Page 31

MINOR EXPLOSIONS

T hat afternoon, with the grounds sodden after a night of steady rain, Saye unveiled his plan for indoor entertainments. There would be a series of tableaux vivants highlighting the joys of spring with the ladies as goddesses and the men as warriors.

“When one has achieved, as have I, and some of you,” said Saye, “one’s greatest spring of youthful beauty, one should pay tribute to it. We shall begin with The Feast of the Gods, and I shall be Apollo.”

The men groaned and laughed; the ladies tittered in shock.

Hearing Elizabeth’s laugh, Darcy looked up to see her head bent towards an equally amused Miss Goddard.

The two ladies appeared to be thick as thieves, each caught up and delighting in the other’s company.

Saye was too occupied pontificating to notice them, but Darcy was swept by a surge of pride.

Elizabeth was enchanting, able to charm man and beast. She was the worthiest of women, and he was confident that his friends would quickly come to value her intelligence, humour, and kindness as he had.

As quickly as Georgiana and Fitzwilliam did , he thought. Far more quickly than did I.

That grim but thankfully long-ago memory led him to look around the drawing room. A few members of their party were missing, Fitzwilliam, Anderson, and Miss Barlowe among them; a more unlikely trio of truants he could not imagine. He turned back to Saye’s blatherings.

“I shall ask all of you to go through your trunks to gather the necessary costumes and accoutrements. We have no artist in residence and will have to create our own canvases, but much remains unscathed from our Polynesian festivities and will supply us some decoration for the ballroom.”

Sir Phineas leant back in his chair, a foul expression creasing his brow. “It is too blessed cold for such frolics. Could we not simply play cards?”

“Or charades,” suggested Withers.

“Or sardines!” cried Miss Hilgrove.

Saye cast a withering look at them. “Let us not sink to the pedestrian, hm? We shall be artistes, dilettantes... We shall delve into the wellspring of our souls’ delight and drink deeply of the sweet marrow of the sublime!” With his haughtiest sniff, he said, “Or we can play children’s games.”

Properly chastened, Withers asked, “Um, what is the meaning of the marrow? A punch of some sort?”

“Sounds lovely,” Miss Hilgrove hastened to say. “I believe I have some scarves that may be put to good use.”

“Good girl. Send someone to fetch them and bring them to the library.”

Half an hour later, they adjourned to Matlock’s library, a room Darcy judged more generously outfitted with comfortable napping couches than with books.

Saye unrolled some drawings he had done on his grand tour—sketches of paintings and sculpture Darcy felt certain were uncommonly salacious and offering an abundance of nubile flesh and dead bodies.

Small groups were staring at the drawings and murmuring their shock or excitement in equal measure.

Darcy, standing close to Elizabeth, felt her swallow a gasp; although it was as likely to be a giggle, his indignation rose along with his need to steal her away from company.

She was far too compelling in her dark green gown and the memories it provoked of stolen moments at Longbourn and Netherfield.

He took a step closer to her as Lady Aurelia expressed her own displeasure with the drawings.

She clearly was familiar with the painting her brother had chosen, and Darcy felt vindicated by her outrage until she avowed her real point of contention. “Saye, you are not bringing a cow into Mother’s ballroom.”

“That is a horse. If your eyes are failing, your husband can lend you his spectacles,” said Saye before turning to address a footman. “We require a few beards. Do go and shear a sheep.”

A rumble of voices had expressed displeasure. “It is not yet spring. Far too cold to shear the poor things.”

Darcy slipped his hand into Elizabeth’s and bent to whisper in her ear. “I feel a desperate need to kiss you.” Encouraged by her response—a squeeze of her hand and a quiet laugh—he drew her into the hall and through the door to a well-remembered back staircase leading to the family wing.

“The servants may hear us!"

“Then I shall kiss you more quietly.”

Elizabeth laughed, scarcely able to catch her breath before Darcy’s lips again captured hers.

Her heart was racing, and she pressed closer against him, relishing his hard warmth beneath the soft fabric of his shirt.

After a long moment, she pulled away, near breathless.

“I suppose we need chaperons after all.”

“I wish we did not have any. Indeed it would suit me well if there was no one here but the two of us.”

