Darcy and Elizabeth_Nights at Netherfield

by Stevens, Ginny

  Was it his imagination or had her eyes fixated on the hair of his chest exposed from his open cravat? Surely she had seen her father less than properly attired before. Darcy had no expectation that the gentleman wore formal clothing any more than he believed the man’s wife could hold her tongue. “Do not leave on my account,” Darcy said and held out her book. “Was this what you were looking for?”

  “It was. Thank you,” Elizabeth said and reached for it.

  Their ungloved hands met, and fire ripped through his digits. Elizabeth seemed equally affected. For a long moment, neither one of them managed to say another word.

  “You should go,” Darcy said holding her gaze, his chest rising and falling unsteadily.

  “I...I thought you said I could remain?” She said uncertainly, as though she were attempting to convince herself it was a wise idea. It was definitely not a wise idea.

  “If you would like,” he answered. “Have you read it before?”

  “Never, have you?”

  “Indeed, it is a favorite. You see I have nearly worn out the binding.”

  “Oh! I had not realized it was your personal copy,” Elizabeth extended the book. “Please, I will find something else. I would not want to rob you of a treasure.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  She nodded and then fingered the bookmark he had placed in it when his eyes grew tired of the written word and instead wanted to feast on a more delectable sight. She wrinkled her brow and opened to the page. “You had been reading! You nearly caught to where I was. I really do not think I can deprive you of your entertainment for the evening.”

  Darcy bit back a groan for at the moment the only thing he wished to entertain him all night was Elizabeth in his arms and writhing beneath him. “Shall we move to the settee and we can read together?”

  He allowed Elizabeth to lead the way, still hoping to hide the state of his arousal from her maiden eyes.

  “I have never read poetry such as this,” Elizabeth said in wonder. “My father has the Bard, Donne, and Cowper, of course. But this…” she reverently touched the pages, “I can feel the emotion.”

  “Yes, it is a relatively new style that not everyone approves of. This volume was compiled by my father as a gift to my mother. She bequeathed it to me.”

  “And you bring it with you everywhere?” Elizabeth said, her eyes appearing suspiciously shiny.

  “I do read other things,” he stated in a rush. “But it is easy and pleasant reading. Well worth having for myself or anyone else who finds themselves in search of something to entertain. Bingley has so few books,” he added with a smile.

  “You are very kind to share something so precious with others,” her tone sounded confused as though she had not believed him capable of such generosity.

  “Here I was,” she leafed through the pages to Robert Burns’ “A Red, Red Rose.” They read in unison.

  O my Luve's like a red, red rose

  That’s newly sprung in june;

  O my Luve's like the melodie

  That’s sweetly play'd in tune:

  As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

  So deep in luve am I:

  And I will luve thee still, my dear,

  Till a’ the seas gang dry:

  Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

  And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:

  I will luve thee still, my dear,

  While the sands o’ life shall run.

  And fare thee weel, my only Luve

  And fare thee weel, a while!

  And I will come again, my Luve,

  Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

  “Beautiful,” Elizabeth said, her chest rising and falling quickly.

  “Yes,” he agreed but was looking only at her. “It can be set to music too.”

  “Really? Do you know it? Would you sing it for me?”

  When she looked at him like that, he would gladly become a minstrel and sing for her all the days of his life. The words tumbled from his lips as the gentle melody pulled on his heart.

  “Lovely,” Elizabeth sighed. After a moment of silence, she licked her lips — lips Darcy now desperately wanted to taste — and turned the page. “Ae Fond Kiss is next,” she blushed. “Perhaps I should go to bed now. Thank you.”

  She began to rise, but Darcy grasped her hand. She swung to look at him, first where their hands met and then the unwavering pleading in his eyes. She resumed her seat, and he did not give up her hand as he began to sing.

  Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;

  Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened, but she did not pull away. Her breathing matched his own raggedness. A voice in the back of his mind told him to stop, but he pushed it aside. Whatever this was, it was nothing like the cold propositions from courtesans and merry widows he had received through the years. They were secluded, Georgiana would never know. One kiss did not lead to seduction. The song was nearly finished.

  Ae fond kiss…

  He leaned forward and captured Elizabeth’s soft, red lips. The thrill of victory consumed him as she acquiesced. Pressing his lips harder against hers, his hands ran up her shoulder to pull her in closer. By instinct, he trailed his tongue against those perfect lips, and she gasped, allowing him to slip inside and with the faintest of touches meet her tongue. The feeling was exquisite and addictive. He would kiss this woman until the end of his days. A monument would be erected to him in memory of the man who breathed his last breath with his mouth fused to England’s greatest rarity: a beautiful and intelligent woman.

  He licked her lips again, and this time she opened wider, allowing him greater access. As he stroked her tongue, earlier thoughts of the monument which might be built for him gave way to a significant need to pay attention to another sort of erection entirely. He was reaching a point of crisis. He must break away; he must cease touching her, his hands now gripped the back of her head and had pulled her hair pins out but she just as fiercely held onto him. A moan and then a high keening cry came from Elizabeth, sapping all rational thought from Darcy’s mind. Like an uncultured cave man, he desired more.

