by Jane Austen
Chapter Eighteen
Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain for Mr Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr Darcy’s pleasure in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers. Though this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned. He added, with a significant smile, “I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.”
This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite enquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in speaking to Mr Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.
But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour, and though every prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her spirits. Having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress. They were dances of mortification. Mr Collins, awkward and solemn, apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from him was ecstasy.
She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr Darcy who took her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of mind.
Charlotte tried to console her. “I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”
“Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil.”
For a man she cared so little about and one whose opinion mattered even less, Elizabeth was especially nervous at the prospect of dancing with Mr Darcy, though the reason why was quite beyond her comprehension. When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr Darcy, and reading in her neighbours’ looks, their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word, and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it, till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance.
“Is the dancing to your liking, Mr Darcy?”
He smiled through tight lips and inclined his head. “Quite,” he replied, and was again silent.
After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with, “It is your turn to say something now, Mr Darcy. I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”
He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said.
“Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But now we may be silent.”
“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?” he asked, meeting her gaze whenever the steps would allow.
Elizabeth tried not to be unnerved by the intensity in his eyes or the way the touch of his hand caused tingles over her entire body. She did not like Mr Darcy. Honestly she did not! She most certainly would not allow herself to desire him. But as much as she tried to deny it, as she stared into his dark, brooding eyes and breathed in his incredible male essence with a hint of the appealing fragrant oil he seemed to favour, she wanted him—ached for him. She had to wonder if he ever thought about their kiss. He had not spoken of it since, thankfully, for Elizabeth would hardly know how to respond. But she worried that he had not enjoyed it, had found her lacking in some fundamental way. Was he used to more experienced women than her?
“Sometimes,” replied Elizabeth, desperately trying to purge the thoughts from her mind. “One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”
Darcy’s brows lifted. “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”
“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly, “for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.”
“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” said he. “How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”
“I must not decide on my own performance.”
He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, “When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”
The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said, “Mr Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends—whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”
“He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” replied Elizabeth with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”
Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. Elizabeth wondered if it were because he was afraid to admit his guilt. Did a man such as Mr Darcy even feel guilt? And what of regret? At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the room, but on perceiving Mr Darcy, he stopped with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on his dancing and his partner.
“I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza—glancing at her sister and Bingle
y—shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to Mr Darcy—but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”
The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy, but Sir William’s allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner, and said, “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.”
Elizabeth noticed the frown on Darcy’s face as he gazed at her sister and Mr Bingley, and knew not what to make of it. Did he disapprove of the pairing? “I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”
“What think you of books?” said he, smiling.
“Books—oh no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”
“I am sorry you think so, but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”
“No—I cannot talk of books in a ballroom. My head is always full of something else.”
“The present always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” said he, with a look of doubt.
“Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.”
“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.
“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”
“I hope not.”
“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”
“May I ask to what these questions tend?”
“Merely to the illustration of your character,” said she, endeavouring to shake off her gravity. She acknowledged privately that her critique of his character was to clear her mind of images of the two of them locked in an embrace, though he did intrigue her immensely. “I am trying to make it out.”
“And what is your success?”
She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”
“I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “that reports may vary greatly with respect to me, and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.”
“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.”
“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied. She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in silence. On each side they were dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against another. Their exchange left Elizabeth feeling frustrated. It had served no purpose other than to vex her. She had learned nothing about Mr Darcy’s relationship with Mr Wickham. She had hoped there would be some explanation of Darcy’s behaviour, but his cold, unemotional manner had only substantiated Mr Wickham’s claims. How could she still desire a man as cruel as he? How could she want his lips against hers again, his hands on her body?
Elizabeth slipped out of the room unnoticed, made her way through the entrance hall and out of the front door. She needed air, needed to clear her mind. She wished she could understand why their exchange had affected her so strongly. Mr Darcy’s coldness towards her should have been enough to rid any feelings for him she had left, but it had not, for he was all she could think about.
The evening temperature was quite cool, and Elizabeth shivered a little as she walked through the garden until she came to a small pavillion. She took a seat, leant back and closed her eyes. She had been excited by the prospect of the ball, but now she could not wait to leave it.
“A young lady such as yourself should not wander alone at night.”
When Elizabeth opened her eyes, she found Mr Darcy standing directly in front of her. She had not heard him approach.
“I needed some air,” she said curtly. “I had not planned on staying long.” She stood up so that they were eye to eye. “Did you follow me out here?”
“Yes,” he answered without apology.
