Page 12 of A Cleverly (Un)contrived Compromise (Love’s Little Helpers #3)
CHAPTER 12
D arcy stood behind Elizabeth, the moonlight glowing off her exposed neck. Orange blossoms and cloves swirled around him, and the impulse to bury his face in her silken hair made him tremble.
He swallowed hard, reaching for a chestnut lock, his hand near her shoulder, when he saw her shiver and wrap her arms around her waist.
Darcy had not noticed the cold before, but he did now. Elizabeth had been in the study much longer than he had. She must be chilled to the bone.
Contorting himself to remove his torn coat, he wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, then proceeded to burrow into his warmth in a way that made Darcy’s arms itch to wrap themselves around her too. “I know I should not accept your coat, but it is deliciously warm. Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”
“My pleasure,” he choked, his voice low and gravelly, his body burning. His pleasure? A simple “you are welcome” would have been more appropriate. How had he thought that helping Elizabeth arrange her hair into something more decent was a good idea? Nothing about this situation was proper.
Shaking his head, willing the icy draft seeping through the sealed window to cool him, Darcy took a step back and focused on the task before him—the task for which he had foolishly and impulsively volunteered.
He cleared his throat. “No problem is without solution.” His voice sounded strained and unconvincing in his own ears. He was exceptionally good at solving problems, so why was this so difficult? This was just like braiding Georgie’s hair or brushing his mother’s. He closed his eyes, pretending it was one of them standing before him. But Elizabeth’s dark hair did not miraculously lighten to flaxen blonde, nor did she gain in height.
Stretching his arms out, careful to keep as much distance between them as he could, Darcy assessed the damage to her coiffure. Half was up; half was down. The remaining pins would have to make up for the loss of the others. If he braided some of the loose hair, he could wrap them in such a way as to support the rest. It was a simple matter of weight distribution.
Feeling more confident with his plan, Darcy wrapped the first curly lock around his fingers. It was softer than he had imagined. Gently, he divided the strand into three equal sections, combing his fingers through and pretending there was no intimacy in his action. It needed to be done; nothing more. But dash it all, her hair smelled good!
Gritting his teeth, Darcy proceeded.
Elizabeth’s hair resisted his placations, seemingly mocking his efforts. He mumbled under his breath.
“You sound like Sarah. She claims that my hair makes her feel incompetent.”
“I can sympathize.” Georgiana’s hair was smooth and fine and easy to plait, but Elizabeth’s hair was unabashedly rebellious—not unlike the lady herself who defied society’s expectations and, if he were being fair, his expectations.
Pinching the braid’s end, hoping it would hold until he secured it into place, he twisted it around another loose lock and clamped it under the same pin, holding his breath all the while. “Does that feel secure?” His voice cracked.
She shook her head and hopped in place. “Impressive, sir. I shall only have to avoid the bouncier reels,” she teased.
He grinned. He appreciated that Elizabeth did not dwell on adversity but chose instead to concentrate on the good, no matter how small. He had observed this during her sister’s illness, with her family’s many transgressions, and now with him. Even at the height of distress, Elizabeth’s good humor was never far. As one who shouldered a heavy weight of responsibility, Darcy considered her levity a breath of fresh air.
Braiding another section, he wrapped and tucked her hair as he had done the first. The process was easier now. He could do this. Look at how much he had done already. Only one section remained, and he had not made a scene or a cake of himself.
She sighed, and he felt her shiver under his fingertips. She could not still be cold, could she? She had remarked on the warmth of his coat. His warmth. Darcy stilled. Who was he kidding? He was every bit as affected by Elizabeth as he had been at the first touch of her satin curls, and until now, Darcy thought he had done an infernally good job ignoring it.
What about her? If her shiver was not from the cold, could he be the cause? To suspect that Elizabeth might not be impervious to his touch lit a fire in Darcy’s stomach. This was most certainly not the same as brushing his mother’s or sister’s hair.
