Chapter Six #2
Elizabeth’s expression changed. "Yes," she said, her voice wavering a little.
"Much better." A flush rose into her cheeks.
She released him at once and turned away, suddenly becoming extremely interested in the bottles upon the nearest shelf.
"Now," she said briskly, reaching for one, "I believe we were discussing the time you and your ne’er-do-well cousin attempted to sail away on Pemberley’s lake in hopes of reaching the West Indies. "
By the fourth bottle, their stories had given way to increasingly ridiculous jokes, including several of such questionable taste that he could not imagine how any lady had come to know them.
His cravat, which Burke had laboured over earlier that evening, had begun to feel intolerably tight, so he unwound it and tossed it aside before removing his restrictive coat and pushing up his shirtsleeves.
They sang songs with varying degrees of accuracy, and at one point he found himself sitting comfortably against the wall, simply watching as Elizabeth wandered a little unsteadily between the shelves, humming to herself.
She paused before a row of bottles and turned towards him. "You are staring again, Mr Pemberley." This appellation had started around halfway through bottle three and had stuck.
"I am watching to ensure you do not fall."
"How very gallant." She took several careful steps in his direction, though the last carried her a little farther than she intended. Darcy reached up and caught her hand before she could stumble, and she looked down at their joined fingers with great seriousness.
"You have very large hands, Mr Pemberley."
"So I have been told."
"By whom?"
Darcy considered this gravely. "My valet, principally."
Elizabeth laughed again and lowered herself beside him, though she did not immediately release his hand. Her eyes moved over his face and her expression shifted. "You look different like this."
"Without my cravat?"
"Without disapproving of everything."
He ought to have defended himself, but she was tracing one finger along the line of his knuckles and he found it difficult to remember his own name.
Her attention shifted to his mouth. "That looks different too."
"My mouth?"
"It appears much less disagreeable when you are not using it to insult me."
Darcy laughed softly, though the sound caught somewhere in his throat when she leaned closer. "That is hardly a compliment."
She placed one hand against his chest, perhaps to steady herself, and Darcy felt every finger through the thin linen of his shirt.
His breath stopped. Elizabeth studied him for another moment, her expression solemn with concentration, and then pressed her lips to his.
The kiss was brief and uncertain, no more than the softest touch before she drew back.
Darcy went completely still. Every instinct urged him towards her, but he held his hands rigidly at his sides, hardly daring to breathe.
Elizabeth frowned, as though the result had disappointed her. "That was not quite right," she murmured to herself more than Darcy.
Before he could ask what she meant, she ran one curious finger along the hard line of his jaw and traced her thumb across his lower lip. It felt like fire on his skin. He ached to return her touch.
"Elizabeth, we must not…"
"Hush you. I am still thinking," she said sternly. Then she kissed him again.
This time she lingered. Her mouth moved over his with a slow, tender curiosity that was irresistible, and Darcy’s restraint lasted only a few helpless seconds.
One hand settled at the small of her back, drawing her carefully into his lap, while the other slid into her hair.
Pins tinkled across the stone floor as he tilted her face towards his and returned the kiss at last. Her mouth was warm and sweet and tasted of wine, and when he gently traced his tongue along her lower lip, she opened to him completely.
When her hand moved to curl at the nape of his neck, he thought he would go mad from the wanting of her.
But then she drew back and settled against his chest, making a soft, contented sound that made his heart ache. Her breathing gradually became more regular, and Darcy realised with some astonishment that she had fallen asleep.
"Elizabeth," he murmured.
She made a small sound of protest and burrowed closer.
For several minutes, he remained exactly as he was, scarcely daring to move.
Then the cold of the cellar crept back into his awareness.
Without her shawl around her shoulders and with the stone floor beneath them, she would soon begin to chill.
Darcy eased one arm beneath her knees and shifted her carefully from his lap, though she clung to the front of his shirt with surprising determination.
He managed to reach his coat and drew it around her, wrapping it closely over her shoulders and skirts before attempting to settle her against the folded shawl.
Her fingers tightened in his shirt. "Elizabeth," he whispered, trying gently to free the linen from her grasp. "You must release me."
She did not. She frowned in her sleep and pulled him nearer.
There was barely enough room for him to sit beside her without touching, but every attempt to move away only caused her to grip his shirt more firmly.
At last, defeated by exhaustion and by his complete inability to deny her anything, he lowered himself to the floor beside her.
Elizabeth immediately turned towards him and tucked herself against his chest as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Darcy drew the coat more securely around her and rested one arm carefully about her waist. He told himself he would remain awake, that he would listen for the first servant to pass and call out before either of them could be discovered.
The last thing he remembered was the warmth of her cheek against his chest and her hand still curled in his shirt.