Chapter 6
Darcy
The Gardiners' house already showed signs of departure.
Two trunks waited in the entry hall, closed and strapped, while a valet brought down a third with the coachman's help. Hatboxes lined the landing wall, and a bundle of white muslin, poorly wrapped, poked out of a basket Hill was carrying.
Mrs. Bennet presided over this commotion with the blooming authority of an admiral on the eve of battle, issuing contradictory orders to Hill, to the Gardiners' maid, and to anyone unfortunate enough to come within earshot.
I stopped in the doorway. Bingley, behind me, seemed delighted by the spectacle.
“Splendid! It's like a military campaign.”
“Exactly,” I said. “With probable casualties.”
Bingley laughed. I did not. It was neither the luggage in the entry hall nor Mrs. Bennet's eagerness that made my throat tighten.
It was the reason for my visit. The last visit to London.
Tomorrow, the Bennets would return to Longbourn.
I would return to Netherfield. And the next time I saw Elizabeth, it would be at the church.
The case sat heavy in the inner pocket of my coat.
Mrs. Bennet spotted me and descended upon me with an exuberance that weeks of engagement had done nothing to diminish.
“Mr. Darcy! How thoughtful! You see what state we're in. One trunk still refuses to close, Hill cannot find the Honiton lace, and Lizzy's trousseau is scattered all over the room. It's a nightmare, a veritable nightmare. But come in, come in. Jane is in the drawing room. Lizzy! Where is Lizzy?”
Elizabeth appeared at the top of the stairs.
I saw her before she saw me. She held a hatbox against her chest, its lid threatening to slip. Her hair was half undone, a strand stuck to her temple with exertion, and her dress showed the traces of a morning spent overseeing preparations.
Nothing of the woman from the ball. Nothing of the studied grace, the silver-embroidered gown, the composed perfection.
She was infinitely more beautiful like this.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, surprised, clutching the box tighter against her.
“You were expecting me?”
“Not so early. And certainly not in this state.”
A valet took the box from her. Elizabeth descended the last steps, tucking the strand behind her ear—that gesture I knew, that gesture that reminded me of the path at Longbourn, the wind, my hand suspended in the air. But this time, I did not reach out. Not yet.
The world resumed its ritual of greetings.
Bingley joined Jane in the drawing room.
Mrs. Bennet bustled through the corridor.
Mrs. Gardiner appeared, calm as a lighthouse in a storm, and offered tea.
I sat in the chair offered to me, drank the tea served to me, answered the questions put to me, and all the while I thought only of the case in my pocket and the skin of her neck, glimpsed when she had tucked the strand behind her ear.
I waited until Mrs. Bennet was occupied with the matter of the lost lace. I waited until Mrs. Gardiner had taken the children to the nursery. I waited until Bingley and Jane were in the drawing room, the door ajar—close enough to satisfy propriety, far enough that words would not carry.
Elizabeth and I stood in the small adjoining parlor, near the window overlooking the street. The afternoon was fading. London's light, gray and soft, came through the panes and cast shadows across her face.
I took out the case.
“An engagement gift,” I said. “I should have given it to you sooner.”
That was not true. I had waited for this moment. The last day. The last visit. Because I wanted her to carry something of mine back to Longbourn, something she could touch during the two weeks that still separated us, something tangible when everything else was only waiting.
She opened the case. The pendant was simple.
An oval sapphire set in gold, on a delicate chain.
Not an ostentatious jewel. Not a declaration of fortune.
An object chosen with care, its color recalling the dress from the first dance we had shared at Meryton, an eternity ago, when I did not yet know this woman would bring me to my knees.
Elizabeth looked at the pendant. Said nothing for a long moment. Her fingers touched the stone with a gentleness that made my heart ache.
“It's magnificent,” she murmured. “Mr. Darcy, I cannot…”
“You can.”
“It's too much.”
“It's not enough.”
She raised her eyes. I held her gaze. Mine contained none of the nuances, none of the veils I usually placed between myself and the world.
I looked at her openly, and what my gaze said was simple, stripped bare, and risked making her flee: everything I possess is yours, and this pendant is only the first word of a sentence I will spend a lifetime speaking.