Elizabeth knew not how to reply. “I should return to the ball.” She made to move past him, but Darcy’s hand shot out and he grabbed her arm, holding her in place.
“Let us talk a while.” It was worded as a request, but Darcy did not loosen the grip.
She met his hard gaze with ease. “I have nothing to say to you, I am sure.”
“Then we will not talk,” he said, before leaning forward and capturing her lips with his.
Elizabeth knew she should pull away, to depart and leave him alone in the garden, but the moment their lips met, her good sense abandoned her. Instead of breaking free, she shifted closer into his warm embrace, delighting in the way his arms enveloped her, tugging her closer still. She knew she was in trouble when his tongue probed the seam of her lips, seeking entrance, and she opened for him eagerly, a small moan ripping free from her throat. The kiss went on and on, drawing out of her a passion she had not been aware she possessed. His hands glided down her back until they cupped her buttocks through the thick material of her dress. He squeezed, holding her roughly against his body and against the hardness at the front of his trousers. When Elizabeth gasped, Darcy used it to his advantage, pushing his tongue farther inside, devouring her mouth. And still Elizabeth could not stop—did not want it to end.
When they broke apart, Elizabeth expected Darcy to step back, to put distance between them, but he seemed as determined not to break the contact as she. Instead, he trailed hot, wet kisses along her jawline and down her throat. She gasped as she felt the cool night air hit the back of her legs as her skirt and petticoats were lifted. His hand, heavy and hot, trailed up her thigh, caressing and massaging where it touched. As his tongue licked along her collarbone and his hands moved higher, Elizabeth arched her back, getting wet between her legs. She was certain her nipples had hardened and pebbled in response to his ministrations. Every part of her body felt alive, poised, when he reached his hand up and touched her between her legs.
“You are wet,” he said hoarsely, his fingers stroking over her undergarment. “So perfectly wet.”
“I…” Raised voices cut off Elizabeth’s words and Darcy jumped back as though he’d been burned.
As Elizabeth’s skirts fell to the ground, panic engulfed her. What if someone had seen them? She would disgrace her family and be shunned from society. The voices grew louder and Elizabeth looked around her in desperation. There had to be somewhere she could hide.
“Come this way,” Darcy hissed, grabbing her hand and all but dragging her along behind him to a path that led around the side of the house.
Elizabeth was too anxious and alarmed to argue. She followed in his wake, lifting her skirts to allow her ease of movement as they hurried away. They followed the path until they reached the back of the house and Darcy pushed open a door that took them into the kitchen. He let go of her hand as they entered and strode through the room. Elizabeth kept her head down as she followed, but she was aware of some of the servants watching them pass.
Darcy pushed through another door at the end and guided Elizabeth down a corridor which brought them to a back staircase. He climbed it quickly, and she followed, even though she could not determine why. She should get back to the party before she was missed, but her legs carr
ied her along after him. At the top of the staircase, Darcy made a right and passed by several doors. It was obvious they were in the servants’ quarters, but another turn at the end of the corridor brought them out onto a landing with a balcony overlooking the main hall.
“This way,” Darcy whispered, striding along until he reached a door at the end. He waited for her to catch up, then threw open the door, reaching out for her hand and pulling her inside the room. It was a bedchamber, likely his. Darcy quickly closed the door behind her and just when doubt began to creep into Elizabeth’s mind, he took her face in his hands and kissed her soundly. All sensible thought fled and she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. This was what she had wanted all along, was it not? She had thought often of his kiss, about his hands touching her, his body writhing atop of her. But silly notions were one thing, seeing them through to fruition was another thing entirely.
When Darcy’s tongue entered her mouth, a moan tore from Elizabeth’s throat, and then Darcy moved them backwards until she was pressed against the door, his body holding her in place. The hardness in his trousers excited her beyond measure. One of Darcy’s hands slid up her body, capturing her breast, and she gasped into his mouth.
“Let us lie down,” he murmured in her ear.
She should refuse. She should end this now, leave the room and forget about her desire for him. She nodded instead and let him lead her to the large bed.
She was going to do this. She was really and truly going to do this. They paused the kiss just long enough so that they could cross the distance of the room. When he took her mouth again and kissed her deeply she felt her legs hit the bottom of the bed and then she was falling backwards, Darcy coming down on top of her. Elizabeth had worried the weight of his body might make her feel overwhelmed and overpowered, but instead, his large, muscular frame eased her doubts and made her feel safe. His tongue tangled with hers and his hips undulated, his hardness heavy against her thigh. She felt her body quiver, but it was not cold in the room far from it.