Page 9 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)

CHAPTER EIGHT

I t was not that Elizabeth had no interests of her own beyond fishing. She loved to read, had any number of stitching projects in varying states of progress, and Longbourn’s stillroom was a delight to her, always. She adored being out of doors, but there were plenty of days when walks in nature’s beauty satisfied any urge she possessed for exercise and she did not take her pole.

There were times, however, when angling in one of the prettiest spots along the river threading through Longbourn’s acreage gave pleasure like nothing else. It was as challenging as it was soothing. With success came a sense of accomplishment, as well as food for tenants who needed it. While seeking it, her hands were busy, but her mind roamed free as the current. In letting go of her worries, she sometimes found answers to her own questions—or at least a path forward into the dark, even without any answers to accompany it. And Elizabeth required that path, now more than ever.

Mr Bingley was a fine man, a handsome man. She was not completely a green girl; she knew how to flirt, even if she did not do so with the ham-handed lack of finesse her younger sisters displayed. She had, before this, fluttered her eyelashes at a young man or two. But she had always assumed that once she met her husband-to-be, she would feel different, somehow. A certain novel she had read once had named her expectation— desire . Not mere wanting, but something deeper and altogether more exquisite. She had expected to feel it when in the company of Mr Bingley. That feeling, she had believed, would propel her to seek him out when at the same events and activities, signalling to him her interest. He would respond to that interest with a like sentiment, her feelings a lighthouse marker for his.

But the emotions had not yet materialised, at least, not in the way or with the speed she had expected. Had the novels misled her? Probably. Heroines were always swooning in them, when she had never lost consciousness over any man and likely never would.

The question was, could she move forward towards Mr Bingley before feeling that hoped-for thrill? Would she rather marry a man she could like and respect, or never marry at all? Would she give up this novel-induced dream in favour of a flesh and blood reality? Any rational person must respond in the affirmative.

The only difficulty in such a logical, reasonable answer was—without that imaginary sensation, she was, too often, merely disinterested and impatient. She had not paid enough attention to Mr Bingley and had missed several opportunities to put herself in his way. Unable to put forth any lighthouse-sized effort towards him, she had never yet distracted him from his admiration of Jane. Could one manufacture the absent feelings? Supplant the irksome weariness with practical concern? Charlotte insisted it could be so. It must be done, but how?

The last day of the month brought the full moon, and the knowledge of Mr Darcy’s disapproval would not keep her from night fishing on the river. She looked forward to it with unusual enthusiasm. To say that Mr Darcy had ignored her since their last ‘discussion’ was a polite way of putting it. She had watched him, even though irked that she paid any attention at all to his opinions. She had seen Miss Bingley making remarks behind her hand and knew them to be criticisms of her or her family. His replies, although she could not tell what he said, seemed to give the woman satisfaction. It was not that she expected him to defend her, but having this proof that he would not bruised her. The foolish power of that was galling.

The truth was, she had repulsed him, and she knew it. The odds that Mr Darcy would ever approve of her as a bride for Mr Bingley were slim, and since the latter gentleman relied so heavily upon his friend’s opinions, even if she could manage to attract him, subsequent rejection would probably result. She did not doubt that, should he learn of her little fishing expedition, Mr Darcy would be even more revolted.

Why am I even considering him or his stuffy opinions? Naturally, he has long forgotten the entire conversation with a female so unimportant to him, she comforted herself as she tramped through the woods with a small lamp to light her way.

The moon shone brightly over the black, glistening stream, and Elizabeth immediately felt cheered to see it. Little ripples tossed by moonlight seemed to promise the life beneath its surface—a reward for her efforts, a distraction from her troubles, a relief from the monotony of everyday existence. As she cast her line, she sighed contentedly.

All hope is not lost , she assured herself. There were rumours that Mr Darcy soon would be departing for town again. He might not return, and she might in turn have more possibility of success with his friend. She would fix upon Mr Bingley’s decency, his benevolent nature, his many good points, and forget foolish fantasies peddled by the purveyors of fine fiction.

It is meant to be. It will be.

“I knew it,” said a voice from above, nearly startling her into dropping her pole.

A dark shape towered over her, and she scrambled up, wielding the pole like a flimsy sword until the form of Mr Darcy came into sharp focus as he drew near.

She could not prevent her relief, nor an annoyance that was a hairsbreadth from anger.

“You frightened me,” she accused, “and you did it apurpose.”

“I did not. I was hoping, rather than believing, that you would remain safe in your home, as you once claimed. Clearly, you have no issue with disguising the truth.”

