Page 4 of Winter of Passion (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

“P lease tell me what you have to say, Miss Bennet, as I cannot stay long.”

With the door closed, her presence was even more disturbing, her scent stronger, and his self-control weaker by the moment.

He only wished to hold her, to tell her how much he missed her, perhaps to kiss her…

if she would allow him to. For the time being, she apparently only wished — needed — to speak to him.

“Yes, of course…there is no time for formality, so I shall say it directly. I noticed your distress when my mother mentioned I refused a marriage proposal.”

She looked at him as she spoke; he did not expect such directness, so he took a step back.

“Distress would be a poor choice of word,” he admitted bitterly. Astonished, he felt her hand grasping his arm as if forcing him to stay and listen.

“It was Mr Collins,” she whispered, and he tried to understand her meaning.

She was still looking up at him. He gazed down, to her eyes which sparkled strangely under the dim light of the candles and the fire.

Her hair was falling freely, some locks dancing on her chest, moving with her breath.

A shadow rested on her chest, drawing his gaze there, while his head was spinning.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“Last year, on the morning after the Netherfield ball, Mr Collins proposed to me. I refused him, of course. Two days later, he proposed to Charlotte Lucas, and she accepted him.” Her voice became clearer, lighter, and the burden on his shoulders eased.

He kept gazing at her, painfully aware of the touch of her hand on his arm.

“Mr Collins?” he repeated.

“Yes…”

“I thought…” he mumbled.

“I know what you thought,” she replied, a little smile on her lips. “You certainly had every reason to expect the worst from me, considering…”

“No, I did not,” he said, then lowered his eyes. “I did…I thought you may have spoken indiscreetly to your mother. I feared you found my torment diverting…”

“How could you believe that?” she asked with apparent emotion. “I never found your torment diverting…not even when I thought the worst of you.”

“I cannot judge clearly,” he declared. “My mind is a haze. I am not certain of anything… And now, tonight, I am tired, and I fear I am drunk too. Too little sleep and too much brandy.”

He heard her laughing, then she covered her mouth with her other hand, but her eyes were still dancing. And he thought he saw some moistness there too.

“Then you need to sleep, Mr Darcy,” she said, finally withdrawing her hand from his arm.

“But we need to talk too…about many other things…if you wish to…”

“I do wish to, sir. I have been waiting to talk to you for a long time. There are many more things I want to tell you…to thank you for helping Lydia…”

He unconsciously put his fingers over her lips to stop the words.

She stopped indeed, the expression in her eyes changing instantly.

He felt the touch of her lips on his fingers, and her warm breath burned his skin.

Without thinking, he placed the hand over his own mouth, as if pressing the touch of her lips to his own.

“There is no need to thank me…”

“But there is. Your generosity was beyond words. What you did for Lydia…for us…”

“Whatever I did, I did it for my own conscience and for your peace and tranquillity. When I saw you crying at the inn…I would have done anything to relieve your suffering.”

“When you left that day, I feared I should never see you again,” she confessed in a low voice which melted his heart.

“I must leave now,” he suddenly said, and she gazed at him, surprised.

“As you wish, sir…”

“No, not as I wish but as I must. I want nothing more than to stay. Therefore, I must leave at once.”

“Oh…” she whispered; a delicious redness covered her cheeks and spread down her throat.

He stepped towards the door but stopped again.

“Thank you for speaking to me tonight, Miss Bennet. You cannot imagine what a burden you removed from my heart and mind.”

“I was terrified to approach you in these circumstances and at this hour…but I felt I needed to do it. For your peace and mine.”

Their eyes met and locked. Slowly, he took her hands in his, waiting for a sign of opposition that did not come.

Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips to each of her palms, gently, briefly, but enough to taste her skin.

He heard her gasp, but she did not withdraw her hands, so he held them a little longer, while his gaze held hers.

He eventually left, but in the hall, he leant his back against her closed door.

Only minutes had passed since he had walked along that hall in the deepest turmoil, and there he was, enveloped in joy, still incredulous at what had happened.