She did not flee.
“Help me fasten it,” she said.
She turned around. Lifted her hair with one hand.
Her nape lay bare. Pale, delicate, with a vulnerability that took my breath away.
The curve of her neck, the fine wisps of hair at its base, the skin no one ever saw—skin that dresses and hairstyles hid from the world with a modesty that transformed this unveiling into an offering.
My hands never trembled.
My hands trembled. I slipped the chain around her neck.
My fingers fumbled for the clasp. The gold was fine, the mechanism delicate, and my hands—these hands that knew how to hold reins, sign contracts, command an estate—suddenly knew nothing at all.
My fingers grazed her nape. A touch so brief it lasted less than a breath.
But I felt her shiver. That tremor shot through me like a jolt, from my fingers to my chest, from my chest to a place I will not name. I closed the clasp. Drew back my hands. The pendant fell into the hollow of her throat, cold at first, then warm from her skin.
She turned around. The sapphire rested just above the neckline of her dress, where skin disappeared beneath fabric. I stared at the stone. Raised my eyes. Met hers. In the next room, Bingley was saying something to Jane. The door was ajar. Ten paces separated us from them. Ten paces and a world.
?
Elizabeth walked me to the vestibule. Narrow, dark, cluttered with coats on hooks and umbrellas in a blue porcelain stand, it smelled of wax and damp wool. Not a place for what was about to happen. But places didn't matter. Only the moment mattered.
She stopped at the door.
I had no time to step back before she turned.
The vestibule was too narrow for both of us. Her shoulder brushed my chest, the hem of her dress grazed my boots, and all the air seemed to leave the room. She looked up at me. The sapphire rose and fell in the hollow of her throat, lifted by breathing as shallow as my own.
I knew this woman. Her laughter, her wit, the way her eyes darkened before a retort. Yet in this instant, she was entirely new to me.
Her lips parted.
My hand found her cheek.
The touch shot through me with startling force. Her skin was warm, infinitely soft beneath my palm, and she shivered without pulling away. My thumb traced toward her mouth. Her breath grazed it.
I had kissed her once, on a path in Hyde Park, with the permission she had granted me and a slowness I was rather proud of. Here there was no path, no beeches, no indulgent aunt a hundred paces away. There was only a door ajar ten paces off and her sister behind it.
Perhaps she would push me away.
Perhaps she would stop me before I lost what remained of my reason.
She did neither.
She looked at my mouth.
It was enough.
I leaned down and kissed her.
The first contact was brief, almost painful in its restraint. The warmth of her mouth. Her breath caught against mine. None of the gentleness of the park: this time, I knew what I would find, and knowing made everything harder to contain.
I barely raised my head.
Elizabeth opened her eyes.
There was surprise in her gaze, but no regret. Only that same restless hunger that had been devouring me for weeks.
Her fingers caught the lapel of my coat.
Then she pulled me toward her.
Everything I had contained gave way.
I claimed her mouth again with an ardor I had never shown beneath the beeches. Her hand clenched against my chest, crumpling the fabric of my coat, while mine slid into her hair, found her nape, and drew her closer still.
She responded with the same urgency.
Her mouth opened beneath mine. A soft sound died in her throat, and that sound undid me completely. I tasted tea on her lips, breathed in the lavender from her hair, felt the warmth of her breath mingling with mine. I could not have said which of us was trembling more.
My free hand found her waist.
It is handy to keep a spare title for a quiet moment.
Choose one from Lokepub and come back to it later.
I drew her closer.
The sapphire struck my chest, cold between two burning bodies. The layers of fabric separating us suddenly became unbearable. I felt the curve of her waist beneath my palm, the pressure of her fingers on my coat, her body pressing into mine instead of pulling away.
She kissed me the way she spoke to me: without docility, without half-measures, with that utter directness that reduced me to nothing.
I wanted more.
The thought didn't even need words.
My fingers tightened on her waist. Her neck arched beneath my palm, and my lips left hers to brush the corner of her mouth, her cheek, the tender skin beneath her ear.
