10. Chapter Ten #2
Mr. Gardiner told one involving smugglers and hidden silver.
Bingley attempted suspense but forgot important details midway through.
Lydia improved every tale by adding unnecessary deaths.
Georgiana laughed so hard during one particularly dreadful story involving a haunted goat that she could not finish her tea safely.
Miss Bingley withdrew gradually from participation.
Darcy observed it without satisfaction.
No. That was untrue.
He observed it with considerable satisfaction.
Not because he wished Miss Bingley humiliated. He did not. But the evening had escaped her completely. Pemberley itself seemed to reject stiffness tonight. The storm pressed everyone closer together physically and socially until pretense became exhausting.
Even Elizabeth relaxed.
That perhaps affected him most.
She no longer watched him with guarded uncertainty every moment.
Not fully. Sometimes she forgot caution and answered him naturally before recollection returned.
Sometimes she sought his opinion first in conversation.
Once their hands touched reaching simultaneously toward a fallen music page, not withdrawing from the touch as propriety might dictate.
Near midnight, the party finally diminished.
Mrs. Hurst retired first complaining of fatigue.
Mr. Gardiner escorted his wife upstairs soon afterward.
Bingley remained sprawled beside the fire declaring storms improved digestion.
Lydia and Georgiana sat cross-legged upon the hearthrug arguing over whether Horace would survive independently in the wilderness.
“He would perish within two days,” Georgiana insisted.
“He would charm passing travelers into feeding him.”
“That is not wilderness survival.”
“It is social strategy.”
Elizabeth shook her head from her chair near the fire.
Darcy found himself watching her before he could stop himself.
The room had grown quieter gradually. Candlelight affected everything. Rain still moved steadily against the windows though the thunder had passed farther into the hills.
Miss Bingley sat opposite the fire watching all of it.
Watching him.
That awareness remained dreadfully constant now.
Lydia rose eventually with a dramatic yawn. “Very well. I surrender to exhaustion.”
“You surrendered to mud yesterday also,” Elizabeth reminded her.
“That was tactical.”
Georgiana stood, too. “I think I shall retire.”
Bingley groaned. “Cowards. Every one of you.”
“You nearly fell asleep ten minutes ago,” Darcy replied.
“I was reflecting deeply.”
“Upon pudding.”
“An important subject.”
Lydia took Georgiana’s arm. “Come along before Miss Bingley attempts poetry.”
Miss Bingley’s smile looked forced.
Elizabeth rose more slowly beside the fire.
For one moment, as the others drifted toward the door in uneven clusters, she and Darcy remained near the hearth almost alone.
Elizabeth adjusted one loosened ribbon at her sleeve while glancing toward the rain-dark windows. “Your storms are remarkably persuasive, Mr. Darcy.”
“In what respect?”
“They convince guests to remain far beyond propriety.”
“I cannot regret that.”
The words escaped before caution intervened.
Elizabeth started.
Darcy should have retreated then. Smoothed the moment into politeness. Instead, he remained where he was, close enough to see firelight moving across her face.
The warmth between them no longer resembled flirtation. That would have been easier. This felt steadier. More fatal for just that reason.
Elizabeth lowered her eyes to the fire. “Nor can I.”
From the doorway, Lydia’s voice rang out.
“Lizzy, if you do not come upstairs now, I shall tell everyone you have eloped with the library.”
Elizabeth startled into laughter.
The moment broke instantly.
Darcy stepped back.
“Good night, Miss Bennet.”
Her eyes met his once more before she turned away. “Good night, Mr. Darcy.”
She left with Lydia and Georgiana, candlelight moving along the corridor beyond.
Darcy remained beside the fire longer than necessary.
Bingley had finally surrendered to sleep in his chair. A servant came through the room extinguishing lamps one by one.
Across from him, Miss Bingley still sat upright, hands folded in her lap.
“You are very attentive tonight,” she said.
Darcy nodded stiffly. “To my guests,” he answered.
Miss Bingley held his stare for several seconds. Then she rose. “Yes,” she replied. “I believe I understand that now.” She left without another word.
Darcy watched the doorway long after she disappeared beyond it.
Outside, rain continued falling over Pemberley through the dark.
Darcy did not retire.
That in itself was hardly unusual. Pemberley often demanded late attention from him. Accounts required signing. Correspondence accumulated relentlessly. Tenants developed crises with astonishing instinct for inconvenient timing.
Tonight, however, he escaped responsibility rather than pursued it.
