If the flowers were not from Mr. Griggs, she did not wish to have to explain them to her aunt. Quietly she went upstairs to her room, where she began to arrange them carefully in the ewer of water. She would have to remember to bring up more water that night. Still, they brightened her room. Her fingers stilled on a stem as reality came pouring in.
She should not have accepted the flowers. If Mr. Darcy wished to see her, all he had to do was knock on the front door, but instead he had sent a silent message. He must have looked for her at Moorsfield, but she rarely walked there anymore. All it did was remind her of pain, of how Mr. Darcy had proved to be just the same as Mr. Bingley, fickle and playing with her affections when it suited him. Now he was back and wanted to be sure she knew it. The flowers were not a gift. They were an invitation to an assignation.
Elizabeth felt sick. He had played her like a puppet, deliberately engaging her affections and then leaving her to become desperate enough to do whatever he wished. But his ploy would not succeed.
She dropped the last flower, unwilling to touch them anymore. Did he think she would sell herself so cheaply? He had played her for a fool, and that was the one thing she could not forgive.
***
For once, Elizabeth did not feel the cold as she walked towards Moorsfield. Her sensibilities were too troubled. She had decided at least a dozen times that she would not meet Mr. Darcy, but here she was in the dawn’s first light. She could not even explain why, except that staying at home and awaiting his next move was intolerable. She would rather give him his answer to his face, and if, despite all appearance, his intentions were honourable, she owed it to her family to accept him. No, who did she think she was fooling? She hoped desperately for such an outcome, and not for her family’s sake.
She reached the last row of houses, her heart already pounding. She had not anticipated the stirring she would feel when she saw his figure, standing tall and straight like one of the trees rising in the middle of Moorsfield. Surely he could mean her no harm. Perhaps she should give him the benefit of the doubt.
***
There she was, pausing at the edge of the field, her lilac dress looking like a flower out of season. Darcy felt a wave of relief flowing over him, the disappearance of the terrible tension that had caught him in its grip. The last few days had shown him the truth. None of his reasoned arguments could satisfy him. He needed Elizabeth, to hear her musical laughter and see the enchanting light in her eyes, her quick movements and the fragrance of lavender and roses he had come to associate only with her. His feet were in motion before his mind realized his action. There would be no effort today at making it look like an accidental meeting. Soon it would no longer matter, because he would have the right to meet her whenever he wished.
Now she was before him, only inches away, her dark eyes staring up at him as though uncertain of something. He tightened his hands into fists to keep himself from touching her. “You came,” he said in a voice just above a whisper, and then, recalling himself, added more properly, “Miss Bennet, it is a pleasure to see you again.” She could have no idea how much of a pleasure it was for him.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, sounding almost breathless. Something was different about her, something in her manner that he could not define.
“I have not seen you here these last few days. I hope you have not been unwell.”
“No, I was not unwell, merely… but you, sir, were also not here for some time.”
He wondered what she had started to say. “I was away and returned only recently.”
Her lips quirked up in a smile that matched the sudden brightness in her eyes. “Or perhaps you were enjoying late nights at Almack’s or the opera and could not face the dawn.”
“No! No, indeed. Late nights could not have kept me away.” He realized almost immediately that he had betrayed himself, but he did not care. “I was at Rosings Park, with my family.”
Elizabeth cast her eyes downward and began to walk. He offered her his arm, half afraid she would not take it, but after a moment she glanced up at him shyly and tucked her hand into his arm. He smiled with relief and placed his other hand over her gloved fingers.
The intimacy was making her uncomfortable, he could tell. This had never happened before in the many times they had met. What could it mean? Had she met another man after all? Reluctantly he removed his hand and guided her down the walk, his mind racing. It could make no difference in the outcome, since she was in no position to refuse him, but the idea of Elizabeth looking on another man with favour made his stomach churn.
They walked in silence, a far cry from the comfortable conversations they had enjoyed previously, until he could stand it no longer. “Miss Bennet.” The words seemed tied in his throat.
She raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
He took a deep breath and then said in a rush, “You must know my sentiments towards you. It can be no surprise when I tell you how ardently I admire and love you. These months, nay, years, since our first meeting have never been sufficient to erase you from my mind, even for one day. You bewitched me at Netherfield, but at Rosings I knew it was love, that my feelings for you were driven by the utmost force of passion. No other woman has ever inspired such sentiments in me. Your presence, your voice, your eyes—you are the air I breathe, and I can no longer deny it.”
Her eyes had grown wide, but there was a soft look in them. He moved slightly closer to her, and she did not pull away. His gaze dropped to the lips that had so often tempted him, that had formed so many delightfully teasing words, that he longed to claim for his own. And soon he would. She wanted him to kiss her. He could tell by the way she tipped up her chin, her body swaying towards his. It took every ounce of control he possessed not to take advantage of the moment, but they were in public, and he knew there were eyes upon them. But as soon as he had her alone, then he would taste her sweetness.
