Page 32 of An Offer of Marriage (Engaged to Mr Darcy #7)

A TOUCH FOXED

D arcy returned to the box well into the second act.

He had roamed about the theatre, even outside of the theatre, speaking to an acquaintance here and there, but all the while his untamed thoughts refused to be banished.

When he returned, hoping he was at last under good regulation, he found that Saye had got Elizabeth drunk—or very near to it.

She was flushed and giggling and apologetic; he was just relieved that she did not become vulgar or loud as he had seen her aunt and mother do. On his look, she sat straighter, smoothing her skirts and her hair in the careful way that the inebriated often did.

“What have you done?” he hissed at Saye.

“She is just a touch foxed,” Saye replied dismissively. “I might have slipped a bit of the Scotsman’saqua vitae in her wine…just to soothe her nerves.”

“Forgive me,” Elizabeth said for approximately the tenth time. “I truly am so sorry.”

“I think we should leave,” he replied. “Come, Mrs Darcy. ”

He stood and helped her stand, then led her from the box.

She leant on him somewhat more heavily than she generally did, but her gait was unwavering as they moved out of the theatre.

There was a short delay in their departure while the carriage was brought up; they awaited it in silence.

He had to admit she conducted herself admirably, remaining silent and steady beside him.

Perhaps Saye had not given her as much as he had feared.

When the carriage arrived, he held her hand to help her into the carriage, but her intoxication made her stumble back, falling into his chest. He closed his eyes, savouring the feeling of his wife in his arms, telling himself that it meant something that she did not instantly pull away from him.

Yes, it means she is in her cups and is having trouble righting herself.

He helped her climb in a second time, then got in himself, settling himself on the bench opposite. She observed him closely while he did, and once he had removed his hat, said, in a regretful voice, “I did not intend to embarrass you.”

He raised his hand to rap against the ceiling, and the carriage began to move. The last rays of daylight yet lingered over them, illuminating her, gilding her skin. He drew a deep breath. “I am not embarrassed.”

She leant forwards, her elbows on her knees. “I ought to have done better to not drink it, but I was thirsty.”

He found himself mirroring her posture, leaning across the small divide between them. Quietly, he said, “Pray, say no more of the matter.”

She pursed her lips, her eyes enormous as she looked up at him, sending his blood racing. “I do not wish to give you another reason to despise me.”

Her pull was magnetic, and before he knew what he did, he moved to sit on the bench beside her. “I do not despise you. You despise me.” Reaching up, he smoothed one errant curl back into her bonnet, and she placed her gloved hand against his chest.

“I do not.”

He reached to cover her hand with his own. “You did. Before.”

Her fingers on his chest moved slightly, a whispering caress. “I did not know you then.”

The air between them had grown heavy with longing.

It would be so easy to lower his head, to succumb to the desire pulsing through his veins, but he knew he must resist, even if at present he could hardly remember why.

Through the haze of dizzying lust which surrounded him, he thought, This could be over.

I could forgive her and we could begin anew. It is up to me.

He had very nearly persuaded himself that to kiss her would not be wrong, when she spoke.

“I really like this carriage,” she announced brightly, looking about as if it was the first she had seen it. It was a relief as it broke the moment of danger.

He inhaled deeply and leant back, closing his eyes. “Y-yes, it is a good carriage,” he replied stupidly, several minutes too late.

“Jane always says you may learn a great deal about a man from his carriage,” said Elizabeth. “I cannot say whether I think it true or not, but sometimes it is.”

He opened his eyes and forced himself to attend the conversation. “I am not sure I understand you.”

“Some gentlemen seem to style their carriages in a way that alludes to their personalities. Mr William Goulding, for example, has a charcoal-black carriage with a red interior and gold finishes—very flashy. But the carriage itself is not well-sprung, and it is very uncomfortable. And I would certainly say that William himself is more concerned with what is on the outside than the in.”

She seemed to warm to the subject after that. “Charlotte’s brother, Mr Harold Lucas, has a good carriage that he purchased from someone else, that rides very well but looks very plain. Mr Bingley has a handsome carriage in brighter blue hues that seem optimistic and cheerful.”

“Saye has a plush ivory interior in his carriage,” Darcy mused, forcing himself to play the little game to distract his thoughts. “Attractive but excessively impractical…and the carriage is as well.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Ah, so you see what I mean? Or rather what Jane means, for this has been her belief all these many years. A man’s carriage tells you something of what he truly is.”

And yet you like my carriage. “And what glimpses into my inner self does my carriage yield?” he asked carefully.

“Well, it is an unusual colour combination.” She looked about, although in the gloaming of a sun almost fully set, the colours were nearly indistinguishable. “The olive green with that blue that is almost?—”

“Drake’s neck,” he inserted. “From the colour of a male mallard’s neck.”

“Really? Yes, I suppose I can see that. In any case it is unexpected, and you may wonder if it clashes a little, but then you see it is…very appealing, very elegant. And everything very well-kept, as functional as it is handsome.” She looked down, and he wished, dearly, that he might see her eyes.

“I like it very well. In fact, it is really rather perfect.”

There seemed to be more meaning in her words than was on the surface, but he hardly knew what to think of it. Could it mean that there might be qualities she likes about me? He could hardly stand to permit himself to believe it.

Happily, they were then arrived at home, and he could focus on the task of escorting her to her bedchamber and into the care of her maid. When the door closed behind her, he sagged with relief and disappointment both. His body ached for her, and his heart…not much less.

Within his own bedchamber, he sat to await his valet.

What now? It was hardly time to retire. Should he read?

He glanced at the book on his night table, thinking that to immerse himself in it would be impossible.

He rose from the chair and went to stare out the window, seeing nothing of interest to him.

Perhaps he would go to his study, see what correspondence might need tending to? It all sounded impossibly dull.

Matlock House, he decided. He would go see if Fitzwilliam was home and had anything of interest to talk about.