Elizabeth pulled an old children’s book off the shelf and rubbed her thumb over the bindings. She opened the first page and looked with a smile at the pencil marks she had scribbled into it as a child.
Might Mama be right?
Maybe Mr. Darcy didn’t like her at all — perhaps he only spent time with her because he thought her to be a silly, vulnerable girl who could easily be persuaded into immorality. He knew she was penniless; he knew she had no hope of a good marriage. Maybe he thought that if he just smiled that practiced smile and talked her around she would agree to be his mistress.
That was why he paid no attention to Jane.
He did not like her better, but anyone could see at a glance that Jane was too good to ever be persuaded into sin.
Well, he was wrong. I will be as good as Jane is.
Elizabeth sat down and forced her sudden anger at Mr. Darcy away. She flipped open the children’s book on her lap and looked at the printed illustrations in the middle. It told the story of a fairytale princess in a pretty dress.
Their conversations suddenly took on a different light. Why did he want to get her to accept money for cards? When he asked about how she felt about Mr. B, was he feeling her out? Seeing if she might be morally loose?
Well she wasn’t, and if that had been his hope, her answers disappointed him. Elizabeth had thought then that he asked because…maybe he’d had a mistress in the past and wondered what she would think of him.
Maybe he had a mistress now. It would not be a subject to occur in conversation.
No.
Elizabeth’s chest tightened with pain at the thought. She didn’t want him to have a mistress.
It was not her affair if he did.
But she hated the possibility.
Of course he didn’t think she might become his mistress. He was too honorable a man to form such a design. Even if he had once kept a mistress, since she would not believe he had one now, she was the daughter of a gentleman, and he would not try to take advantage of her present condition.
She looked at the fading afternoon light through the window, the rays made reddish by the light clouds. Maybe she wanted him to take advantage of her.
Elizabeth suddenly imagined herself saying yes when he asked her to become his mistress. And then he would touch her and kiss her, and she would touch and kiss him, and it would be so very wrong, but feel so very good. And then after a period of time, he would realize he loved her, and ask her to marry him, like Charles Fox and Mrs. Armistead.
Darcy pressing himself against her, his long body completely covering hers, her breasts pressed flat by his chest and one of his legs pressed between her legs.
He would say, I want you, because I like you more.
Elizabeth’s face was flushed, and she was breathing hard. She needed to completely throw such thoughts away from her mind. She could not think like that when she saw Darcy tonight.
Darcy had told her, I believe we shall be very good friends, you and I.
They were to be the best of friends. That was all. All.
There was a strong knock on the door to the study, and Mr. Darcy entered, leaving the door ajar. “You are such a pretty picture. Very much how I imagined you would appear when I was sent to retrieve you; a book in hand and an enigmatic smile.”
He was so handsome and tall. The line of his jaw was so strong, and Elizabeth wished she could run her hand over it and kiss him. Mama’s suggestion had changed something in Elizabeth’s mind. She saw an odd double image as she watched Darcy: she imagined him looking at her and wanting to touch and fondle her improperly.
Elizabeth blushed brightly and looked away from Darcy as she stood up to join him. She could see from the corner of her eye that he quirked an eyebrow at her. He was about to say something, but his attention was caught by the rows of bookshelves.
Darcy held his finger a few inches away from the shelves and bounced it in front of each book as he read the titles one by one. Murmuring to himself, Darcy pulled a thick volume from the shelf, her father’s copy of Virgil’s Aeneid in the Latin.
It was delightful to see Darcy revealed as a bibliophile who would drop all else to study a good collection of books.
Elizabeth stood a little away from him and grinned openly at her friend as he opened the book, with a small billow of dust, and dragged his finger along the page. He began to whisper unintelligible lines of Latin under his breath.
After a minute he startled and noticed her again. With an embarrassed blush, Darcy rubbed at the back of his neck, and hastily put the book back on the shelf.
Elizabeth laughed and said, “I daresay your cousins would be most displeased with you if they learned that you had forgotten yourself so far in the presence of a pretty woman.”
“They would.” Darcy grinned at her, and it made her stomach flutter. “I must beg you to hide this. Though I fear, as it was an insult to you as well, you might be unwilling.”
“No, no — I grow quite inattentive in the presence of books as well. Anyone will tell you that. On occasion even shouting will not gain my attention. Your secret is safe with me, since to take offense would be hypocritical.”
He stood close to her, and caught by memory of what her mother had said about touching herself Elizabeth half consciously fluttered her hand along the exposed part of her shoulder and neck. Darcy’s eyes followed her hand, and she saw him glance down at her bosom.
But he quickly brought his eyes back to hers and said, “Do you lose attention to everything when you read? It is a pretty image. I would enjoy watching you read — though, I beg you, be careful when you walk about and read. I would be far more saddened than amused if a cart ran you over.”
“Yes, but it would be a characteristic way to die.”
“If you like the idea so much, wait until you are eighty and have read a great many more books. At present, there is too much left for you to read to allow it.”
A maid walked through the open door of the study, and with a curtsy announced that it was time to enter for dinner.
