Page 23 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
E lizabeth took her place in the dance opposite to Mr Darcy. Briefly, their eyes met and held, caught together—it took effort to look away. Still, most of those surrounding her were staring at him as well, and it was her inherent sense of humour which kept her from making a fool of herself.
“You have amazed my neighbours, as well as my humble self, at the honour you do me,” she said, smiling up at him. “I shall hold my triumph over their heads for the next year, at least.”
His sober countenance cracked a little, showing a glimmer of humour. “You are not humble at all—indeed, you are the most self-assured young lady I know.”
“If I thought you meant it as a compliment to me, I would blush,” she replied tartly. “I am too honest with myself to assume it.”
“Honesty. Yet another virtue you possess?”
“You need not be sarcastic,” she said, and he snorted.
“I would not dream of it. Besides, I know your dreadful secret.”
She raised a brow at him in silent enquiry.
“You held the Monster of the Lea in your hands, and threw it back as if it were a miniature mackerel. Who does that? No angler of promise, I tell you.”
Laughing, they went down the dance, and she admired his grace, his ease in this ballroom. He would prefer to ride, to fish, to read—he did not like dancing. Yet he was so good at it; any partner could rely upon him to be where he ought to be, when he ought to be there. It was, she believed, another sign that one could always depend upon him. Which is why Miss Darcy will not leave his side .
When they stood together again, she murmured, “My youngest sister says that Mr Wickham is being pursued by his creditors, and Colonel Forster believes he has deserted his regiment. Well done, sir.”
He smiled grimly. “It was easily managed. He leaves a trail of enemies behind him, wherever he goes, some of whom are always happy to follow.”
“How does our friend do?” Their low-voiced conversation was barely audible in the noise surrounding them, but still, she did not risk saying Miss Darcy’s name aloud.
He did not need to ask to whom she referred. “I told her that I am in no hurry to depart Netherfield, and she is welcome—in truth, that I wish her to remain with me for however long is my stay. She seemed comforted by hearing that much.”
Yes, the poor thing needed respite in a safe place. No one would dare impose upon her when her brother was near. “I am happy to hear it.”
Mr Darcy looked at her soberly, not responding. She found it difficult to look away, feeling her cheeks flaming. What was it about him that stirred her inner depths?
“I do not know, as yet, what the future holds,” he said solemnly.
When he glanced over to where Jane stood with Mr Bingley, she thought she understood his meaning. He had not decided whether he ought to pay court to her sister, and once again—and after a lifetime of freedom from it—Elizabeth knew the vicious stab of jealousy knifing her soul. Quickly she shoved the unacceptable feelings away, thankful when in that very moment, Sir William Lucas appeared beside them, full of conversation.
“Such superior dancing, sir! It is evident that you belong to the first circles. I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in!” He looked pointedly over to where Mr Bingley stood waiting for a turn to go down the line with Jane, drawing Elizabeth’s attention to them for the second time in the last few minutes.
What she finally perceived nearly felled her; she felt her face pale, and a deep trembling initiated from within filled her to overflowing.
Mr Bingley, smiling down at Jane, made his affection apparent. This was unsurprising; Elizabeth had looked upon it as a hurdle to overcome. Many men had fallen a little in love with her sister. It was Jane’s answering smile which shocked Elizabeth to her core.
Jane smiled often, naturally—but never before had her smile been combined with shining eyes and naked yearning. This was a smile Jane had hidden, from Elizabeth most of all.
Jane is in love with Mr Bingley.
“But let me not interrupt you, Mr Darcy,” Sir William rattled on. “You will not thank me for keeping you from your bewitching partner!”
Mr Darcy gave his bewitching partner a concerned glance.
This was why Charlotte had acted so strangely in response to Elizabeth’s declaration of continued interest in Mr Bingley. This explained Charlotte’s insistence that Elizabeth take seriously the compliment of Mr Darcy’s invitation to dance—obviously hoping to divert that terribly unrequited interest in a different direction. The whole world had guessed Jane’s love for Mr Bingley, and only Elizabeth had been too blind to see it. Blind and absurd.
“Are you well, Miss Elizabeth?”
She wanted, desperately, to run, to hide from her own stupidity. The trouble, of course, was that she would take herself with her, no matter how far from this ballroom she managed to flee. “The air is so close,” she whispered.
“I know where there is more of it,” he declared, pulling her from the line and tugging her towards the nearby open doors leading onto the terrace.
