by Jane Austen
“And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth impatiently. “There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!”
“I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love,” said Darcy. The intensity in his eyes when he made the remark was directed solely at Elizabeth and it gave her pause.
“Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.”
Darcy only smiled, and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say, and after a short silence Mrs Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.
Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance, a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attention of the officers, to whom her uncle’s good dinners, and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise, adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother’s ear.
“I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement, and when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill.”
Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh, yes—it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given your ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.”
Mrs Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’ behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr Darcy. The latter, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms on fine eyes. Though he knew he should not encourage his feelings towards Miss Bennet, he found himself inexplicably drawn to her. She had a sharp mind and often sharper tongue, and he yearned to know her more intimately. The kiss they had shared had lingered in his thoughts since it had occurred. Even though he knew he was wrong to want it, he wished to taste the pleasure of her mouth once again, and then quite often.
When he retired to his chamber that night she was still on his mind. He tossed and turned in bed, but sleep eluded him. As he thought of her soft lips and her big brown eyes, his cock grew hard. With a groan, he slid his hand inside the sheets and wrapped it around his engorged member. It ached with the need for release. With firm, even strokes he pleasured himself, all the while thinking of the untamed desire Elizabeth had displayed when he had kissed her. What would it be like to enter her, to move in and out of her body, her hips surrounding him, her heat engulfing him? With a gasp he increased the speed of his hand, sweeping his thumb over the tip and capturing the moisture that had beaded there. He pressed his head back into the pillow as he glided his hand over his slick member. The release that had been slowly building in his groin grew nearer and nearer until he knew there was no holding it back. An image of Elizabeth on her knees while he slid in and out of her mouth came to mind and then he lost control, his release barrelling through him quickly and powerfully, her name a low rasp on his lips as his seed shot onto his stomach in long, even bursts.
Chapter Ten
The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend, and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did not appear. Mr Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr Hurst and Mr Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs Hurst was observing their game.
Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in union with her opinion of each.
“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”
He made no answer.
“You write uncommonly fast.”
“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”
“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too. How odious I should think them!”
“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.” Upon making the remark, Mr Darcy met Elizabeth’s gaze and a small smile ghosted over his lips, and Elizabeth’s breath caught in her chest. His face, normally stern and proud, was remarkably transformed when he smiled. He ought to do it more often.
Miss Bingley did not notice and ploughed on. “Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”
“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”
“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”
“Thank you—but I always mend my own.”
“How can you contrive to write so even?”
He was silent, and a smile tugged at Elizabeth’s lips, but she did not look at him—she couldn’t for fear of laughing at the absurdity.
Miss Bingley was nothing if not persistent. “Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”
“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice.”
“Oh, it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr Darcy?”
“They are generally long, but whether always charming it is not for me to determine.”
“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill.”
“That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her brother, “because he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”
“My style of writing is very different from yours.”
“Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”
Miss Bennet went back to her needlework until Mr Bingley said, “My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”
“Your humility, Mr Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm reproof.”
“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.”
“And which of the two do you call my little recent piece of modesty?” Mr Bingley asked.
“Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believe what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.”
“I dare say you believed it, but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependent on chance as that of any man I know, and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it, you would probably not go—and at another word, might stay a month.”
“You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more than he did himself.”
“I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend, for he would certainly think better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could.”
“Would Mr Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intentions as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”
“Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must speak for himself.”
“You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of its propriety.”
“To yield readily—easily—to the persuasion of a friend is no merit with you.”
“To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either.”
“You appear to me, Mr Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”
“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?”
“By all means,” cried Bingley, “let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size, for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure you, that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places, at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do.”
Mr Darcy smiled, but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense. Though Miss Bennet enjoyed their debate, she had no desire to cause Mr Darcy offence. She respected the gentleman, and even though his personality was at times coarse, she felt an affinity with him she did not want to cheapen by insulting him afore his friends. When their eyes met she hoped her soft smile conveyed her feelings on the matter. But in his eyes there was only warmth. No, heat. She looked away quickly lest the others notice her reaction to him. But his intense stare had caused her heart to race unbidden and a deep ache bloomed in her core. Even though she redirected her eyes to the needlework once again, she could sense his lingering gaze and it made her hotter still, made her breath quicken until she felt there was no air left in the room. Why did he have such an effect on her? Elizabeth could not understand why he would look upon her so, why he had kissed her. He had made his feelings about her perfectly clear, had he not? Finally his attention shifted to his friend.
“I see your design, Bingley,” said he. “You dislike an argument, and want to silence this.”
“Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful, and then you may say whatever you like of me.”
“What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side, and Mr Darcy had much better finish his letter.”
Elizabeth was grateful when Mr Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter. After a short while, her breathing slowed until it returned to its normal pace.
When that business was over, Mr Darcy applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with some alacrity to the pianoforte, and, after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she seated herself.
Mrs Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her still. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man, and yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine, however, at last that she drew his notice because there was something more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. She must surely have mistaken the sentiment behind his constant scrutiny. Anger and irritation were far more likely contenders than lust. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for his approbation. Or was she deceiving herself? The way she had sunk into his arms and let him hold her through the kiss, their bodies pressed together so that she could feel his hardness, had spoken for itself.
After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a lively Scotch air, and soon afterwards Mr Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her, “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”
She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence. On the understanding that Mr Darcy did indeed find her reprehensible, Elizabeth decided she would not give him the satisfaction of his ridicule. Her pride would not allow it.
“Oh!” said she, “I heard you before, but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste. But I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.”
“Indeed I do not dare.”
Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry, but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in
her manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody. His surprising reply confused Elizabeth further about the gentleman’s manner. Darcy, however, had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger. He longed to give in to his desire to pull her into his arms again—to take what he wanted, her connections be damned. He desperately wished he could satiate the aching need within to be buried as deep inside her as her body would allow. And he wanted to do it over and over again until neither was able to stand from the exertion of their shared rapture. But he was a slave to society’s rules and tenets. His conduct had to remain befitting a gentleman of his station and certainly in the presence of such a lady. He had already overstepped the mark by kissing her. He tried to rein in his treacherous thoughts and remain stoic. He could not have her as he craved. And Miss Elizabeth Bennet, it seemed, did not feel the same attraction as he, for she appeared to barely tolerate him. Although he thought he had observed the same longing burning in her eyes when their gazes had locked and felt the way her body had become pliable in his arms. The kiss had been far from what he would expect from a person who found him unappealing. Could it be possible that she desired him too?
Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous, and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.
She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.
“I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue, and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses.”