Page 25 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

T he day after the ball, Darcy saw Elizabeth, standing upon the thick boards of the bridge, long before she noticed him; she wore a heavy coat, he was thankful to see, for the weather was grey and wintry, and he had had to guess at what time he might find her here. He could not help but remember with fondness the first time he had caught her at this very spot, angling, her pretty ankles bare. A flare of desire sliced through him; he crushed it mercilessly. It was bad enough that he had already behaved with a flagrant lack of restraint, and that he had been unable to resist meeting her here, unaccompanied. The least he could do was protect her from his wayward thoughts.

“What is this?” he asked, speaking gently in case she had not heard his approach. “No pole?”

She wheeled around, a little startled, but recovered quickly. “There are a few I know who still fish the Lea, even in winter,” she said, smiling at him. “I am not one of them. I dislike the cold. Besides, fish tend to shoal up this time of year—I doubt I would have much luck.”

Elizabeth’s smile was one of the loveliest things about her; it began in her eyes before travelling to a wide, sensual mouth framed by dimples. Her elder sister was attractive, of course, but she did not have dark eyes lushly fringed with thick lashes, so often alight with curiosity or humour. In his opinion, Miss Bennet’s smile was wholly inferior, although she displayed it more often.

Without discussion, they followed the rough track they had taken the last time they met, the path towards Oakham Mount. Every time he took her hand to help her over some boulder or impediment, he had to quell the urge to keep it in his. She was nimble as a mountain goat, and probably did not need his help at all—and yet she gave herself willingly into his care.

Guilt ate at his gut like acid.

Despite his angry words to Elizabeth when he learnt of her fixation with Bingley—and even though he had urged her to encourage her elder sister to like him—Jane Bennet had been more of an objective ideal than a person to him. Those ideals were intangible in nature—she was comely, her manners perfect, and her maternal instincts sound. He had not wanted her enough to overlook her family’s impoverishment—relatively speaking—or her tactless mother and beyond-control younger sisters.

He wanted Elizabeth, as he never had Miss Bennet. Yet, all the objections which his mind had supplied against the elder applied doubly to her younger sister. He had spent the rest of the ball watching her family behave, by and large, abominably. Beyond that, Elizabeth did not even have the solid grounding of propriety which governed Miss Bennet. Would that young lady go fishing, alone, at night? Would she meet him here, alone, during daylight?

Even though the fact Elizabeth is here at all is at my own invitation? Another shaft of self-reproach speared him.

It was a measure of self-defence! he justified. Learning that she had given up her foolish scheming regarding Bingley had been thrilling enough that he was astonished at the depths of his exhilaration. It had been all he could do not to take her into his arms, to shower her in a passionate display so wholly unlike himself, it was almost dreamlike. She had been the one, finally, to leave him there, hot and suffering in the coldness of the dark garden. He could not depart for long minutes after she was out of sight; the wanting would not release him.

Elizabeth Bennet is not the wife for you! he counselled with his mind’s ever-present, unrelenting voice of reason.

What would Elizabeth say when Matlock quizzed her about her mother, her uncles? Her interests? Would she invite him to fish with her? In his fury at the failure of his own schemes for Darcy’s matrimony, Matlock might even try and ruin her—and possibly take Georgiana down with her. Even if he did not, Georgiana’s needs were far greater than he had imagined, and he had thus far failed to meet any of them in the slightest. Darcy’s wife must be a person of such inimitable character and influence that no one would ever question her—able to smooth his sister’s way, to protect her, to stand with him against the machinations of his relations.

Besides, was it even fair to Elizabeth, to put her in such a position? Take her from her quiet society and happy—if eccentric—home, and throw her into a life for which she had never prepared? Perish the thought!

Yet, how could he resist spending a few more hours with her? The answer was, he could not, for here he was. But as soon as he could bring himself to do it, he must tell her the truth: as dear as she was to him, the odds that he could ever choose her were slim ones.

It was wrong to be here. He would hurt her if he prolonged their contact, and hurting her would hurt himself. He must speak the words to end this madness.

He opened his mouth to begin, but nothing emerged.

Instead, he let her happily speak on subjects of interest to her—and hence, to him: the ball, amusing—never unkind—little anecdotes about the people who attended, her clever observations upon human nature, her sweet voice flowing over him in waves of a contentment he might never feel again.

“What would your grandmother think of you ignoring her visions and refusing her wise counsel?”

It was the first Darcy had spoken in some time, and he sounded sardonic; they had reached the point at Oakham of the finest views, and Elizabeth had perched herself upon a large boulder, a favourite lookout. He stood a few feet away, staring out over the scenic landscape.

She shrugged, addressing her comments to his back. “One never could tell with Grandmama. Jane and I have discussed it. She might have been speaking to Jane, instead of me. I was the one who asked her the question, but Jane was certainly there to hear the answer supplied.”

“You did not query her further? I believe if I had a mystic in the family, I would be tempted to ask for details.”

More cynicism . Darcy must have missed his sleep, but then, it had been a very late night for everyone. It was why she had been so easily able to escape the house.

“Well, since she died in the next moment after revealing the name, there really was not time for further enquiry.”

He glanced at her sharply, his expression softening. “I am sorry. That must have been horrible.”

“Fairly horrible, yes. Jane had terrible dreams for months afterwards.” So had Elizabeth, for that matter—the arm clutching at her, the sudden darkness, then the dead woman’s blank stare. It seemed as cowardly to complain of her fears now as it had back then—begging answers of Grandmama had been her own idea, and thus she must bear some consequences.