Moving in closer, telling himself it would make the work easier and therefore quicker, he braided faster, twisting it around the last chunk of hair, stuffing it inside the pin, and jumping away from Elizabeth as though she were the hot oven Cook had warned him not to touch.
Elizabeth patted her hair tentatively. “I do not think—”
The braid immediately unraveled. So much for his haste. Blast.
Plucking the pin from a tangle, Darcy placed the clasp between his lips and resumed braiding the last strand of hair, both thrilled and terrified at the sensations coursing through him. Fingers entwined thus, he heard the door rattle a split second before it flung open.
He jumped away from Elizabeth, dropping her hair and removing the pin from his mouth to hide behind his back, as though he were a lad caught stealing the last of the jam in the pantry. It was a stupid reaction, made much worse when his boot caught in Elizabeth’s train, bringing the lady along with it.
Her arms flailed, and she made a noise guaranteed to secure the attention of whoever it was who stood in the doorway.
There was nothing to do but hold out his arms. Elizabeth’s body slammed against his chest, her hair tickling his nose. Without a thought, he scooped her up. Cradled against him, her hand clutched his cravat. Her lips parted and her gaze collided with his, her dark eyes burning the last of his rational thoughts. Hang the witnesses, he would have kissed her right there had Miss Bingley’s shrill scream not broken the spell.
“Mr. Darcy!”
Elizabeth stiffened in his arms. Loath as Darcy was to let her go, he gently set her down on the ground. They stepped away from each other, looking as guilty as a man and a woman caught in a tryst.
Hurst snorted. “I did not think Darcy had it in him!” His wife and sister-in-law glared daggers, to which Hurst raised the glass in his hand and drained the contents.
Darcy did his best to control his countenance, though he blazed with mortification. How many times had he managed to avoid this very kind of entrapment only to fall headfirst into an uncontrived but wholly incontrovertible compromise. Darcy struggled to maintain an indifferent mien when the blow to his pride stole the air from his lungs.
A familiar voice echoed through his mind, making his stomach clench and his throat tighten. “Badly done, Darcy. Badly done.” His father uttered those odious words only one time. It had been the day Wickham figuratively threw Darcy in front of the burning carriage, betraying his confidence and casting their friendship asunder to avoid falling out of Father’s favor and thereby threatening his allowance. Darcy heard the same disillusionment in his father’s voice in his head as clearly as he had that wretched day.
Never before this night had Darcy been grateful for his father’s absence.
Standing in the doorway was a small assembly: Miss Bingley, the Hursts, Mrs. Bennet, and the two youngest Bennet sisters, whose uncontrolled giggles would draw a greater crowd if not swiftly subdued.
That was not the worst. Standing in the back with widened eyes and a paling complexion was Mr. Bennet. Elizabeth’s proud confidence wilted under her father’s disappointed countenance.
Badly done, Darcy. Badly done.
Darcy was grateful for the darkness. Although neither he nor Elizabeth had done anything wrong, by the time they finally departed from that blasted study, everyone in attendance at Netherfield would know how they had been found. Gossip would circulate like wildfire. Vicious rumors would spread unless he met certain expectations. He must make reparation now.
Reaching for Elizabeth’s hand, he wrapped his fingers around hers, squeezing to communicate that she could depend on him and his protection. He despised disguise, but he felt in his bones that this was the right course, the only course. To do anything less would lead to disgrace and ostracism.
Darcy turned to face Elizabeth. His next words would indelibly change their lives, and yet he spoke deliberately, decisively. “We can keep our engagement a secret no longer.”
Perhaps he imagined her fingers chilling and stiffening, or perhaps the iciness in her grip had been there all along and he had only just noticed.
Elizabeth was too intelligent to pull away or protest, and she was too honest to force an insincere smile even when the circumstance merited one. But there was lightning in her eyes, and it cracked like a whip through Darcy, leaving him bewildered.