And then—oh then!— her hand was upon his, which wasn’t nearly enough to soothe the ache of the memory of her entire body. If only this set included an Allemande!
Darcy led Elizabeth up to the front of the dance, as was proper for a man of his standing, and they took their places across from one another. He bowed, she curtsied, their eyes met across the floor, and for a glorious moment, he could forget the pain in his head and the heat of the ballroom.
“Perhaps,” she said, as they began to dance, “you might tell me which dances you approve of and which you do not.”
“I shall do no such thing,” he responded. “For I doubt very highly that I will be equal to the debate that shall immediately follow.” The dance brought them close and for a moment, he took hold of both of her hands. “Before a test, Miss Bennet, a student must be allowed adequate time to prepare.”
She looked into his eyes. “Is that how you hold our conversations? With all the warmth of a schoolroom exam?”
“With all the challenge of one, to be sure.”
They parted again, circling about the dancers nearest them, and rejoined upon the other side. “You dance very well, Mr. Darcy, for one who so dislikes the activity.”
“I never said that I disliked it.”
“Oh no? I seem to recall you telling Sir William Lucas that you never danced if you could avoid it.”
“Your memory is faultless,” he replied, as they once more worked their way around the other dancers in the set. “However, while accurate, it is not complete. I was never able to explain myself in full.”
“What is your explanation?”
“In some instances, the activity cannot be avoided. In the proper setting, with a desirable partner…” He drew close to her again. “It would be a great shame to miss out on a pleasure such as this.”
Her hand dropped from his, though the dance did not require it, and she stood for several beats, staring at him in shock, instead of dancing as she ought. Catching herself at last, she skipped to keep up with the other dancers, and he, too, returned to the steps proscribed by the music and the forms.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, her tone clipped, when next they joined hands. “I must warn you that my courage rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”
“I would not have it any other way,” he replied, and passed her off down the line, taking the hand of another lady, as the dance demanded.
He danced in silence for several moments, until Elizabeth was handed once more into his arms.
“For a man who so dislikes the appearance of impropriety, you do say things that some might find indelicate.”
“You take great pleasure in telling me what I dislike,” he shot back. He felt lightheaded, but knew not if it was from the dance or the heady sensation of arguing with Elizabeth Bennet. “I dislike impropriety, I dislike dancing, I dislike you—” they each whirled, and met again. “As to the first, I take issue with your argument that my words are indelicate. I should not be ashamed of anything I have said to you, for example.”
Her lips parted as if she was to speak, but they were separated in the dance again for a moment, and when they were returned to each other’s side, near the end of the line, he began to speak before she could argue.
“As to the second, I have already given the conditions under which I enjoy the activity.” He would be enjoying it more now if it were not so terribly hot in this room. How the ladies were not fainting in all this heat he could not tell. He missed another step in the dance, and for a moment, the dancers blurred before his eyes. Why were they all moving so fast?
There was Elizabeth again. Her fine eyes burned like twin flames. Her skin glowed like burnished copper in a fire.
It was too hot even to breathe.
“And the third?” she asked, as breathless as he.
He moved forward to take her hand and stumbled into her.
“Mr. Darcy!” she cried. “Are you ill?”
“I am…warm.” He straightened. “Forgive me, madam.”
“Do you know,” she said quickly, “it is very hot in this room. I fear I must decline to complete the set.” She placed her hand on top of his. “Would you be so good as to escort me to the balcony for a breath of air?”
“Of course,” he managed to gasp out. Her touch upon his wrist was as light as a feather to start, but soon he realized she was guiding him through the crowd, and not the other way around.
Eventually, darkness, and cool air. Darcy wanted nothing more than to tear the cravat from his throat. He settled for removing his gloves. There was a sort of stone wall bordering the balcony, and he leaned against it, not caring what sort of picture he made. It was that or collapse.
“Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth’s voice, sounding kinder than perhaps he had ever heard it. “You are not well. Allow me to fetch a footman to see you to your chambers.”
“Is that what I did when you were not well?” he blurted.
Her tone was light and humorous as she replied. “I do not think I am able to carry you.”
He lurched in the direction of her voice. “You have not even tried.”
She gasped as they crashed together, and then she felt her fingers, not gloved, but bare—when had she taken her own gloves off?—against the skin of his face. “It is the fever. You have it, too. Truly, we must get help.”
“Ask me my opinion on the third, Miss Bennet,” he whispered. “The third thing you claim that I dislike.”
“Me?” Her lips were far too near. Their breath seemed to mingle in the cool night air.
“You.”
He should move away, shouldn’t he? Distantly, he felt like it would be proper. Except…maybe he didn’t dislike impropriety, after all.
“I swear no woman has ever bewitched me as you have. I do not dislike you, Elizabeth. It is quite the opposite.”
And then his mouth was on hers, and he could not for all the world tell you how it had come to be there. For one glorious moment in time, the fire in his brain paled in comparison to the heat that bloomed between them. Had Darcy ever kissed another woman? He could not, in that moment, say that he had. Surely, nothing that could be called a true kiss by comparison. There had never been another kiss, in all the history of the world.