She smiled at that but then said, “We really ought to stop. ”

"Why?” His voice was soft, his lips tickling her ear.

“We have been apart for weeks and weeks, and now we are at a house party filled with unmarried men and ladies, all with the same designs in mind.” He moved his face away to gaze at her.

“And unlike the others, we are engaged, and engaged couples have more freedom to?—”

“—to provide an example to others still seeking their love match.” Elizabeth shifted off his lap, and heard him groan as she began straightening her hair.

“We are not their elders, nor are any of them in need of our noble sufferance as an example. Do you not hear the doors opening and closing at night, the footfalls treading so lightly from one room to another?”

A noise echoed down the other side of the hall and footsteps came near. Elizabeth froze, turning wide-eyed towards Darcy as the sound grew louder before beginning to fade into the distance. “Who is that?” she whispered. “A servant? Or one of your cousins sneaking about?”

“It hardly matters.” He stood, giving her an endearing half-smile as he leant his forehead against her hair.

“Did you not tell me of your nocturnal visit to Miss Goddard the other night? Fairy sprites in nightgowns, discussing love and desperate to know how you captured the proud, rich, and decidedly unpleasant Mr Darcy?”

Delighted laughter bubbled up within her.

This was the man she loved, the sweet, dry-humoured man who had learnt to tease her and mock himself.

She turned, lifting her hand to brush his hair off his forehead and smooth it back into some semblance of order before reaching up to give him a tender kiss.

He replied to it by clasping his arms around her and pulling her tightly against his body.

All her protestations notwithstanding, she did thoroughly enjoy kissing him. She had never swooned over handsome men or wondered overmuch about wedding nights; she preferred poetic allusions to bawdy novels.

But all of that had changed three months ago, in the moments between saying yes and gaining her first kiss from her husband-to-be.

Then, the passion that imbued their every conversation became equally alive in the physical sense, in the touches and kisses they shared.

Kisses she would gladly bestow upon him in quantity, if only she could be certain they were secure from discovery.

Elizabeth had known that they would make every effort for private moments during this sojourn.

For the most part, she and Darcy had acted politely and carefully, though they had been able, once or twice, to steal away to empty rooms or take advantage of darkened corners to share intimate kisses and endearments.

But she had not expected to find herself in his chambers, nearly astride his lap, or held within his embrace, and allowing—eagerly enjoying—his tender attentions until his quiet ardour had shifted into something more.

She began to see what Georgette might have meant when she advised taking steps to prevent Darcy from ‘cracking’, for he was wound tightly with the obvious desire for still-greater intimacy.

She pulled her lips from his, took a breath, and as gently as she could, pushed him away, taking a step back to remove herself from his embrace.

“Elizabeth—”

“We simply must stop.”

“I know that, dearest.” Darcy took a step back and smiled, his eyes glinting mischievously. “I apologise for my fervour, but you must apologise for your endlessly enticing being.”

Elizabeth would have returned his smile but for a loud crash in the corridor. Mortification and self-awareness arrived as one, and she gasped even as her heart rose into her throat.

“They were housemaids,” Darcy assured her.

“It does not matter whether it was a scullery maid or your cousin, we—” She let out a breath, trying to calm herself. “I cannot act the country hoyden here. I want to be well regarded, to make you proud, and to disprove whatever your aunt may say of me.”

“Lady Catherine’s opinion is meaningless, to me and to anyone in society. You will be—you are —respected and admired by all who meet you. Have you not seen how accepted and liked you are by everyone here? You have enchanted everyone, even Sir Phineas.”

“It has been a start, to be sure, but that is all the more reason not to turn their opinions of me by being caught out in your bedchamber.” She smiled to soften the severe tone of her words. “But I am glad you think they accept me. I do like nearly everyone I have met.”

Darcy chuckled. “Only nearly everyone? Saye is having some effect on you.”

Elizabeth peered into the mirror, moving her head this way and that and adjusting the pins in her hair. “Miss Barlowe has a bit of vinegar in her, which is a shame, as she will be one of the only ladies to leave here without a future groom.”

“A bit of vinegar? From the little I have observed of her, Miss Barlowe is never so happy as when she is miserable, and were she the only one left unattached, I do not doubt her greatest solace would be in extolling the unfairness of it all.”