CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE #2
But Elizabeth, moved by an impulse she did not understand, nor wished to analyse too closely, stopped him. Her own fingers tightened around his, a small, desperate gesture.
“Don’t.” Her whisper was so faint it was almost lost to the wind.
He froze, his gaze snapping back to hers, questioning. The quiet of the glade became suddenly profound, amplifying the sound of her own pulse, the whisper of the wind in the leaves, and the almost audible thrum of the tension between them.
The moment stretched, taut and almost unbearable. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek, his scent – the clean tang of the Derbyshire air, and something uniquely, indefinably, attractively Darcy – filling her senses, making her head spin slightly.
And then he kissed her.
It was not a kiss of passion, not a kiss of demand or possession, but a kiss of tenderness.
It was the answer she had been desperately, hopelessly longing for.
For days, she had searched for any sign that his affection had survived her cruelty, that his regard was not entirely extinguished.
This hesitant, almost reverent touch was more than she had dared to hope for.
His lips were surprisingly soft, surprisingly warm, as they met hers. For a single, perfect instant, she allowed herself to melt into the sensation. But just as she did, she felt him go rigid against her, a sudden tensing of every muscle. The warmth vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp withdrawal.
He drew back as if burnt, his hand dropping from hers to grip the reins, his knuckles white. “Forgive me.” His voice was hoarse.
“Forgive you?” The words were a breath of pure astonishment.
His apology did not match the sense of comfort that had just settled in her heart.
In that kiss, she felt the anchor of his strength, a steadfast presence that did not flinch from her darkest secret.
To see him now, so stricken and apologetic, was to see a man completely misunderstanding the gift he had just given her.
Amid the dizzying surge of emotion, she could not imagine what he was apologising for.
Darcy stared at her. “I…” he started, then stopped, as if the words themselves were a betrayal. He looked away, his jaw tight with the effort of composing himself. “I was wrong to take advantage of the moment, especially when I know — ” He paused, his voice pained. “It was a weakness.”
She reached out, her fingers gently touching his arm, stopping his halting, painful words. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said, “Your kiss was not a weakness; it was a comfort. A most welcome one.”
He seemed to want to speak, to question, but no words emerged. After she had laid her soul so raw, he seemed hesitant to introduce more into such a fragile space.
Finally, awkwardly, he cleared his throat, a deliberate attempt to restore some order. “We should return to Pemberley. I have an appointment with my steward this afternoon. I must not keep him waiting.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, understanding that the conversation could not, for now, go any further, “you must not.”
The journey back was a quiet one, but it was a silence of an entirely different nature. With every sway of the carriage, the quiet was a new and tender intimacy that held her steady, offering her the space she needed to separate the grief of her past from the promise of the future.
As she sat beside him, acutely aware of the mere inches that separated his shoulder from hers, she could feel the warmth radiating from him.
She was conscious of his every small movement in the shift of his hands on the reins and the rhythm of his breathing.
His reassuring physical presence was a soothing balm to her exposed soul.
When they finally pulled into the stable yard at Pemberley, Darcy brought the horses to a halt but made no immediate move to alight even as the stable boys came forward to assist them.
He turned to her then, his eyes still holding that look of almost fearful wonder. “Elizabeth,” he began, then he seemed to think better of whatever he was about to say, and instead asked formally, “May we speak more this evening?”
“I should like that very much,” she said, offering a tentative smile that she hoped conveyed everything they were not yet ready to say.
With a final look that was a promise in itself, Darcy finally stepped down and came around to her side. He offered his hand to help her alight, and as their fingers touched, a spark, not of magic but of something else entirely, seemed to pass between them despite the barrier of their gloves.
As he escorted her back inside, Elizabeth could taste his kiss on her lips and felt a joyful hope unfurling in her heart.
She had been waiting for the sound of his knock.
Dinner had been an ordeal of delightful agony, a meal spent exchanging charged glances with Darcy while the colonel’s attempts at conversation were lost to them both.
“I had a letter from my father this morning,” the colonel had said, launching into the topic with determination. “He is in a fine temper over the new Enclosure Bill. He seems to think the magical assessments of the land are entirely inadequate.”