“I am sorry,” he repeated, and with a sigh, he sat beside her on the boulder. “Were you close to your grandmother?”

Elizabeth thought about it. “Grandmama was an enormous part of my youth, because Mama answered to her, and even Papa was required to do as she said, although he despised her, and she, him. It is amazing, now I think of it, that my parents were able to defy her enough to marry over her objections. Though of course, my grandfather was, apparently, quite a strong character in his own right, and he heartily approved the match. I do not remember him, as he died before my second birthday.”

“Were you always so obedient to her predictions as you were to her prophecy of marrying Bingley? A convenient means of getting one’s way, when you think of it. She need only predict the outcome she preferred.”

There was sarcasm in his voice again. “It is not as though she sat in a gipsy’s tent while we crossed her palm with silver,” Elizabeth pointed out. “We did not like her to predict anything, for there was not much of optimism in her expectations. It was never a matter of obedience—she simply said what she believed, and we were free to pay heed to it or not. I suppose, had an eligible, decent, and honourable gentleman paid court to me sometime in the years since her prediction, it would have been the stupidest thing in the world to refuse to fall in love simply because he did not possess the correct name. I do not believe I am stupid.”

“Yet, you did your best to love a man simply because he possessed the right one. Did she often make predictions upon the lives of those nearest her?”

Elizabeth finally understood. “You are trying to determine how deep runs this sort of madness in my maternal line?”

He opened his mouth, as if to protest. Then he closed it again.

“My parents used our fear of Grandmama to instil respect, hardly a tactic designed to inspire fondness but one which guaranteed obedience. She was the bogeyman, who could see our misbehaviour from another room with her eyes shut.”

She drew her knees up onto the boulder and wrapped her arms around them, resting her chin on them thoughtfully. “Perhaps her guesses were nothing more than the ramblings of an opinionated old woman. I was a child, and I saw her as a child sees. Still, she gave hope to that foolish child—hope that my life would include a home of my own one day. It was a hope that the circumstances of my life could not provide. I do not think it was a terrible thing that I earnestly believed her. But you need not worry we are a family of madwomen. Although many of my mother’s predictions for my future are gloomy ones, they are based upon fact and nothing else.”

He sighed once more. “I am sorry. I have not been good company this morning.”

“Why did you come?” she asked—not rudely; she genuinely wished to know. Fate could not have provided a man who was the sun, the moon, and the stars only to have him prove blind to every possibility. Surely not.

But only a long silence was her reply; as it grew uncomfortable, Elizabeth filled it in for herself, and with nothing flattering. Too easily, she recalled some of her family’s more embarrassing gaffes of the evening before, including Mr and Mrs Bennet’s cardroom confrontation.

As her memories played out, realisation arrived: Darcy had come to point out their differences—not to give rise to her hopes, but to make sure she had none.

“I wanted to see you,” he said finally, but it was as if the words had been dragged out of him against his will. “I find the desire to know you better an irresistible temptation.”

He did not sound at all happy about it. There were many things Elizabeth thought to say; she had a temper, and he had sparked it with his very un loverlike behaviour. She had hardly held him at knifepoint to meet her— he was the one who had made this assignation. “In the knowing, did you only wish to learn more ill of me?”

“You cannot believe that .”

It was her turn to sigh. “I do not know what to believe, but I suppose you do not either. We once spoke of how difficult it is to learn much of importance about another person at cards or balls. I suppose I did not realise how awkward it would be to have all those impediments removed, either.”

His expression grew serious. “It is true. There are myriad ways in company to escape a conversation one does not wish to have. It is much more difficult when one has come to a conversation without an exit route, purposely because one does not wish to have one.”

She did not take offence, for she felt the same. “Yes! Young ladies are not trained in revealing anything at all. Obviously, the nothings we can share in company are not enough, but what is too much?”

“It is a problem. Yet, you have revealed one important fact: you are a woman of uncommon understanding.” He smiled at her, but there was something sad in it. Still, she took renewed hope in his willingness to continue.

“Let us each ask one question,” Elizabeth offered. “It is all the time we have, regardless. I must return to Longbourn soon.”

He nodded. “You go first.”

“Hmm. I suppose I would like to know…what is your deepest regret?”

His brows raised, as if this was nothing he could have expected, but to Elizabeth it was important. A failure was only a failure, in her opinion, if one learnt nothing from it. He took his time thinking about it.

“I have many regrets. I ought to have told Georgiana of Wickham’s betrayals and character. Further, I ought to have informed my father of his untrustworthiness, long before—it would have saved me thousands of pounds in satisfying the conditions of my father’s will, for one thing. I have a great deal of remorse over both those failures, and the repercussions that came of them.”

He had been honest, she was certain, but it almost seemed as though he were hedging. “Your unhappiness with how you have dealt with Mr Wickham is your deepest regret?”

The look he turned on her was a sharp one. “No.” His answer was brief, but there was a note of warning in it. I do not want to speak anything more of this topic , the warning said. Push me on it if you dare .

Elizabeth had wanted to come to know him better, but if he did not want the same thing, there was nothing to be done about it. He was moody and stubborn and accustomed to having things all his own way. Possibly, that was an unavoidable condition for a man in his position. Perhaps even her most fragile hopes had been unreasonable from the first. “You need not tell me,” she said at last, when the silence had grown awkward.

He was silent, and she thought he would say nothing more. Until he did.

“My first marriage proposal,” he said shortly.