  Elizabeth suddenly pulled away, chest heaving and sprinted from the room.

  Chapter Three

  When Elizabeth fled the library, she had meant to return to Jane and make sure her sister continued to sleep. She felt the need to fixate on duty after enjoying the forbidden taste of Mr. Darcy’s kisses. However, Jane’s door was locked. How strange! Had Jane locked it after Elizabeth left? Or had she accidentally knocked it while leaving?

  The clock in the hall struck three, and a footstep in the corridor made Elizabeth jump. Deciding that Jane would be well for a few hours until daybreak, she scurried down the hall and into her room. Shutting the door, she collapsed on the bed. What insanity had possessed her to accept, even crave, Mr. Darcy’s touch?

  She laid still on the coverlet still dressed, fearing that some accidental graze against her skin, that with every breath, she may recall the illicit feelings Darcy’s touches provoked in her. How much she wished their kisses would never cease. Elizabeth was no simple-minded maiden. She knew many a lady had lost their character in similar situations. As shocking as it was for her to feel such passionate emotions even stranger was to feel them for Mr. Darcy.

  Somehow, she fell asleep. Her dreams filled with Darcy stalking into her bedchamber and renewing his intoxicating kisses. This time, she did more than remain still during his pleasurable assault. Her fingers laced through his hair as he had done to her.

  Oh good heavens!

  Elizabeth awoke with a start. Her hairpins! Had someone found her hair pins? Jane had not been below stairs, and surely Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were too fastidious to lose theirs. It would be easy to presume they were Elizabeth’s. Still...mislaid hair pins did not mean a...whatever it was that occurred last night. Bingley’s sisters would never dare to think that their Mr. Darcy had found Elizabeth far more than tolerable. No, they would just suppose
her a hoyden who also leaves a mess in her host’s home. Her cheeks flushed, it was nearly as terrible as them believing she was wanton. Nearly…

  Her eyes flickered to the clock. It was time to arise and begin her day. First, she would check on Jane. Quickly changing and arranging her hair with new pins, she knocked on Jane’s door in a matter of minutes. After Jane had bidden her enter, she tried the doorknob with trepidation, but it turned. Had she only imagined it had been locked last night?

  “Oh, Jane!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “You look much improved!”

  “Thank you,” she said and fingered the coverlet at her waist. “I suppose I only needed a good night of rest.”

  “It would seem so,” Elizabeth said as she felt Jane’s forehead. No fever remained. “How is your throat?”

  “Better, although still sore,” Jane said.

  “Drink more,” her sister poured a glass of water. “I will ask for tea with honey and lemon for you. Can you eat anything? You need your strength.”

  “I will try,” Jane mustered a small smile.

  A knock interrupted their conversation, and a maid was discovered on the other side. Mr. Bingley had sent one to ask if Jane had improved overnight. Elizabeth sent the happy report and ordered the tea supplies. After Jane had finished and Elizabeth helped refresh her sister, change her clothes and brush her hair while allowing the maid time to air the linens, the superior sisters sent their maids to ask after Jane. Despite the favorable turn in Jane’s condition, Elizabeth desired for her mother to visit and make her own decision about her dearest daughter’s health. As such, Elizabeth managed to avoid having to go downstairs until after her mother and the apothecary had seen to Jane.

  As Elizabeth showed her mother and youngest sisters to Netherfield’s drawing room, her stomach churned. What would Darcy say? How would he look? Likely quite proud of himself! But he had never seemed the rake before, and they had only kissed. A more passionate kiss than she could ever imagine, but it was not as though she gave him her virtue. Fortunately, her mother behaved so poorly that all eyes were on her as she extolled about Jane’s suffering and refusal to allow her to be moved. Next, it turned to praising Netherfield and its current master.

  Elizabeth latched onto conversation with Mr. Bingley about his impulsive nature. Ignoring her mother’s rebuke, Elizabeth would have gladly continued to focus on Bingley, but Darcy would insist she look at him.

  “The country can offer little chance to observe the intricacies of human nature,” he noted. “You can seldom meet with new people.”

  Elizabeth refused to glance at his eyes. “Oh, but the people themselves change so much!”

  “What is this you say about the country?” Mrs. Bennet cried with color rising in her cheeks. “I assure you no one in Town is any more complicated than the people in the country. Other than the shops and public places Town has nothing to offer. The country is more pleasant.”

  Next, Elizabeth’s mother did the unthinkable; she directly insulted Mr. Darcy. Before she could think twice, Elizabeth’s mouth was open and defending the gentleman. “You are mistaken, Mama. Mr. Darcy meant no insult. He only meant that there are fewer people to meet in the country than in Town. You must agree that is entirely accurate.”

  “True, but we dine with over twenty families!”

  Elizabeth blushed at her mother’s behavior as Caroline sent Darcy a smug smile. For some reason, feeling the weight of Darcy’s displeasure stung more than it did the day before. Elizabeth grasped at something to say. “Has Charlotte Lucas come since I have been here?”