He felt dizzy again so walked towards his room in haste. He needed to rest, to sleep, and to dream. However, the image of her, waiting for him, her hair loose, her body caressed by a nightgown, her trembling lips, and her eyes full of emotions was a reality more beautiful than any dream.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth watched the door as if in a trance, unable to move for many minutes after Mr Darcy had left.

She could not believe that she had dared to wait for him in the middle in the night, inviting him into her room and forcing him to talk to her.

It was a boldness greater than any she had attempted before and — who knew — perhaps it had changed her life.

The entire evening had been harrowing; she had barely had a few moments free from mortification due to her mother’s breaches of propriety or vexation caused by Miss Bingley’s rudeness.

When both had clashed in a humiliating conversation, the result had been abhorrent.

She had amused herself until a certain point.

But then, the mention of the rejected marriage proposal had clearly hurt Mr Darcy most deeply — she understood as much when she recognised his expression from that day at the Parsonage.

He certainly believed that she had spoken of his proposal to her mother.

He had looked hurt, and he must have been so disappointed in her!

She struggled to find a moment to speak to him during the evening, but none appeared, and he seemed to be avoiding her.

So she did the only possible yet unimaginable thing — she waited for him.

She sat for more than an hour after retiring for the night, listening at the door.

She knew he was the only other guest staying in that wing, but servants might also pass.

So, she waited and waited, glancing out occasionally, until he was finally there.

She blushed and shivered remembering how she had forced him to come in. He was distant and opposed at first, then he slowly changed.

They did not speak too long — he seemed in haste to leave, and she blushed again remembering his admittance that he wished to stay.

The touch of his lips inside her palm was the most delicious sensation she could imagine. She shivered and realised that, besides the recollection of his touch, she was also cold, so she put another log on the fire and climbed into bed, pulling the sheets around her.

Sleep was still far away, and she wondered what Mr Darcy was doing. He had looked tired and intoxicated, she mused with a smile. And he had admitted that he had missed her and that everything he had done was for her. What more could she hope for from their first meeting?

If there were any doubts, they should have disappeared after that midnight encounter. Especially after he had said he must leave because he wished to stay. For a moment, she indulged herself, imagining what would have happened if he had not left; if he had stayed longer, as he — and she — wished.

Her hand — through her glove — had been kissed many times in the past, on formal occasions, and she had never felt anything particular; her hand had been held many times when she had danced, but she had never recollected any of those times afterwards.

Mr Darcy’s touch had been special — thrilling and disconcerting — since she had experienced it for the first time at the Netherfield ball.

Now that she had felt his lips on her bare skin, her mind, her body, and her heart were all stirred.

That she was in love with him, she had long accepted, though only to herself.

But how she felt at his mere touch was a discovery that melted her insides and — with shame — she admitted that she wished for more of it.

She needed more time and further reflection — sweet yet disturbing — until she finally fell asleep.

It was daylight when she awoke to the sound of a persistent knocking on her door, which made her jump out of bed.

Her first thought was that it might be Mr Darcy, but her reason dismissed it as she struggled to put on her robe.

“Lizzy, may I come in?”

“Jane! Of course!” she replied, opening the door and smiling at her sister.

“Dearest, are you unwell? Forgive me for disturbing you, but you always wake up early, and I was worried about you.”

“I am perfectly well. I just slept poorly and…what time is it? Is it late?”

“Almost ten o’clock. Breakfast is ready.”

“Oh dear! I am so sorry! I shall be ready in a moment!”

“Do not be sorry. We only woke up an hour ago,” Jane admitted. “Let me help you with your hair. I really miss our time together.”

“I miss it too. Very much. But I hope Mr Bingley’s company compensates for losing mine!” Elizabeth laughed.

“Oh yes! I mean, no, but…”

Jane blushed, and Elizabeth laughed again. “Do not worry. I shall not be upset if you love Mr Bingley more than you love me.”

“I do not love him more, just differently. Oh, Lizzy dearest, I am so happy! Happier than I imagined,” Jane confessed. “I pray that you will find your own happiness.”

“Enjoy yours, Jane. You have just married. You have every right to care about nothing else but your husband and your life together.”