Their rapid exit did not cause much notice; the ballroom was overcrowded, as was the terrace. He led her directly outside, seating her on a stone bench somewhat beyond it and where they were assured at least a modicum of privacy. He did not sit, but stood to one side, placing a hand upon her shoulder for reassurance—or at least, as if he was prepared to catch her should she swoon. She glanced up at him, but his face was in shadow.
“You are upset due to Sir William’s observation,” Mr Darcy said, after a lengthy pause. “While Bingley’s partiality for your sister is evident, he is young, and falls in and out of love easily. It means little.”
It was several moments before Elizabeth found words. “You need not waste your pity. I have been foolish, but not stupid. I saw his preference. I have always seen it. Most—no, that is an understatement— all men prefer my sister. It has always been true. But Fate, I thought, meant that eventually Mr Bingley would recognise a—a different connexion. I was wrong. It is Jane who has fallen in love for the first time in her life. It has always been Jane’s match, one that irrationally, I refused to see. I hope—no, I pray, he is wise enough to realise what he has in her.”
“You are the furthest thing from irrational…you have only been fixed upon the past.”
She laughed humourlessly. “What I have been fixed upon is my own future and all the while, ignoring my sister’s. If that is not irrational, it is at least thoughtless and selfish. The signs were there. I would not look.”
“I am sorry,” he said at last.
“I am not,” she retorted, the words emerging from her jumble of confused feelings. To her own astonishment, she realised it was the truth. A joyful, marvellous truth.
“You are not?” He sounded…disbelieving.
“Can you realise how difficult it was to think my future ensnared by a man for whom I held not the faintest attraction? Worse still, when all of my sentiments centred upon his dearest friend? It has been horrendous!”
Too late, she realised what she had admitted aloud. The air around her was chilled, but her cheeks flamed hot enough to set her afire.
Darcy remained silent, a sentinel to her mortification. Gradually, however, she became aware of other things: the night-lit beauty of perfectly groomed shrubberies; the stars glittering in a cold, clear sky; the moon shining ample beam upon them, that she might view his hand, so calloused for a gentleman’s, still lying upon her shoulder. When had he removed his glove? The neckline of her dress was a wide one, revealing her collarbones; his fingertips began stroking that soft, sensitive skin—back and forth, side to side. It had begun as comfort; it had progressed to something else.
Within her, old feelings strengthened while new ones bloomed. One of those feelings was relief, that she no longer had to pretend she had, or would ever have, the slightest interest in Mr Charles Bingley. She looked up at the man who had stolen all the room in her heart, leaving none for any other.
The moonlight kept his face in shadow, but the intensity of his gaze was palpable, even so. His hand travelled to the side of her face, stroking her cheek. Longing flared within her, so deep and true that she wondered how she had ever before ignored it or moved past it or believed it to be a trifling thing. It was here between them, vibrant, alive.
“My name is not Charles Bingley,” he said.
“It could be Archibald Iremonger, and I would not care. Do not ask my sister to dance with you,” she ordered, as if she had the right to command him.
“No,” he replied. “I would not do that.”
She turned her cheek into his hand. He held it there, but said nothing else. The air between them hummed with the fierceness of her yearning, and what she believed was the returning call of his. Yet…he made no move closer, holding himself immobile as the minutes passed.
There was an attraction between them, undeniable and fervent. They both felt it; he, plainly, had not decided what to do about it. “I shall return to the ballroom by myself,” she said at last. “You may follow in a few minutes.”
If she had hoped he might protest that he did not care a fig about gossips or being caught out alone with her, she was to be disappointed. But of course, he did. With her epiphany regarding Jane and Mr Bingley, she had gained clarity over her own feelings for Darcy. He had not decided what his meant. He must resolve them; it did not mean he must do so in this very minute.
“I will, probably, walk down to the river tomorrow afternoon,” he said, his voice still as sober as if he were offering condolences. “Just to see if the Monster of the Lea will poke his head up to sneer.”
Some of the fraught tension between them eased. Her heart lightened upon wings of joy.
“Perhaps I will take a stroll tomorrow as well,” she agreed.
It was not easy to walk away; these feelings, perhaps not newly discovered, but newly embraced, urged her to do the opposite. But he had a decision to make, and she did not, truly, wish scandalmongers to make it for him.
It hurt to leave, though, and burnt an ache beneath her breast. With all her heart, she wanted to stay beside him, under the silver moon and diamond-stars.
For as long as we both shall live .