Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
What was he doing? How could he be allowing himself this pleasure?
It was the trees and the poetry. And her.
She intoxicated him. It was maddening. He did not wish to stop.
He had never felt so right as in this moment.
And yet, it was improper and she was—she was not his future.
She could not be. She had an unsuitable family and not enough connexions or resources to make the match advantageous. She— Oh her lips, her softness.
He stepped back, feeling the December air fill the space between them.
“I must— I ought—” He tried to look at her, but his vision was blurred.
Was he crying? No. He had been holding his breath all this while.
She had undone him. He had to leave. Had to run.
Had to— But her face. Her perfect face was looking up at him with affection and confusion and the desire to be kissed again.
He leaned his forehead against hers to stop himself. “This is dangerous.”
“Why?” she whispered, lacing her fingers through his. “I have never found anyone for whom I have felt these feelings, and perhaps you feel the same.”
Though his brain was telling him to be silent, to be sensible, he admitted, “I do.”
She leaned a bit back so they might look at one another. “Then how is this anything short of a miracle? Why not celebrate it rather than pretend it does not exist?”
He stepped away. “Because…of expectations.”
“Whose?”
Whose indeed. His parents were dead. Society could hang for all he cared of its opinions. His sister? She would love Miss Elizabeth, of that he was certain. And yet, something held him back.
She stepped in again, her lips momentarily brushing against his neck, light as a feather, and it almost drove him mad.
He gently took her shoulders, pushing her away enough that he might see her face. And to stop the infernal and magnificent sensation of her lips on his skin. “I do not trust myself not to ravish you in this place, Miss Elizabeth.”
She offered a twisted smile as if this might be a welcome action, but said, “Perhaps we ought to part then, sir. For our mutual safety.”
He reached out for a loose strand of her hair and twisted it around his fingers for a moment, then let it go. His heart pounded so hard he thought she must feel its vibrations.
He then realised the significance of their kiss. “Miss Elizabeth, some might take…what we have done as an agreement, but—”
“No, Mr Darcy. I do not believe that is what it was.” He nodded, relieved, and she added, “And I might mention that if either of us shared what transpired, my reputation would be damaged, perhaps beyond repair.”
“Of course. I believe we ought not mention it to anyone.”
She nodded, and then the worry that had flickered across her face slid away into a sweet smile. “I shall see you at Netherfield later today.”
Tea! Yes, he had forgotten. How was he to sit and drink tea when all he wanted was to kiss her and kiss her and—
“Yes,” he forced himself to say.
“Until this afternoon then,” she said, and then she scampered away like a fairy or a nymph. Heavens.
He had to tell Bingley. No, he had promised. He had to leave Hertfordshire. No, he had to ask her to marry him. No, he had to…had to… What? What was he to do now?