterly irredeemable, what then?”
“If you are asking me whether I will change my mind, Elizabeth, the answer is no. There is nothing I want more than to take you home to Pemberley as my wife. To make a family with you, and a lifetime’s worth of memories to sustain us when we are old and grey.
” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to her palm.
“My love for you is indelible. It will not fade with time, or distance, or adversity.”
“Even the adversity your sister may face because of mine?” she asked, peering at him from beneath her lashes before averting her eyes to their joined hands.
“You are dissembling,” Darcy told her, gently but firmly.
“I want to marry you. I want to worship you, all the rest of my days. I want to give myself to you, body and soul, and bestow upon you all of my worldly possessions.” He placed her hand on his chest, where his heart was beating so furiously that he feared it would take flight, and covered it with both his own.
“I love you,” he said as he rested his forehead against hers.
“I will always love you, regardless of whether or not you ever consent to be my wife.”
They remained in that attitude for some time.
Darcy dared not permit himself to think beyond the present moment—of the slight but significant weight of her hand against his chest, and her breath upon his lips, and the fervent compulsion he felt in every muscle, every fibre of his body, to cleave her to him and never let her go.
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said softly, with a tenderness that gave rise to hope, “it would be more prudent for us to wait to marry, but since you have loved me for so long, it seems cruel to make you wait another three years.” She squeezed his hand and withdrew just far enough away so that she could better see his face.
Her eyes were dark and luminous, and suspiciously shiny.
“I have loved you nearly as long. We need delay no longer than the time it will take for the parson to read the banns in church.”
Hearing her say that she loved him—that she would marry him at long last…! It was all Darcy could do to keep his countenance. “And will you call me by my name?”
“If I must,” she replied with a playful turn of her lips.
“You are a terrible tease,” he told her, smiling despite himself as she laughed.
“You have no one to blame but yourself, for you provoke me to it, Fitzwilliam.” She touched his cheek, and then his lips. “You have always provoked me.”
Hearing Elizabeth speak his name affected Darcy profoundly. “Please tell me that I may kiss you,” he murmured, pressing a loving kiss to her forehead, her cheek, and the pulse just beneath her jaw with agonising slowness.
Elizabeth’s breath caught as she whispered, “I would be sorely disappointed if you did not.”
Their lips met gently, with a tenderness that made his breath hitch, and his pulse quicken, and his stomach clench with desire. He reminded himself there was no need to rush, that they would have the rest of their lives to do…this. To love each other as husband and wife.
And so their passion built slowly.
Unhurriedly.
Languorously.
Elizabeth’s hands, which had found their way to his shoulders, traced the edge of his cravat, the sliver of skin just above it, and then his jaw. When he felt her fingers winding through his hair, Darcy deepened their kiss, enfolded her in his arms, and nearly lost his self-control.
Somewhere in his love-hazed mind, he heard the click of the door as it was opened.
The distinct crash of breaking china followed, and they leapt apart in alarm.
Horrified, Darcy stared at Martha, whose eyes were as large as saucers as she stood amongst the broken remnants of the tea tray.
She opened her mouth, presumably to speak, but any words she wished to say to them appeared to be beyond her present capabilities.
The only sound she was able to make was a strangled little squeak.
Suddenly, the absurdity of their being caught in a passionate embrace by the housemaid seemed almost comical. Resisting the urge to laugh outright, he cleared his throat and said, “Congratulate me, Martha, for Miss Bennet has just consented to be my wife.”
Martha looked as though she hardly knew what response to give. In the end, she dropped a hasty curtsey and all but ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Her shoulders shaking with laughter, Elizabeth covered her face with her hands. “Poor Martha!”