She inhaled sharply.
“Fitzwilliam…”
My name in her voice took my breath away.
I returned to her mouth with a hunger that made me forget the door behind her, the next room, Bingley, Jane, the servants, all of London. Nothing existed but her lips, her hands gripping me, and that dizzying certainty that she wanted me just as much.
A footstep sounded from upstairs.
I heard it without registering it.
A door opened somewhere. A child called for his mother.
Elizabeth stiffened slightly against me.
I stopped.
Not because I wanted to.
Because if I continued a second longer, I would no longer be able to let her go.
Yet we remained entwined, our faces separated by only a few inches. Her hand had not left my coat. Mine remained at her waist, my fingers pressed into the fabric of her gown. Her warm breath brushed my lips with every breath she took.
Her cheeks were flushed. Her mouth, swollen from my kisses.
I had never seen anything more beautiful.
“That was terribly improper, Mr. Darcy,” she murmured.
Her voice was no longer quite steady.
“Yes.”
Her gaze fell once more to my mouth.
“Don’t apologize.”
“I had no intention of doing so.”
A smile dawned on her lips. Fragile, troubled, almost incredulous.
My fingers slipped slowly from her waist. Hers refused for a moment to release my coat, then finally loosened. The crumpled fabric retained the mark of her hand.
She stepped back.
A single step.
It was a brutal separation.
The cold rushed in between us, but her scent remained on my skin and her taste on my mouth. I could still see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way she clenched her fingers to keep them from returning to me.
I had to leave.
Before I kissed her again.
Before I closed the distance and this time forgot even my own name.
“Goodbye, Miss Elizabeth.”
My voice came out hoarse, unrecognizable.
She brought her fingers to her lips. The gesture was so instinctive that she herself seemed surprised to have made it.
“Goodbye, Mr. Darcy. At Longbourn.”
At the church.
In fourteen days, she would be my wife.
The thought did nothing to calm me.
I bowed because I did not trust myself to take her hand. Then I opened the door and left without looking back.
The cold London air struck my face.
It was not enough to banish the warmth of her mouth, nor the sensation of her body against mine.
Fourteen days.
For the first time in my life, that number seemed almost impossible to survive.
In the carriage, I brought my fingers to my lips.
The taste of her was still there. The tea, the lavender, the warmth.
I closed my eyes. Behind my eyelids, the vestibule of Gracechurch Street was still alive: the coats on the pegs, the gray light, her eyes raised to mine, and the exact moment when my lips had touched hers and the world had stopped making sense.
Improper, she had said. Yes. Terribly. A gentleman does not steal a kiss from his fiancée in the vestibule of her uncle and aunt, with his future sister-in-law ten paces behind a half-open door and his future mother-in-law upstairs.
A gentleman waits. A gentleman restrains himself.
A gentleman keeps his lips to himself, his hands behind his back, his desires in the darkness of his chamber.
I was not a gentleman.
I had known it in the lane at Longbourn, when the book had passed from my fingers to hers.
I had known it on the path, when the wind had pressed a strand of hair against her lips and my hand had risen of its own accord.
I had known it at the ball, when I had forgotten to turn left because her face was the only thing my eyes would see.
I had known it every night at Netherfield, lying in the darkness, counting the days that separated me from her.
But now I knew it with a certainty that tasted of her mouth. I was not a gentleman. I was a man who loved a woman, and in two weeks that woman would be mine, and in the carriage crossing London I had on my lips the proof that the waiting was coming to an end.
Two weeks. Fourteen days. Then the church at Longbourn, and the vows, and the carriage to Derbyshire, and the road, and Pemberley. And the connecting door. And her skin without the glove, without the gown, with nothing between us but silence and night.
I lowered the window. The evening air rushed in, cold and sharp, laden with smoke and coal dust. London faded behind me. Ahead, the road opened into the twilight.
I no longer touched my lips. It was no longer necessary. The taste of Elizabeth Bennet would remain there for the next fourteen days, for the rest of my life. The first taste. The first of a thousand.
Fourteen days. Patience would not kill me. I was almost certain of it.