There was a copse not far ahead. It would have to do, for he could not wait long. He steered her down the path along the hedgerow. Now he covered her hand with his own again, this time tightening his grip possessively, and he felt a gentle squeeze of his arm in response.
It was all he needed. Dizzy with delight, he said, “You cannot know how much relief it brings me to finally say these words to you. I have fought it for so long. My mind would not allow the inclination of my heart because of the many obstacles that stood between us. The objectionable connections of your family, the effects on the consequence of my own family of any alliance between us, stood forever as an insurmountable barrier. I could not accept such low connections, even more so, given the behaviour of certain members of your family. What would society say? I could not overcome it. That last evening when you were in Kent, I finally knew my struggles were in vain, and I resolved to make you an offer when the opportunity might present itself.”
A soft smile came over her face. “So long ago as that? You are tardy, sir.”
“Longer even than that, had my judgment not fought my inclination with such force.”
“I had no idea. I thought then that you disliked me.”
“Disliked you? Of course not.” He was sorely tempted to show her just how far from dislike his feelings were. “But you departed unexpectedly, and I took it as a sign that I should heed my misgivings. I regretted it more often than I can say. When I saw you here, it was as if no time had passed. Now your situation is different, and the distance between our ranks yet further, an alliance even more inconceivable, yet I cannot imagine a life where I cannot be with you whenever I wish, to hold you close and tell you of my love, to show you the ardour I feel.” He stopped the flow of words before he went even further beyond the realm of propriety than he already had. More quietly, he said, “Please tell me you will relieve my misery.” He could no longer resist. He cupped her cheek in his hand—that incredibly soft skin he had imagined so often—and turned her face towards his.
Elizabeth looked disturbed, no doubt at his presumption, but he was certain that would chang
e. And then it was done, just the merest touch of his lips to hers, the briefest sensation of warmth, softness, and sunlight. As he drew back, he closed his eyes to savour the sensation and was caught completely off guard by a flash of burning pain across his face.
He stared in shock at Elizabeth, his hand involuntarily moving to his injured cheek. In his astonishment, the only thought that registered in his mind was that it was a blow intended to injure.
Her eyes were filled with tears as she cradled her hand against her chest. It must have hurt her, as well. “How dare you?” she said, her voice trembling. “How dare you? Have you no shame? I should have expected it, after all I had heard of you from Mr. Wickham, not to mention your arrogant behaviour towards my family, but I allowed myself to think better of you. I was a fool.”
“Mr. Wickham?” The hated name stood out from her unexpected tirade as he flinched from the fury in her eyes. “What did he tell you?”
“Nothing but the truth! How you cheated him of his inheritance, of your insufferable pride, and I saw for myself your complete disdain for the feelings of others, especially those who were below you. Well, now your intolerable pride will have to be your consolation, for I will not!” Her voice grew too choked for her to continue, and tears poured down her cheeks. She shook her head silently, a look of horror in her eyes. Before he had even guessed her intent, she gathered up her skirts and fled, running as swiftly as if the Furies of hell were in pursuit.
***
Elizabeth stared straight ahead. There was no place to hide, no place where she could take time to compose herself, as if time would help! Instead she had no choice but to make her way down Gracechurch Street, fighting to hold back the tears that were no doubt still evident on her cheeks. She knew she was an object of interest, that the Londoners on the busy street would be wondering about her reddened eyes. She had never missed the privacy of the countryside more. At home she could have fled to her special corner of the churchyard, under the ancient oak tree, and cried until she had no tears left.
She hurried up the steps of the Gardiners’ house, hoping not to meet anyone on the way, but the odds were against her. She was no sooner in the door when she heard her aunt speak her name with concern. She shook her head without stopping and raced upstairs, past the nursery where her young cousins called, “Lizzy! Lizzeeee!” Not till she reached the dark, dusty storage room on the top floor did she stop. She closed the door behind her and leaned back on it, her breath coming in short gasps.
Her worst fears were realized. She had been so happy when Mr. Darcy began his avowal, so full of hope that a proposal of marriage was to follow, that she had let all her reservations fly from her, at least until his words of disdain for her family and background forced her to conclude that his intentions were not the honourable ones she had hoped for. His words still rang in her ears—But now your situation is different, and the distance between our ranks yet further, an alliance even more inconceivable. So inconceivable that he expected her to be his mistress, and he showed his disregard for her reputation—the reputation he clearly thought she had left behind with her father’s death—so far as to kiss her in a public field. And she had not stopped him. Her fury at her own foolishness was almost the equal of her anger at his presumption.
She wiped the back of her hand across her face. She should have recognized his intent long before, when he refused her invitation to meet her aunt and uncle. She had known it, but she had not wished to admit it to herself, for then she would have had to give up the pleasure of his company for the brief moments when she could again imagine herself as Miss Bennet of Longbourn.
There were footsteps on the stairs. Elizabeth swallowed hard and opened the door. Margaret stood there, balancing on the balls of her feet, a concerned look on her face.
“Lizzy, whatever is the matter? Are you hurt?”