Darcy, whose gaze had just met Elizabeth’s over the rim of his wine glass, had merely murmured, “Indeed.”
The colonel had pressed on. “A point I believe you made yourself last month with some vehemence, Darcy.” He had said the name with emphasis, as if trying to draw attention.
“The principles are flawed,” Darcy had replied distractedly, his focus so clearly elsewhere that Elizabeth had to suppress a smile.
Seeing he was getting nowhere with Darcy, the colonel had turned to her. “And what is your opinion on the matter, Elizabeth? As a woman with such an attuned sense to the land’s true nature.”
Elizabeth had attempted to concentrate. “Perhaps their formal assessments would be more accurate,” she had offered, her own gaze drifting back to Darcy, “if they learnt to listen to the land rather than their own speeches.”
A stirring of a smile had touched Darcy’s lips at that, a knowing gesture that had only deepened the secret current between them.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had finally surrendered with a laugh, setting down his fork.
“Well, Darcy,” he had said, his eyes twinkling, “since neither politics nor philosophy can compete for your attention this evening, I shall simply have to hold you to your promise. A full, clause-by-clause dissection of the new bill, was it not? I look forward to discussing every point over port tonight.”
Darcy had looked so horrified at the prospect that the colonel had laughed aloud. “Very well, perhaps tomorrow.”
The drawing room had been somehow even more of an exquisite agony.
To have him stand so close as he turned the pages of her music, his sleeve occasionally brushing her arm, was a sweet and absolute torment.
The colonel, finally taking pity on them, had feigned fatigue and retired early, granting them their freedom to do the same.
So when the knock came, Elizabeth’s heart was a flutter of nervous anticipation.
She opened the door to see her husband clad in his dressing gown, his usual composure tinged with an uncharacteristic agitation.
“A moment of your time, if I may?” he asked, gesturing towards the sitting room.
She sat on the sofa, and he took a seat beside her, his fingers worrying at the cuff of his sleeve. “I feel I must begin by offering another apology — ”
Elizabeth could not bear to hear him continue in this manner. “That will hardly do. An apology is entirely the wrong place to begin,” she said quickly, “An apology implies a transgression has occurred.”
“Precisely,” he insisted, entirely missing her point. “A transgression was committed. My conduct this morning was inexcusable.”
His own perceived sense of transgression now blinded him to her affection, just as her prejudice had once blinded her to his worth. The thought endeared him to her completely.
“Inexcusable? You offered me precisely what I wished for. I said it then, and I repeat it now. Your kiss was welcome.”
But despite the absolute clarity of her statement, he seemed incapable of accepting it. It was as if he were completely overwhelmed, struggling to reconcile what she had said with everything he believed.
“Do not spare my feelings with pleasantries, Elizabeth, I beg of you,” he murmured, his voice low and intense.
She aimed for a more playful tone, hoping to show him there was truly nothing to forgive. “Is that truly the most generous interpretation you can place upon my words? Or are you simply determined to misread the situation?”
“Yes,” he said slowly, his eyes fixed on hers, “It is. I am.”
He seemed unable to find more words. In the quiet, the soft crackle of the fire was the only sound.
“What am I to make of your words?” he finally asked, his voice so full of a plaintive and desperate bewilderment that it went straight to her heart, “How am I to read that moment?”
Every fear she had harboured — that she had spoken too unforgivably, that his heart had closed to her — vanished in an instant.
The kiss had been a dizzying possibility, but his question now was the proof she needed.
He had not turned from her. He was still here, still questioning, his heart still open.
He wanted this. The faint hope she had dared to feel was no longer a question; it was the answer, a feeling of warmth and conviction that spread through her entire being.
“You may read it as a moment that was, in my own estimation, interrupted far too soon,” she said, her eyes shining with laughter, “But I believe I shall permit you a second kiss to prove your understanding has improved.”
Very slowly, the confusion on his face gave way to a dawning, incredulous hope.
“I think you tease me, Elizabeth,” he said huskily. She realised how much she loved hearing him say her name, how that single word from him now held a world of new, unexpected meaning.