As they walked to the drawing room, Mr. Darcy commented, “Mr. Collins has a fine collection.”
“It was mostly created by my father — Mr. Collins’s tastes run more to the religious and his books are on the other wall.”
Mr. Darcy said, “It does not surprise me that your father was a great collector of books. I must look over the titles more closely.”
Not knowing why, Elizabeth blushed. However, they were then separated, as Mr. Darcy was to escort Miss Bingley into the dining room.
During dinner Elizabeth and Darcy were seated at opposite sides of the table. Afterwards Elizabeth talked to Colonel Forster and Captain Denny for some minutes. She remembered how Darcy had watched and enjoyed her music at Lucas Lodge, and she eagerly volunteered to play a song when the opportunity came. Conscious of Darcy’s eyes on her, Elizabeth colored and imbued the song with as much emotion as she could.
She was no expert at music, Mary was twice as skilled as her, and there were many others were even better. However, Elizabeth was conscious that she looked very well when she played.
Darcy’s dark blue eyes were intent on her person. She liked him watching her. Something deep inside quivered.
She was displaying herself for Mr. Darcy. She hoped to impress him. She had been trying to impress him since she met him. It was foolish. She could not let herself fall in love with him. In a few weeks he would leave for his bright and varied life in London and Derbyshire and leave her to her blank existence again.
But he smiled at her, and he was so kind — with the way he looked at her, it would be easy to fall in love. What if she did seduce him?
When she finished, Elizabeth walked to Darcy with a blushing smile and said, “You heard how very poor my playing was.”
“You fish for a compliment, and yet I must be so ungallant as to deny your hope, for though I have never seen a more beautiful performer, and never have I enjoyed a song more — you sung with so much f
eeling. It truly did touch me. That was how the song was meant to be sung. However, I cannot lie, even if I have never enjoyed a performance more, there were some fudges and weak moments.”
“Horrible, I am so hurt to hear you disliked it so much.”
“I am not surprised you are hurt. I wish I had no knowledge of music so I could believe you played perfectly, but alas my sister is a true adept, and I must never tell a lie.”
“Never tell a lie? That is a horrid practice; you can see the tears in my eyes from your brutal honesty.”
Darcy leaned forward and Elizabeth stretched her head towards his. He stared into her eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Their grins faded towards a more serious expression, and Elizabeth’s heart beat wildly. She was so forward today.
When Darcy broke his peering gaze he said, “Would you show me about your father’s book collection?”
Elizabeth nodded shakily.
The two went to the study. Mr. Long was in a wingback chair, puffing a pipe and thumbing through a history of India. After brief words of greeting Darcy walked up to the shelf he had examined earlier in the afternoon, and Elizabeth described the more interesting books in the collection and what she remembered of when her father acquired them.
She was watched closely by Darcy. He nodded attentively and asked excellent questions. Unlike earlier, this time he never became so distracted by one of the books as to forget her presence. She loved having his full attention.
At some point Mr. Long left the room, and when Elizabeth finished describing the last shelf of books from her father’s collection, she realized that though the door was still open, they were alone.
Her fantasy of him kissing her, of…being his. It was very present. She suddenly said, “I miss being able to have so many books. And other things. But the books more than anything. If only I could do something, to, to fix everything. Maybe, I should…take up highway robbery.”
Elizabeth looked away, her heart suddenly beating hard. She realized her fantasy was bleeding into reality. She didn’t mean highway robbery. She didn’t mean anything.
“You would make a fetching robber; one would enjoy being stolen from by you.”
“Would you really take up highway robbery with me?” Her voice squeaked.
Mr. Darcy blinked. He smiled at her, but it was different from that practiced smile with the dimples, something softer and deeper. “I would buy the horses and guns if you wished to go thieving with me.”
“Oh. But I never could. I wouldn’t…it would be so wrong. ‘Tis a fantasy.”
“Perhaps there is a fantasy which would not be so wrong, where nothing is stolen.” Somehow Darcy was holding one of her hands? “Perhaps there is a way.”
What did he mean? What had she meant?
Elizabeth pulled away and grabbed a book off a shelf. “I loved this room when Father lived. It was all so different, I was so different. I do miss those days, but he is dead. I know such things will never return. I know. I really am happy and satisfied. Nothing else.”
She blindly handed Darcy the book she had grabbed. His brows were furrowed. Elizabeth was frightened by the moment and she hoped to keep him from saying anything that she might imagine him saying. She asked in a rush, “What book did I give you?”
They looked down at it. It was the children’s book she’d looked at earlier. He opened it and saw her penciled drawings and the declaration written in pen that the book was Lizzy’s property scrawled in the front.
“I did not mean to hand that to you.” Elizabeth blushed at how he smiled at her childish drawings.
“I want to see it. It is charming to imagine you as a child.”
“Papa gave me that book.”
“You cared about your father a great deal.” There was a wistful tone in Darcy’s voice. “Tell me about him.”
Elizabeth cast her mind back over the years to her dim memories of that happy time. “Well…he loved books.” Elizabeth and Darcy shared a grin. That had already been well-established.