Elizabeth wished for the innocence of childhood when pain was the result only of injuries. “It is nothing, dear. I merely twisted my ankle.” It was the best she could do on the spur of the moment.
Margaret’s brow furrowed. “But you ran up the stairs!”
“I did not wish anyone to see I was crying. Is that not silly of me?” She gave a shaky laugh. “Pride makes us do the most foolish things.”
The most foolish things, indeed.
***
Darcy squinted into the dark mirror in his bedroom. The mark still showed, an expanse of red across his cheek, even after the furious trip across London. No one had dared stand in his way. He poured cool water from the porcelain ewer into the basin, dipped his handkerchief into it, and wrung it out. Carefully he placed the cloth against his face. It would not do to have the entire household gossiping about what sort of trouble the master had found himself in. He had more than enough on his mind without that.
More than enough. His eyes narrowed at the thought of Elizabeth. How dare she? Did she not realize he was paying her the highest compliment he could? Apparently she was far more foolhardy than he had ever conceived. To believe Wickham—well, he supposed the man could be cunningly convincing, but then for her to pretend to enjoy his company and still believe such lies? Was it all a deliberate attempt to humiliate him?
He turned away from the mirror. He did not want to look at himself anymore. Instead, he paced the narrow confines of the room, his footsteps muffled by the exquisite Persian rug. Past the window, past the door, and back. Past the bed where Elizabeth would never lie in his arms. The wrenching pain brought him to a stop. He leaned his forehead against the wall, feeling the pattern of the wallpaper pressing into his skin. She had made a fool of him. That was the one thing he could never forgive.
His fury warred with the deep ache in his chest. Her treatment of him was nothing short of despicable, the words she said burnt into his heart, never to be forgotten. He never wanted to see her face again, never hear her name, only to forget that he had ever known a woman named Elizabeth Bennet.
The heaviness of his life slipped back over him. He would never again experience the joy and freedom only her eyes could bring him, and now even his memories of her were tainted.
***
Elizabeth was determined to think no more of Mr. Darcy, but the harder she tried to avoid thoughts of him, the more they intruded. He had clearly thought she would agree to his insulting offer. He had likely thought his offer generous, in offering her some degree of independence. She had hoped for a proposal of marriage. Elizabeth felt she could never wash the shame away.
He had spoken to her of love. Remembering those words brought tears to her eyes.
For the next week, she stayed within doors as often as possible, venturing out only when accompanied by her young cousins or her aunt. But one day, on returning to her room, she spotted a folded paper on her small vanity.
She picked it up. It was fine, heavy paper and sealed on the back, with her name written on it in a firm, masculine hand. How had it come to be there? She would have known had it come in the post. Who could have placed a letter in her room? Only a member of the family or one of the servants, and none of them would employ such a subterfuge. Perhaps someone had bribed one of the servants to put it there. Suddenly she knew who it must be from.
All the humiliation of that morning returned in a rush, the humiliation and the hurt that Mr. Darcy, the man whose companionship she had come to enjoy, would think her capable of agreeing to such a proposition. Darcy would never have made such a suggestion to Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. Indeed, he had never said a word when her father was alive, because he had known she would never agree. Now, in her reduced circumstances, he thought her easy prey. And in truth, it was only her uncle’s generosity that stood between her and a genteel poverty.
At such a point, what would her principles matter to her? If she had flirted with every available gentleman as her mother had wished, she would likely be married by now, but she had insisted she would never marry without affection and respect. Brave words, but all they had done was to make her more vulnera
ble to the predations of Mr. Darcy. And he would not be alone in thinking her susceptible. Another man might not take no for an answer. Her reputation was all she had, and reputation could be ruined in the matter of a minute.
She touched the letter. Half of her longed to read it, hoping for more words of love, but it could contain nothing respectable. The mere fact of reading it would ruin her reputation if anyone knew it, and someone in the household already knew of its existence. Perhaps that was what he hoped for, to damage her reputation enough that she had no choice but to accept his offer. The thought made her feel ill. There was only one thing to do.
***
The butler handed Darcy a card. Mr. Edward Gardiner. He frowned, not recognizing the name. He was in no mood for yet another person begging a favour. Gardiner, though—that was Elizabeth’s uncle’s name. What would Elizabeth’s uncle want with him? Perhaps it was some sort of message from Elizabeth. After all, she had no means to reply to his letter.
“Show him in.”
Simms bowed and returned a moment later with a fashionably dressed gentleman a few years older than Darcy. He did not look as if he came from Cheapside. He also did not look friendly.
“Mr. Darcy? We have never met, but I believe you are acquainted with my niece, Miss Bennet.”
Darcy motioned him to a seat. “I have that honour, it is true.”
“My niece came to me last evening in some distress. She told me she had found a letter addressed to her that she believed you had written. Having some care for her own reputation, she did not open it.” The implication was clear that he felt Darcy did not care about Elizabeth’s reputation. He drew the letter out of his waistcoat pocket and tossed it onto Darcy’s desk.
Mr. Darcy's Obsession Page 7
