Page 17 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
B y taking a servant’s stair, Darcy outpaced Elizabeth, coming upon her just before she reached her chamber.
“You have a strange notion as to what lending assistance to a courtship means,” he accused.
She glanced up at him, apparently neither startled nor alarmed by his sudden appearance. Nor was she repentant.
“I do not know what you mean, Mr Darcy. I gave you every opportunity to shine before Jane. Do not blame me because you failed to think of any superior qualities of which you might boast.”
Their conversation was conducted in whispers, but his was a harsh one. “Perhaps you have grown too accustomed to being the cleverest girl in the room. Simply because you can outwit Miss Bingley, do not believe I am of the same calibre. You set out to make me appear ridiculous.” He stepped forward, looming, as if he could intimidate the bold girl with his size. He ought to have known—not only did she refuse to humble herself in the slightest, but she moved even closer, inches from his face, her eyes blazing.
“You made yourself ridiculous, taunting me before everyone! ‘Do you have a purse we can all admire, Miss Elizabeth?’ Should I have shared that I am a much better angler than you are?”
She was the most maddening, frustrating young lady of his acquaintance, by conduct, by wilfulness, by reckless, strident manner. It was in anger that his lips found hers, and in an answering fury that hers found his.
It did not remain so. Abruptly the rage disappeared, a brittle layer of thin ice melting before the disguised fire of his passion for her. Her arms went around him, and he enveloped her in his big body, desperately trying to get closer. His kiss gentled but grew deeper, the taste and feel of her like nothing else in this world; she did not kiss like a maiden, although she was obviously inexperienced. She kissed like a woman mad with an equal hunger for him, lighting his own need in a conflagration of heated desire. Her skin, her lips, her hair, the yielding arch of her neck, the delicate shell of her ear—each was a land of new discovery, as if she was the very first woman he had ever touched. With all his heart, he wished, suddenly, that it was truth—that she was the first, the only, the ever.
Had a mewling noise not escaped her lips, piercing the shadowy corridor, arousing his faculties to where they were, who they were, he might have gone much further, such was the insanity encompassing them both. It was impossibly, fiercely difficult to pull away, and he was breathing hard as he forced himself to do it.
He stared down at her in the gloom—her hair falling wildly down around her shoulders in exotic waves, her lips swollen, her eyes full of bewilderment and an answering need.
“I am sorry,” he breathed. “So very sorry.”
She did not answer—seemingly could not find any words. A conventional girl would have slapped him, shown him her scorn. Elizabeth had no such defences, and only shook her head in dazed disbelief.
He made himself leave her abruptly, for if he did not do it then, he never would. “I am sorry,” he repeated, leaving her there—and he was. She was fire and ice, peace and temptation, sweetness and zest…a flavour he would now crave, fruitlessly, for the rest of his life.
Elizabeth did not sleep at all that night, tossing and turning restlessly. Why had she lost her mind with yearnings and unnamed longings that only Mr Darcy inspired? Struggling against her own sins, she scolded her imagination into a different scene: her wedding day, with her fated groom—in as explicit a detail as possible. She would be clad in a silver gown with pearl trims; she envisioned Papa, walking her into the church, and her mother’s happy tears. Mr Bingley dressed in formal attire befitting the seriousness of the occasion, wearing a black cutaway jacket and velvet waistcoat, his expression sober as he watched her…no, no, his expression adoring as he watched her formally pace towards him. Mr Palmer, his solemn reading of the vows belied by his beaming smile as he joined them together as man and wife, both she and Mr Bingley repeating the words aloud and committing to them with their whole hearts. The fantasy worked perfectly, right up until the point when her imaginary bridegroomboldlysealed his vows with a kiss,causing a gasp of shocked consternation from the imaginary onlookers; suddenly,however, it was not Mr Bingley’s lips upon hers, or Mr Bingley’s arms wrapping her tightly in an embrace, or Mr Bingley’s hands in her hair, pulling out the pins restraining it, or Mr Bingley’s cravat she tore away from a throat she was longing to expose.
