Page 15 of Such Persuasions as These (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

E lizabeth heard footfalls outside Jane’s bedroom.

It was well past midnight before her sister had finally succumbed to sleep, but it was fitful.

Jane was clearly uncomfortable, even amidst the luxuriant bedding of her fine accommodations.

Elizabeth wished there was something more she could do, and her helplessness made her restless.

Hoping the noise she had noted was a maid moving through the corridor, she opened the door to request fresh water for Jane’s ewer.

Instead, she was faced with the form of Mr Darcy, wrapped in a sumptuous silk banyan, tied at the waist and showcasing the breadth of his shoulders.

She cast her eyes down and intended to shut the door, hoping he had not seen her, but she was too late.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said gently. “Is all well? Has Miss Bennet taken a turn?”

“No, I thank you. She is sleeping at last.”

“Then should you not rest as well?” His tone of sincere concern touched her .

“I wish I could. I had coffee after dinner in expectation of a long night. I must have had rather too much, for Jane nodded off half an hour ago, and I am unable to even contemplate sleep.”

“I am suffering the same affliction, though without your excuse. I was just going to fetch some cards in hopes of lulling my mind to rest by means of solitaire.”

“Oh,” was all Elizabeth could say in response.

She was not fond of solitaire, but perhaps she could do the same by means of a book.

Not Camilla , for that novel was far too engrossing, verbose though it might be.

Perhaps Netherfield’s library held tomes on plant husbandry or some equally wearying topic.

“I could,” Mr Darcy began, clearing his throat, “bring the cribbage board.”

She gave an involuntary gasp of joy at the thought before the impropriety of the suggestion struck her.

Where would they play? In his chambers? In Jane’s?

A slumbering, feverish sister was no chaperon.

She began to demur, but he must have seen her expression of delight at the prospect, for he insisted that he would fetch both the cards and the pegboard.

He returned in a trice and began moving items from the small console table just outside of Jane’s door over to its twin along the opposite wall.

Setting the cards and cribbage board upon it, he turned to her and gestured in a manner that invited her to admire his cleverness.

She could not help but smile at his boyish expression of accomplishment.

The candlelight played with the dark shadow of stubble upon his jaw. Taking him in complete with his unshaven face, long night robe, and tousled hair, the sight was enough to make her blush. She hoped the low light shaded her in such a way that he would not see .

He disappeared into his room, which was three doors from Jane’s, and came back with two small chairs.

How thoughtful , she mused. He had brought her a seat when she could just as easily have procured one for herself.

He shuffled and set the cards before them, motioning for her to cut the deck.

She drew an ace, and he groaned in mock disappointment, surrendering all hope of having the first deal.

She dealt them each six cards and set the deck in the middle of the small table.

As she calculated which cards to keep and which to put into her crib, she saw him straighten the deck and line it up perfectly against the long wooden board.

She had to stifle a laugh—perhaps he was a bit fastidious.

He set his two crib cards face down onto her own, and she took the trouble to straighten them and set them aside neatly, tossing him an arch brow.

He cut the deck this time, which turned up a two, then began his play by laying down a four.

It was a good play. Any number from ace to four ensured that she could not make a fifteen off his first discard.

Perhaps he was as accomplished a player as Miss Bingley had asserted.

She laid a six before her. He placed a three upon his four and proceeded to quietly claim, “Fifteen for two,” before moving his peg.

“Fifteen?” Elizabeth cried in an astonished whisper. “Since when do four, six, and three make fifteen?”

“Plus the two of the up card,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You cannot count the turn-up card,” she rejoined incredulously.

“You most certainly can. It is common knowledge that the turn-up card counts as you are pegging.”

“It does not,” she insisted. “Who taught you that?”

“I learnt from my father, and he was an expert at cribbage,” he said, lifting his nose and pushing his shoulders back.

“Only because he played however he chose,” she cried in laughing disbelief, baffled by his smug serenity. “ I happened to have learnt from Mr Hoyle. My father owns the book, and it states clearly that one cannot count the turn-up card whilst pegging.”

Mr Darcy scoffed.

Then squirmed.

He sat up straighter in his chair, which was almost comically small for his long legs.

“You are certain?” he asked at length.

“Absolutely certain.”

Another pause ensued.

“I shall have to procure a copy of Mr Hoyle’s rules,” he conceded without truly conceding.

Elizabeth could not conceal her glee at his discomfort, nor could she stifle the urge to say, “No wonder you never lose, Mr Darcy. You play by rules you yourself created.”

He threw her a challenging expression, clearly attempting to display a sense of affront. This lasted several seconds before a smile broke through his stern features. He let out a low chuckle and bent his head to his chest in a clear admission of defeat.

“Very well, Miss Elizabeth. Perhaps we might finish this hand, and you can point out any other glaring follies in my gameplay.”

“Gladly, Mr Darcy,” she said with more delight than she probably ought to have.

Indeed, this entire scene had them both behaving quite naughtily.

She and Mr Darcy should not be in such a situation as this under any circumstances, though such knowledge was not enough to convince her to take herself away.

The rest of the game was quiet but exhilarating.

She was alone with a lovely man in the dark of night, talking and teasing him mercilessly, and he was laughing with her.

More than once had one of them had to remind the other that it was their turn as their gazes locked, eyes glimmering in the flickering candlelight.

Just as Elizabeth was set to crow in whispers over her victory, a moan came from the room behind them.

Jane. To her shame, Elizabeth had forgotten to check on her.

If she were truthful, she had forgotten that Jane was there, that anything at all existed outside of herself and Mr Darcy, this small table, the cards in her hand, and the candlelit glint in his eyes.

She gasped and almost tipped her chair as she shot up from it.

Mr Darcy pitched forwards to catch it—and her—before either of them could fall.

She looked over her shoulder towards her sister’s door, and when she turned back, she felt his breath tickling her skin as it moved through the curls at her temple.

His arm was about her waist, steadying her.

Her mind commanded her to keep her gaze down, away from his smouldering eyes, but when it rested upon the open collar of his night shirt, she espied wisps of dark hair grazing the small patch of exposed skin.

Shocked by a sight so intimate, her eyes darted to his, and she stilled.

She should have moved, backed away, insisted he unhand her.

She did not. Elizabeth was not sure she could stand in her own power just at that moment.

Darcy’s eyes roved over her face, resting finally upon her mouth.

She flushed with panic, her breathing became ragged, and the hand she had placed upon his arm in the melee tightened.

He was so handsome, his face all perfect lines and noble features, and his scent was bewitching—shaving soap and citrus and wood smoke and something floral she could not name.

Elizabeth melted.

Releasing all tension in her body, she allowed herself to fall into him and raised her other hand so her fingers might brush against the whiskers emerging on his face.

Her touch must have brought him to his senses, for, at that moment, he released her as if she were a hot ember. If he could have seen her soul, she was sure it would have been glowing. Heat had been radiating from him, as well; she felt the loss of it as he stepped away.

“I apologise, Miss Elizabeth,” he said breathlessly. “I should not have… You have your…”

“Yes, I must… My…” she agreed, trying and failing to remember her sister’s name as her scattered thoughts fought for purchase.

“Your betrothed,” he uttered, running a hand through his hair.

Her breath caught in her throat. Of course.

Frederick .