And then she pulled away. “Mr. Darcy!” she cried.
He blinked as if waking from a dream and slumped against the wall. “Miss Bennet. Forgive me, I know not—”
“Indeed you do not.” And then she was gone, flown like a bird from his net. Darcy buried his face in his hands. He was a cad. What had come over him?
There were footsteps approaching, and Darcy raised his head to see Bingley surrounded by several servants. Was he to be thrown from the grounds for accosting a young lady?
“Darcy,” Bingley said sharply. “You are unwell. Let these men help you upstairs. Your valet is waiting for you. I can send for the doctor, but I believe you must have the same fever which was last week visited upon the Misses Bennet.”
“I do not need a doctor,” Darcy insisted. “I do not need help.” But he wavered as he tried to stand upright, and the next thing he knew, two footman had caught him, and he was being half-dragged off the balcony and down the hall to the stairs.
In his room, Darcy’s valet exchanged nervous glances with the other servants until Darcy himself roared and they left the two of them alone. The valet removed his coat and slippers, and as his cravat was being untied, the world was plunged into darkness.
Chapter 10
Darcy woke to afternoon sunlight and a massive weariness that seemed to weigh down his limbs and send ribbons of pain through his skull if he ventured to so much as move his head. A moment later, the memories followed, and if he’d had the strength, he would have bolted from the bed, from the house, from the entire county.
But as he did not, Darcy settled for calling for his servant and asking if Bingley was at home.
“Indeed, sir. And he wished to be notified if you should wake. Shall I have him called in?
”
“As soon as may be arranged.” This could not wait. It had probably already waited too long.
With difficulty, Darcy pulled himself into a sitting position. Sometime in the night, he had soaked his shirt through with perspiration, and now it lay clammy and limp against his skin, smelling less than sweet. Perhaps he should wash before Bingley arrived. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand, and then a wave of dizziness washed over him and he fell back among the bed sheets.
This was where Bingley found him several minutes, or possibly hours, later.
“Good God, man, you look as if you’ve been through a battle.”
“I feel as if I have lost one,” Darcy replied, face down into the pillows.
“Is this the same ailment that befell Miss Bennet and her sister last week?” Bingley shook his head. “I am all the more impressed that they both appeared so healthy by the time of the ball two days ago.”
Darcy somehow managed to lift his head. “Two days? Was not the ball last night?”
His friend’s eyes went wide and round. “Darcy, you have been senseless for a day and a night. Everyone here has been most worried about you.” He leaned in, conspiratorially. “And I should not say this in front of my sister, but I can tell you now that when last I was at Longbourn, Miss Elizabeth Bennet asked after your health no fewer than five times.”
Darcy groaned. There were about ten things wrong with that sentence, starting with Caroline Bingley’s unflappable attentions, and finishing with the gossip he dreaded must be spreading through Meryton about himself and Elizabeth. But he had not the power needed to protest.
“It’s possible you have at last made a conquest there, my good fellow.” Bingley sat down in a nearby chair. “But you shall certainly have to improve your health before you attempt to court her.”
Darcy gritted his teeth. “I have no intention of courting Miss Bennet.”
Bingley shrugged. “I cannot say the same for her eldest sister.”
This would never do. Darcy forced himself into a sitting position and scowled at his friend. “Jane Bennet? Are you mad? She’s very pretty, Bingley, but you cannot be serious.”
“She is the most beautiful, the sweetest girl I have ever met. My sisters are delighted with her, and I could not be more so. Genteel and kind and pretty. What more could one want in a wife?”
“A dowry?” Darcy suggested.
Bingley shrugged. “I have fortune enough, thanks to my father and grandfather’s shrewd business dealings. They have made me quite the gentleman.”
“And quite the catch for a girl ten times Miss Bennet’s consequence,” Darcy pointed out. “Think it over a little. You know I am right about this. I have seen you in love half a dozen times.”
“This is different.”
“Yes, because she is the only pretty girl in the neighborhood we have been confined to for far too long. Let us go back to London, and I’ll wager you’d find half a dozen that match Jane Bennet for beauty and goodness and every other quality you find so charming.”
“I like it here.”
Darcy’s head began to ache again.
“I like the country,” Bingley went on. “I like this estate. And I like Jane. I do not care that she has little fortune to call her own and few connections of note.”
This was getting him nowhere, Darcy realized. He could make the case to his friend that marrying a girl with no fortune or connections was no way to get ahead in the world, but Bingley would shrug it off, and why not? After all, his best friend was Darcy, a man of an ancient house, an ancient family. The grandson of an earl. Bingley’s money had come from trade.
“Not everyone in this world holds opinions as liberal as mine, my good man,” he said at last.
“Then it is good that Caroline has twenty thousand pounds to dispose of,” Bingley responded. “That should open plenty of doors for her in town. Let us hope she walks through one belonging to a gentleman of finer quality than Louisa chose for herself.” Bingley kicked at the floor with his foot, in the manner of a boy being scolded by his nursemaid. “Have I mentioned yet that I hope you soon recover? I cannot go hunting another day with Hurst alone.”