Elizabeth leapt out of her bed as though it were filled with hot coals, pacing the chilly, dark room in her thin nightdress, trying to cool her flushed cheeks.
What is the matter with me? Why do I possess such a contrary spirit?
There were no ready answers to her questions, and neither scolds nor logic convinced her wilful fancies to turn in the proper direction.
There was only one thing for it. She must escape Netherfield, and the inexplicably tempting Mr Darcy, as soon as she could.
It was fully impossible to fall in love with the correct gentleman while the wrong man was hanging about. Any words urging him towards Jane froze in her throat. Not only was she failing to win the regard of her fated companion, but she was—to the extent possible—standing in the way of Jane’s happiness with Mr Darcy. Everything that was wrong in her world was encapsulated in those alluring, seductive, wicked kisses, and separation was the only answer.
With any luck, Mr Darcy would, with or without her help, either commit to courting Jane or return to town. In either case, her own fledgling, unwanted feelings for him would be, must be, by necessity and by reason, crushed out of existence. Unless these sentiments were destroyed, and only in that case, could she fathom having any at all for Mr Bingley. Mr Darcy was the one man in all of England who could defeat any such nebulous a foe as Fate; there was no possibility of Grandmama Gardiner’s predictions finding fulfilment unless he was completely out of her reach.
Escaping him and Netherfield, however, was a problem.
Mama would surely fight any notion of sending their carriage until at least a week had passed, Elizabeth was certain—so foolishly convinced was she that Mr Bingley and Jane would be betrothed if thrown together long enough.
The other difficulty was Jane herself.
She would expect Elizabeth to be seizing this opportunity to secure Mr Bingley’s regard and his hand. If Elizabeth requested that the Bingleys carry the Bennets home, Jane would undoubtedly protest, believing she was being helpful!
What can I say to convince her otherwise? My reasons are disgraceful, and so, so humiliating.
‘Jane, I have begun to fall in love with your possible suitor instead of the man designed for me’.
Intolerable!
Elizabeth would have to come up with an excuse and convince Jane of its necessity. She spent the next few hours inventing pretexts that did not sound so crass, so shameful, so guilty as the terrible truth.
She waited to broach the subject until Jane had finished what she would eat of her breakfast tray—which was precious little. “Are you not feeling well this morning? You have eaten hardly anything,” Elizabeth worried aloud.
“I am well.”
Jane did not look well. “I think you stayed too long downstairs last evening,” Elizabeth reproved, uncertain what to do if her sister was truly not on the mend.
“I promise, I am feeling quite recovered. My appetite is certain to catch up to the rest of me soon,” Jane reassured.
Her words reminded Elizabeth that if nothing else, Longbourn’s table was certain to tempt the faintest appetite. “I believe we should go home immediately,” she said, trying to put an air of medical authority into her words. “You should be with your family, and we do not wish to wear out our welcome at Netherfield. Doing so could not advance either of our interests.”
Elizabeth had a much longer case prepared, complete with arguments about Miss Bingley’s probable jealousy towards any whom Mr Darcy liked, and the arrival of Miss Darcy to further preoccupy their hostesses. To her absolute and utter astonishment, however, Jane immediately agreed, without any dispute whatsoever.
“I do long to be home. I am certain I will mend most quickly if I am back to Longbourn.”
Relief filled her. “Very good then. I will beg a carriage from Mr Bingley, as I do not like to delay. The horses might still be at the farm, and who knows how long it would take to fetch them.”
Jane smiled at this in shared understanding of their mother’s expected reasoning and delay, and she reached for her sister’s hand. “Thank you, dear Lizzy. You do not believe…you will not feel that our returning home will-will hurt your hopes?”
“Not all, dear. Do not think of it another moment.” Elizabeth hurried away, lest Jane have time to reconsider.