  “Yes, she had called with her father.” She then focused her conversation at Bingley including her impertinent questions about his thoughts on Sir William Lucas and non-veiled digs at Darcy.

  Elizabeth’s mind raced, looking for some opening to cease her mother’s line of speaking. Finally, she mentioned that Jane had a suitor at sixteen who had written her poetry.

  “And so ended his affection!” "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.

  Immediately, Elizabeth was filled with recollections of his lips on hers. No, poetry did not drive away love. Not that she would categorize her feelings as love. It was more likely poetry enhanced insanity. “If it is a passionate love, then, of course, it will not. Everything nourishes that which is strong already. However, if it is only a vague, thin inclination I’m convinced one poor sonnet will kill it stone dead.”

  And the poetry she shared with Darcy was anything but poor sonnets. For a few minutes, her soul had been alive, and her heart captured. Darcy had only smiled at her words, and a silence ensued. Elizabeth dared to glance at Darcy and found the same intense stare upon her. The rest of the world faded away, and she was vaguely aware of Lydia badgering Bingley to host a ball. At last, she was startled from her reverie by her mother and sisters’ departure, and Elizabeth hastened back to Jane.

  You are not a coward, Lizzy Bennet! She scolded herself while she hid in Jane’s chamber and did not return downstairs until the evening.

  ******

  Darcy positioned himself at the desk in the drawing room. He needed to write his sister. Additionally, when Elizabeth came down, it afforded him the perfect view of the sitting area. A fact Caroline already knew and attempted to use to her advantage, much to his chagrin. She badgered him about including a series of false praises to Georgiana, all served to illustrate how she would devote on his sister as her own. Bingley and Hurst played piquet while Mrs. Hurst watched.

  At last, Elizabeth entered the room. His heart immediately began to pound in his chest, and he touched his pocket to assure himself of her collected hair pins. He intended to find a way to return them this evening. He could hardly explain to his valet why he had a lady’s pins. Blasted servants were everywhere. Perhaps if he could not return them, he could lose them outside? A maid would find them in the rubbish bin.

  Caroline interrupted Darcy’s thoughts with more platitudes. She approached the desk and attempted to block his view of Elizabeth. Mentally cursing the woman to the devil, he tried to end the conversation with Caroline. When she offered to mend his “pen,” she had leaned forward to show off her pitiful decolletage. Disgust rippled through Darcy. The woman before him had the gall to mock Elizabeth’s connections while she not so innocently offered her virtue--or lack thereof--to him. Perhaps he needed to have another conversation with Bingley.

  "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."

  Caroline insulted Bingley’s letter-writing, and then Elizabeth called him humble. Earlier this morning she also preferred to speak with him! With Bingley! He was not the man she passionately kissed the night before. In fact, Darcy rather thought Bingley likely was visiting Jane at night. She would look at him again!

  "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?"

  As Darcy explained Bingley’s false modesty, he heard Elizabeth gasp and grow pink. Oh yes, she was not the only one who could say shocking things. Poetry killing love, indeed!

  "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."

  Checkmate, Darling. She could not help herself from defending others against perceived injustice. He could slight the whole town if it meant she would continue to pay him attention. Bingley seemed to catch on to his intention as he feigned offense at Darcy
describing his impulsiveness. Darcy might be fastidious, but he did not expect others to have the same disposition. If he did, he could never be friends with Bingley.

  Too soon, however, Darcy’s plan fell apart. Bingley took his offense too far and depicted Darcy in an unflattering light. Perhaps he had wanted Elizabeth to then defend Darcy, after all, she had done so to her mother earlier that day, but she did not now take the bait. Darcy’s smile fell and to avoid an awkward silence, Darcy proposed they end the argument. Elizabeth suggested Darcy finish his letter and he used the time to formulate a plan as his own impulsivity did not give the desired result.

  As he wrote to Georgiana, he considered his options. If he flattered Caroline and requested she play the pianoforte, there was a possibility that he could ask Elizabeth to dance. Caroline unwittingly fell into his scheme and eagerly approached the instrument. Elizabeth looked over the books and Darcy watched her waiting for the proper moment. Now and then, Elizabeth would glance his way. When their eyes collided, she would blush and quickly glance down. As much as he enjoyed the cat and mouse game with her, he desperately wanted to arrange another meeting.

  As every London-educated lady had been trained, after some time with Italian concertos, Caroline transitioned to lively Scottish reels. Perfect for an innocent dance with Elizabeth. He approached her, and his mouth went dry, all his rehearsed words flitted from his mind.

  “Do you not feel great inclination to dance, Miss Bennet?” She did not immediately respond, and he asked again. “We have much to speak of, I believe,” he added.

  “I cannot imagine what you feel is necessary to talk about,” she said while turning the page of a book and glancing at Caroline who glowered at them.

  “I do not wish you to fear discovery,” he whispered. “I retrieved your pins and would like to return them.”

  Slowly, Elizabeth looked at him in wonder, and he was confused by how such a small action could make such an impact on her. “Thank you,” she said with a brief but genuine smile.