The house had quieted considerably. Lamps burned lower in the corridors. Somewhere distant, a servant closed shutters against the lingering rain. The storm no longer raged with theatrical force; instead, it settled into a steady murmur against stone and glass.
Darcy loosened his neckcloth slightly as he descended the smaller staircase toward the library.
Miss Bingley’s expression lingered heavy in his mind.
Not jealousy alone.
Intent.
That troubled him more than open resentment ever could.
He knew Caroline Bingley well enough to recognize when wounded vanity hardened into strategy.
The library door stood partially open.
Light spilled across the corridor floor.
Darcy slowed instinctively.
At this hour, he expected perhaps his steward or Bingley searching unsuccessfully for brandy and intellectual improvement simultaneously.
Instead, he heard pages turning.
He pushed the door wider.
Elizabeth sat curled in one of the chairs near the fire, a book open upon her lap and another resting abandoned beside her elbow. She had removed the ribbons from her hair; darker curls now framed her face more than usual. One slipper lay discarded before the hearth.
For half a second genuine surprise crossed her features.
Then came color.
“Mr. Darcy.”
He stopped just inside the doorway. “I had not expected company.”
Elizabeth closed the book over one finger to keep her place. “Nor had I. I thought everyone retired.”
“Most have.”
A footman remained in the hall extinguishing lamps, and Bingley slept in a chair in the adjoining drawing room with the doors between the rooms left open.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It was not intended so.”
The corner of her mouth twitched.
Darcy crossed toward the fire more slowly than necessary. The room carried warmth from both flames and books long enclosed within paneled walls. Rain whispered faintly against the western windows. Candlelight touched the edges of everything.
Elizabeth examined the shelves surrounding them. “This room becomes more unfair every time I enter it.”
“Unfair?”
“No one ought to possess so many books privately. It encourages arrogance.”
“You accuse me while sitting among them willingly.”
“I accuse you comfortably.”
Darcy rested one hand against the back of a nearby chair. “Then I shall endure it.”
Elizabeth rotated the book slowly in her hands while rain tapped against the western windows. “I borrowed this after dinner and read a few pages.”
“You dislike stopping midway through a story.”
She appeared surprised. “You remember that?”
“You informed Miss Bingley of it at Netherfield while refusing sleep.”
A laugh escaped her. “I had forgotten that conversation.”
Darcy had not.
He remembered far too much where Elizabeth Bennet was concerned.
She rose after another moment and wandered toward the nearest shelves, trailing one finger lightly along the spines. Firelight moved warmly across the dark green of her gown.
“I believe,” she said while scanning titles, “that this room alone might persuade many women to marry.”
“The library rather than the owner?”
“The library asks less conversation.”
Darcy watched her pause before one shelf and tilt her head to read a title more clearly.
The sight unsettled him more than it ought to have done. How had he once believed himself superior to this woman? The memory embarrassed him increasingly each day.
Elizabeth cast a look over her shoulder then and caught him looking.
Darcy should have redirected his attention. He did not.
Uncertainty crossed her expression before easing into something warmer. She went back toward the shelf.
“I think,” she said after a moment, “that Pemberley has done you a service.”
Darcy frowned faintly. “In what respect?”
“You belong here.”
He did not answer.
Rain tapped softly against the windows behind them.
Elizabeth drew out one volume, opened it absently, then closed it again without reading. “At Rosings,” she continued more slowly, “everything around you appeared… rigid. You were perpetually prepared for irritation.”
“I likely was.”
“And here…” She stopped.
Darcy waited.
Elizabeth chuckled under her breath. “Now I sound insulting.”
“You have survived worse offenses.”
“That is generous.”
“No. Merely factual.”
She leaned one shoulder lightly against the shelves and studied him with directness. “You are different here.”
“I hope so.”
The answer emerged too honestly.
Elizabeth caressed the book in her hands. “I begin to suspect,” she admitted, “that I understood very little about you before coming to Derbyshire.”
Darcy stared toward the fire rather than at her.
Hearing it spoken aloud still made him want to look anywhere but at her.
“You understood enough.”
“No.”
The single word came quickly.
Elizabeth crossed back toward the hearth, still holding the book loosely against her waist. “You were proud,” she continued. “You were disagreeable often enough to deserve annoyance. But I…” She exhaled. “I believed the worst of you very easily.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched slightly. “Miss Bennet—”
“No. Allow me honesty at least once.”
He fell silent.
Elizabeth stood near the fire now, close enough that candlelight warmed one side of her face while shadow softened the other.