Chapter 5
FIVE
Disappointed to lose Elizabeth’s company, Darcy sat by the fire, relishing, while it remained fresh in his memory, the vision of her sitting across from him, a gamut of emotions flitting across her perfect visage.
How different this was from those evenings at Netherfield when we each were tolerating our company and unable to speak as friendly acquaintances. It had begun awkwardly, he too tongue-tied to speak as a gentleman might, but my God, how it had turned...
When the clock struck ten, he yawned, and after glancing at a book on Hertfordshire geography, went to his chambers.
He had given the room little scrutiny when he arrived hours earlier, noting only that the fire was lit and the room’s cream and blue walls hung with a generous number of paintings.
Now, as he settled in for the night, Darcy gripped his candle and peered closely at the canvasses.
By the dresser were nearly a dozen miniatures of children, whom he assumed were the Philipses’ nieces and nephews.
Two were mere babes, another four were quite young, none more than eight years; the others were the five Miss Bennets, in paintings done some years ago.
He moved closer, wishing only to see one.
Elizabeth’s dark, vibrant eyes were so unlike those of her sisters, even here, when she could not have been more than nine or ten years old.
They stared out, intelligent and mischievous, and he was swept into a reverie, wondering of her escapades.
His imaginings were interrupted by a loud, honking snuffle of a snore.
Apparently Mr Philips was enjoying a deep sleep.
He could only hope for the same, here, in a strange bed in the home of people he had heretofore only tolerated.
His scowl ended when he saw, folded on the counterpane, a nightshirt and banyan awaiting him.
Mrs Philips had noted he carried only a leather case of papers with him, and had provided for his every need.
Whatever their faults in manner and understanding, she and her sister were consummate hostesses.
And though both ladies retained hints of their youthful beauty, neither has Elizabeth’s beautiful eyes.
After washing, and a dramatic moment when he eyed the nightshirt, sewn for a man half his size, he stripped down to his shirt and trousers and slipped into the bed.
The mattress was soft and the sheets finer than what he would have had at the inn.
But peace was evasive, sleep impossible, knowing that Elizabeth was in a bed, her hair down and feet bare, in a room just down the corridor.
Although he had tamped down that awareness at Netherfield, this was different: every nerve in his body was alive to her presence.
He tossed and turned for a good ten minutes; it was the rattle of the glass on his table, shaking from the dull roar of Mr Philips’s snores, that made clear he would get not a moment’s rest. Pulling on the ill-fitting banyan—truly, had royal blue ever been so garishly ugly—he lit a candle and opened his door, determined to find himself a book to read.
And then he heard it: Elizabeth’s soft laughter. Clearly she could not sleep either.
Curious and excited by the siren’s call, he followed the sound downstairs to the small back parlour, where he found her curled up on the floor by a small fire, perusing a magazine by its flames.
“Miss Elizabeth?”
She turned to look up at him, her expression as mirthful as it was startled. “I surmise you cannot sleep?”
You know only the half of it, he thought, stepping into the room and gazing at her face, soft in the dim, flickering light; her hair was down, tied back, and thankfully for both of their sakes, she was covered in what appeared to be her much-larger aunt’s thick robe.
Even from this distance, he could see it was a beautiful fabric, a green silk, he thought, prompting him to wonder anew about her uncle in trade and his connexions.
“Is your room tolerable, Mr Darcy?”
“Er, yes. It is fine, surely finer than that at many inns. I have always been a light sleeper in any bed not my own.” Her shocked expression alerted him to his fumbled explanation.
My God, she must think me a rake! “I mean,” he said slowly, “I sleep soundly at Pemberley and at my house in town, but find the beds at inns and at the homes of my relations to be less restful.”
“Odd. I have it on good authority that the mattresses at Rosings Park are the softest in all of England, and far better than any found on the Continent.” She smirked and he knew all was well.
He nodded solemnly, and aware she might not see his expression through the shadows, replied in an exaggeratedly droll voice. “Yes, the mixture of horsehair and goose-down was certainly the finest when the mattresses were stuffed three or four generations ago.”
He was rewarded with a burst of laughter. “Poor Mr Darcy. I promise my aunt had her mattresses restuffed at least a year ago, when Lydia and Kitty stayed the night and spilt a pot of chocolate in the bed you are assigned.”
A luxurious stay.
Somehow, perhaps through the dim light of his candle, she seemed to read his expression. “My aunt enjoys hosting her nieces, spoiling even those who may be least in need of it.”
When he shivered, more from helplessness in the view of such beauty, she frowned. “You should sit by the fire before you freeze.”
“You are certain? A conversation in a dark room can be misinterpreted, but I hope you know I am a gentleman, and will behave as guest in your aunt’s home,” Darcy assured her, despite the flood of desire sweeping through him.
She sat up and in a more formal tone, said, “It may be improper, but unlike my mother, my aunt Philips would not announce our engagement simply because we sat in a room alone together.”
“In our nightclothes.”
“In my aunt’s robe, which is some three sizes too large,” she said, gesturing at herself, “and my uncle’s gaudiest banyan, which must be nearly half a foot too short for you. Perhaps we should exchange with one another.” She bit her lips and turned towards the fire.
Darcy looked down, realising she had seen him in his bare feet.
Feeling his cheeks burn, he pulled a chair near the fire and sat down, tucking his feet underneath and as much out of sight as he could.
He held himself stiffly, desperate for his body not to betray the pleasure he felt in sitting so near to her, in such an informal manner.
He stared at the flames, as if to pretend he could not hear her breath and smell the lilac water he had come to know she wore.
How had he ever thought her unremarkable?
Everything about the lady revealed her as uncommonly handsome, with an intelligence and wit displayed in the beautiful expression of her dark eyes.
His breath hitched when her playful laugh caught her ear.
“Mr Darcy, I believe we must trust one another, and not worry about my aunt’s servants, both of whom, you must have noticed, are either too deaf or blind to notice or be reliable gossips.”
“I had noticed. Your aunt and uncle are too gentle to replace them with servants in better health?”
“Mr Stevens and Mrs Tull have been with my uncle’s family since he was a boy.”
“It is kind of him to support them.”
She nodded and gave him a sly look. “And they both are sound sleepers who cannot hear a whisper or a snore.”
Darcy chuckled, too pleased to be in the company of such a lovely, quick-witted lady to notice how curiously she was regarding him.
Did she understand the temptation she presented, and the permission she seemed to be giving him with her assurances of their privacy?
Not that he would act, but be tempted, by the shape of her lips and the curve of her hip and the skin that looked so unbearably soft?
He closed his eyes and thought of the wart on Lady Catherine’s chin.