“I was his favorite daughter. I was only eleven when he died, so there is much I do not remember, but I spent hours with him in this room. He often told me about what he was reading, and he would tell me stories. Sometimes he talked about history or mythology, other times some boring matter of land management, but no matter what I always listened, loving the attention."
Elizabeth pointed at the desk and the heavy leather chair behind it. “When I was very young he would have me sit on his lap, and he read to me, or he had me practice my letters by reading aloud to him. Papa was rather plump, so he made a comfortable cushion."
Darcy and Elizabeth smiled at each other again. The tension that had been there before suffused into a softness, and that moment where he might have said anything was gone.
“He loved fine cigars and port,” Elizabeth continued, “so that smell would permeate the area. I’ve always felt warm when I smell that combination. At some point, I brought my own chair in here. It was a frilly little thing I brought from the nursery. Mr. Collins — that is the father of the present Mr. Collins — banished the chair back when he inherited the estate."
“It sounds a pretty childhood.”
“It was. Your turn — tell me about your father.”
Mr. Darcy’s face became bleak and closed off. He looked away from Elizabeth. The lines around his mouth were pained, and Elizabeth felt anxiety for whatever he must be feeling. On an impulse she seized Darcy’s hand and said, “Oh, do not tell me if you do not wish to.”
Darcy looked down at her hand on his and smiled. He covered her hand with his other, and warmth traveled up Elizabeth’s arm. They were not wearing gloves, as it was an indoor party, so it was bare skin against bare skin. His large hand and long fingers were so much bigger than hers, but her hand fit perfectly in his.
Their eyes looked into each other, but there was none of the tension she felt earlier, for Darcy was somber. The bleakness returned to his eyes, but it was softer somehow. When he spoke his voice was harsh, “He shot himself — when I was thirteen, he shot himself.”
Elizabeth gasped and covered her mouth with her free hand.
She would do anything to remove the unhappiness and hint of anger she saw in him.
Darcy spoke quickly, convulsively tightening his grip on her hand. “The story is known to no one outside of the family but our lawyer. He’d been deliberate and careful, and made it look like a shooting accident to avoid the shame and legal trouble for the family. I’d loved him dearly — and, and he — my mother had died a year before. When Georgiana was born. We had been the happiest, closest family. Mother and Father laughed all day together. The house was filled with friends and music, but they both made time to play with me and teach me — few people had a happier or better boyhood than I did.”
Darcy’s eyes looked into hers. His eyes were tight around the edges.
“When my mother died…it took something out of my father. He refused to even try to recover. I did not understand then. I was a boy who had lost his mother, and I needed my father to be a comforting and solid presence again. Instead—”
Darcy shook his head. “Even before he died, it was my uncle who cared for me the most. He grieved for his sister very much, but he was naturally less hurt, and…he is a better man than my father was. I was sent to school. And then a year after mother died, my uncle came to Eton with the news. I think he meant to tell the story that it was a hunting accident. But he was terribly angry at my father, at my father’s selfishness.”
They were silent. Darcy stared to the side looking into his memories. Elizabeth squeezed his hand again, too intent on Darcy’s pain to blush at her forwardness. His fingers were warm and firm. He looked at her again and smiled softly. Elizabeth felt a jolt in her chest.
Darcy shrugged and continued without the earlier pain in his voice, “I did not believe him. I was sure my father would never do that.” Darcy let out a hollow chuckle. “I tried to investigate, like a judge would, I wanted to figure
out who had murdered my father and why. Eventually I accused my uncle of murdering him for some mysterious reason and hiding the evidence.”
Darcy’s smile was humorless and mocking. Elizabeth saw that hurt young boy, and wished she could reach through time and hug him and promise all would be well.
He let go of her hand and rubbed at his face.
“Matlock wasn’t angry with me — instead he looked at me with pity and brought out the suicide note which had been packaged with my father’s will. The words — some of the lines were burned into my mind. I am never happy. I have no reason to continue living — He had me. He had Georgiana. Didn’t we matter?”
Darcy fell silent. Elizabeth watched the hard lines of his clenched jaw in the flickering firelight.
Elizabeth wanted to throw her arms around him and cry for him.
He turned his gaze back to her and smiled slightly. “I never speak about this. Eventually, I was able to forgive him in my mind. He was sick. It was a sickness brought by my mother’s death, and I’ve always determined to remember him as he was before.”
“I’m glad. He was sick.”
“Yes.”
Not understanding herself, Elizabeth grabbed Darcy’s hand again and squeezed it tightly. “Only remember the past as it brings pleasure. Life is fragile, filled with unfairness. It is unfair that your mother died, it is unfair that your father, that he… There is so much unfairness. You can be a cynic or you can be happy. We should all choose to be happy.”
“That is precisely my uncle’s philosophy. He feels he must strive to be happy always because there are so many who don’t and who are unhappy. He also tries to help others to be able to live happier — instead of giant houses he builds orphanages and schools.”
“You are lucky he was such a good man.”
“I am lucky.”
“At least…" Elizabeth’s mind had returned to Darcy’s story. It was a terribly sad tale, but there was something romantic in it. “At least your parents did love each other."
A Dishonorable Offer Page 13