Darcy had more objections, but he sensed Bingley would not listen to any of them. He could bring up the prospects for the children that Bingley might have, should his wife bring no extra money into the union, but he knew his friend would only grow starry-eyed about the potential of bouncing half a dozen babies on his knee.
This was the problem with those whose families had made their own fortunes. They thought that fortunes were just lying about, like nuts beneath a shaken tree. The future must be protected. If Bingley wanted to think like a gentleman, he must learn.
“You should trust me, friend,” he said. “I have been fending off the attentions of fortune hunters for myself and for my sister for ages.”
Bingley frowned. “Fortune hunters? You cannot mean that Jane is only after my money.”
“I cannot say,” replied Darcy with a careful shrug. “You must ask yourself if you notice any particular regard for you. Has her heart been touched, as yours is, or is she merely going along with the match the gossips have set about ensuring since the moment you came into the neighborhood?”
“What?”
“Come now, Bingley. You are a single man in possession of a large fortune. You must be in want of a wife. And Jane Bennet is the fairest maiden in the fairy tale, who wins perforce the hand of the handsome prince. It is not you that Jane loves. It is the story. You could be any young man coming into her sphere, and she would respond similarly.”
Bingley said nothing, but his brow was furrowed. “She is so sweet…”
“I am certain she is. And I am certain she shall be just as sweet to the next gentleman who crosses her path. Do you want a wife, Bingley? A wife who will adore you for you?” For his friend’s stubborn friendliness, which had broken through Darcy’s famous reserve. For his insistence on seeing only the good in every single person they ever met. For his persistent joy in all activities. “Or do you want a wife who might have taken any man with a few thousand a year, be he old or young, fat or thin, agreeable or otherwise?”
There. A crack in Bingley’s assurances of his fair maiden’s love. Darcy saw it appear, a deep and pitiful frown on his friend’s amiable countenance, and almost immediately hated himself for it.
But there was no other option. It was too dangerous to remain in Hertfordshire and far too dangerous to allow this acquaintance with the Bennets to continue. He had taken leave of his senses entirely in the throes of that fever, just as Elizabeth had before him. He had kissed her.
He had kissed her, and he very nearly did not regret it.
They must go.
Chapter 11
For two days, Elizabeth found herself touching her lips at odd moments of the day and night. They felt no different to her than usual. And yet, they had been kissed. Kissed thoroughly by a man who had both no right to do so and also the only justification imaginable—they both wanted him to.
Or perhaps not. After all, Mr. Darcy had hardly been in his right mind in that moment. It was possible that he no more wished to kiss her than she had wished to wander about Mr. Bingley’s hedge maze in her nightgown. He was delirious with fever. That was all.
I swear no woman has ever bewitched me as you have.
Those were not the words of a man in control of his faculties. Certainly not one as proud of his status as a gentleman as Mr. Darcy. She could imagine those words on the tongue of a libertine, a scoundrel.
She could imagine a scoundrel kissing a lady in that manner as well. Elizabeth had read plenty of novels, after all.
But Mr. Darcy was no scoundrel, no more than she was a waif out of a novel, wandering the moors in her shift. They’d been ill, sick with fever. That was all. She ought to forget the entire incident, as surely as Mr. Darcy had forgotten the one in which he’d carried her out of Mr. Bingley’s garden.
Certa
inly, she should not expect anything from him. She should not even want anything from him. Fevers aside, they had never once gotten along.
Elizabeth found herself caressing her lips again. Oh, dear. The Netherfield ball was supposed to have been her opportunity to put this incident with Mr. Darcy behind her, not create an entirely new one. Far more intimate, far more worrisome than the last. If she were not careful, she might find herself believing in the silliest things.
Such as: Mr. Darcy was in love with her.
Such as: she was in love with him.
Such as: he might come for her.
It was all so ridiculous. Ridiculous and false.
And, yet, she could not stop reliving the entire scene in her mind. Not merely the kiss, as pleasant as it had been, but also the dance before that. The way she and Mr. Darcy moved together, spoke together. The way she knew instantly when he was unwell and needed her to beg off completing the set in the ballroom. The way he trusted her to lead him onto the balcony for air.
She did not know what that all added up to. Were they friends now? Were they lovers? There was only one matter about which Elizabeth was certain. What should be no longer applied. What was had become clear: she no longer disliked Mr. Darcy, either. Not a bit.
“Cousin Elizabeth?” She looked up to see Mr. Collins poking his head inside the room where she sat, alone, with a book unread in her lap. “May I beg a moment of your time?”
“If you must, sir,” she said, unsure what the man could possibly want.
He closed the door behind him, took three steps into the room, then fell to his knees before her.
Elizabeth gasped as she realized his aim and tried to rise, but he captured her hand between his. He felt clammy to the touch, and it was all Elizabeth could do not to wrench her fingers from his grip.
“Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there not been this little unwillingness. Though, I flatter myself, my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my future life.”
In Darcy's Arms Page 6