“Clearly,” Elizabeth repeated, “protecting my reputation carries a far greater weight than the supposed necessity of revealing my actions to one whose business it is not .”

They stood motionless, glaring at each other in the darkness. His face appeared carved from stone and shadow.

“Point taken,” he said at last, sounding harsh and unfriendly. “I will wait on the embankment until you are finished here.”

“You might return to Netherfield,” she suggested.

“As a gentleman, I am duty-bound to wait until your safety is assured.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the gleaming water, determined to ignore him.

It was not so easily done; she was ever conscious of his disapproving figure, silhouetted in the moonlight—a spectral sentinel radiating censure. No matter , she told herself. I will fish until I catch something, should it take until dawn!

After a time, however, she managed it, as fish nipped at her bait for the first time in weeks. She had almost forgot Mr Darcy by the time she hooked one, a nice-sized trout, and brought it up. Almost instantly, however, he was beside her, already shoving his gloves into a coat pocket, ready to deal with it.

She clamped her mouth shut against protest over the necessity of his intervention. He already thinks poorly enough of me, without further exacerbating my reputation for unladylike behaviour.

He expertly attached the fish to a stringer in the shallows, seemingly heedless of the sanctity of his fine boots.

“Much appreciated,” she forced herself to say politely.

“Did it hurt?” he asked, an apparent non sequitur.

“Did what hurt?”

“Expressing your thanks for my assistance.”

She tried to see his face, but it was hidden in the gloom; his voice sounded as sober as it usually did. Nevertheless, a smile tried to work its way to her lips.

“Only a little,” she said, casting her line.

He returned to the bridge instead of the embankment, unexpectedly moving within a few feet away with a nearly soundless sigh. Abruptly she felt guilty. Never had she met a man so predisposed to gentlemanly honour. Doubtless it prevented him from leaving her here alone, even when he must be fatigued; he was as entrapped by it as she was by the expectations of their world.

“I must seem an anvil around your neck. I will take my trout and go home, so you might seek your pillow.”

His teeth gleamed white in the darkness. Was he…smiling?

“I would not dream of interrupting your entertainment.”

“In fact, you must be wishing me to perdition, sir. You cannot deny it.”

“Rather, I was wishing I had brought my pole.”

She felt a weighty tug on her line, and grinned. “A definite oversight on your part. Especially because I have either hooked a tree, or the Monster of the Lea.”

He was immediately interested, coming to stand beside her. “The Monster?”

“A famous resident of these parts,” she explained, nearly gasping at the sudden jerk, a heavy pull she must brace herself against. “I have been after him for years, but he always manages to get away.”

It was no tree, and the Monster fought her. Twice, she nearly lost him, and it took all her skill to hang on. About halfway through the struggle, when he nearly escaped her and she was dragged forwards, Mr Darcy leapt up and steadied her about the waist. Since there were no rails on the bridge, and she could only back so far along its narrow width with such limited traction as her half-boots provided, she welcomed his aid and his strength. She laughed aloud when she finally landed the fish—with only a little help, her pole bent nearly in half in the doing.

“He is a monster,” he said admiringly, gazing at her prize. “He might be the greatest carp ever caught in this river, do not you think?”

“Oh no,” she said laughingly. “That honour belongs to old Mr Talbert, who brought in one weighing nearly three stone—perhaps five or six years ago. He had it preserved, and it hangs in its glory at The George, in Meryton. But the Monster is a worthy foe.”

Elizabeth looked at her prize for a moment more, then, giving the pole to Mr Darcy to steady, she grasped the fish firmly and removed the hook. With a great heave, she threw the grand fellow back into the river.

“What the devil?” Mr Darcy cried.

She gave him a look. “He is a noble specimen, truly a marvel of his kind. He has survived for many years. I shall not be the one to cut short his life.”

He shook his head in some disgust. “This is why females cannot be anglers. Do not you understand that your Monster’s highest imaginable purpose, the measure of his creation, was to prove to the general public, for all time, your superiority in all matters—not merely fishing?”

She giggled, and he gave her a look—a look such as she had never received before in her entire life. It was not disgust, his eyes glittering like the dark depths of the river passing beneath her feet. And even though he only looked, not moving one inch closer, she felt a blush rising. He raised his hand to the blush, as if he could possibly see it in the moonlight, stroking her cheek, the sensation of the roughness of his fingers against her smoother skin an incredible one.

In an instant, she knew the novels had not lied. This… this was desire.

The problem was, it was all for the wrong man.