Before either woman could reply, Mr. Collins looked up—and up, and up—at Mr. Darcy. Mr. Collins’ face, already pink and heated, turned an even darker shade of rose. He obviously wanted to know who this strange man was, standing so close to his cousin.
Elizabeth again wished for a tidal wave, or perhaps a group of wild boars, to break through the glass doors overlooking the verandah. Any sort of natural disaster would be welcome. Anything so that she might run away from this group, and never look back.
Instead, the band began a new dance and Charlotte said, “Mr. Darcy—”
She was not able to finish her sentence before Mr. Collins jumped—quite physically jumped—and turned to face the proud man. “Mr. Darcy? Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy? Why, what good fortune! To meet you here! I had just found out, by a singular accident, that there is now—in the room!—a near relation of my dear patroness. And her you are, Sir. Here you are!”
Mr. Darcy’s face was still as stone and just as cold, as he stared down at Mr. Collins.
Mr. Collins continued, unperturbed. Elizabeth felt her cheeks burn as her cousin rambled, and she could not bring herself to smile, or nod—or even look—at Mr. Darcy.
“I happened to overhear Mr. Bingley and his sister mentioning the name of their friend, and I connected that illustrious name most immediately! Why, Sir, you are cousin to Miss de Bourgh and her mother Lady Catherine, who is my patroness. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have thought of me meeting with a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly? I am most thankful that this discovery has been made, in time for me to pay my respects to you.”
Mr. Collins bowed with a flourish, as if his words and actions were a great gift. Mr. Darcy was…silent. In fact, he completely ignored Mr. Collins, turning his gaze back to Elizabeth. She could not read his face. She only knew he was as displeased by Mr. Collins as she was—though she assumed for very different reasons.
Elizabeth could not believe her cousin would introduce himself to Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Collins carried on, face gleaming and triumphant. “I can assure you that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se’nnight.”
Mr. Darcy inhaled and exhaled, as if in pain. And still never looked away from Elizabeth.
“Indeed!” Mr. Collins said, stuttering slightly. “I was in Hunsford not —”
Mr. Collins might have continued on for the next half-hour, but Charlotte suddenly exclaimed, “Eliza! Your ankle! We must have you sit—there, just there—there is a chair next to Mr. Abernathy.”
“Two chairs, actually,” Elizabeth said, with relief. She and Charlotte could claim the chairs, and both men would hopefully leave their sides at once. Especially now that Mr. Abernathy had begun to snore. Loudly.
Elizabeth rushed to sit in the chair closest to Mrs. Cooper.
“Mrs. Cooper, Mrs. Long,” she said in greeting.
The ladies, who had known Elizabeth since birth, asked after her mother and father, and how she liked the ball, and if she thought the candles were eight-hour or twelve-hour candles? And was it true that Mr. Bingley was soon to come to an agreement with her sister?
Elizabeth could barely suppress a groan. Had her mother made such hopes public? And here, in Mr. Bingley’s ballroom, of all places? She turned to look for Charlotte, hoping her friend’s arrival would make the women forget their questions. But instead, Elizabeth discovered the shocking sight of Charlotte…agreeing to dance with Mr. Collins!
And of Mr. Darcy, bowing to the ladies, who promptly invited him to take a seat.
Next to her.
Elizabeth
“Mrs. Cooper, Mrs. Long—this is Mr. Darcy.”
“Ah, but we have met! At the Meryton assembly,” Mrs. Long said. Her cap was too large, and kept falling over her eyes. “I say, do you know if your friend Mr. Bingley has eight-hour or twelve-hour candles up there on the shelf? We are quite concerned about how long this ball might last.”
“And if there shall be enough light,” Mrs. Cooper said. She squinted across the ballroom, staring at the row of windows that faced the back of the estate. “Why, it’s terribly dark outside already.”
Elizabeth waited for Mr. Darcy to give a cutting remark. He would see these women as foolish country grandmothers.
“I apologize, I have no knowledge of these particular candles,” Mr. Darcy said, surprising Elizabeth with his kind, even tone. “But I can ask one of the footmen to investigate.”
“Investigate?” Mrs. Cooper cried. “Oh, we do not need such a formal inquiry!”
“But how kind,” Mrs. Long said, smiling at him. “How very kind!”
“We had heard you were—”
Mrs. Long elbowed Mrs. Cooper’s side, and none too subtly.
“You had heard what?” Mr. Darcy said.
Elizabeth still could not look at him, but his voice dripped over her like honey spilt on a finger. It made her think of slow, heavy, sweetness and that’s what it felt like, descending upon her, golden and rich.
“We heard—we are just surprised that—we know you came here with friends from London, we just mean,” Mrs. Long said.
“Yes, yes, London is so very…London-like, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Cooper. “I’m sure no one wonders at the cost of candles there.”
Elizabeth was trying to ignore Mr. Darcy, but at the sound of his laughter—she looked. Yes, he was laughing. And—smiling. But not at the two old, simple country women. Rather, it seemed, with them.
And then he looked at her, mid-laugh, with that perfect smile and his eyes glowing with good humor.
Who was this man?
“You will not believe me, but I often worry about the cost of candles,” Mr. Darcy said.
“That is wise! A wise man!” Mrs. Long cried. “Why, even if you do have ten thousand a year, candles add up, they do!”
Elizabeth blushed. Was it not just her own kin, but all of Meryton, who wished to shame her in front of this man?
“Miss Elizabeth.” Mr. Darcy’s voice was low next to her.
She forced herself to look at him. He was leaning just a little toward her, and he was so very tall that it was like his body became a wall, a living, breathing edifice. She was surprised to find that instead of being intimidated by his size, she was…comforted.
She didn’t want to lean away. She rather wanted to lean toward him.
Instead, she kept her back stiff and straight. “Yes, Mr. Darcy?”
“Do you believe that I worry about candles?”
“I have no idea what you worry about, Sir.”
“I am interested in what troubles you. You look very grave tonight, Miss Elizabeth.”
Lizzy glanced at him in surprise. Mr. Darcy appeared to be truly interested in her thoughts. It was so absurd it made her smile; the man who could not be bothered with anyone, now sitting down to court little old ladies and a very plain country girl?
She wondered if Mrs. Cooper and Mrs. Long were watching her response, but they had been distracted by Mr. Abernathy, who was still snoring and had begun to slowly slide out of his chair. She turned back to Mr. Darcy, disturbed to find him still intent on her. He sat the proper distance from her, but somehow…somehow he felt closer. Was it his searching stare? His interest—which must be forced? He does not truly care, she decided. He must be speaking with us for sport, if only to compare our conversation to the much more illustrious circles he is accustomed to.
“But I am never grave,” she said archly. “And if anything troubles me, it would only be your behavior, Mr. Darcy. It is so unlike you, I do not know what to make of it.”
Mr. Darcy’s dark eyebrows rose a moment, and then he looked both mildly amused and still…interested in her. And what she had to say. Elizabeth could not help but think of his dismissive manner, of how he had discounted all of her sisters and friends and neighbors at the Meryton ball—and yes, her. It should not sting, but it still did.
And Mr. Wickham! Goodness, she had almost forgotten about Mr. Wickham. How had that h
appened? Mr. Wickham had occupied her thoughts all day. She had imagined dancing with him, speaking with him…flirting with him. She was not in love with him, but he was handsome and amiable and amusing. She had wanted to find out if there was something more than a friendship between them.
Mr. Wickham had always been nothing but kind. And, as Mr. Wickham had relayed it, Mr. Darcy had been the opposite. Mr. Darcy was, in fact, the source of Mr. Wickham’s woes. The two men had been raised together as children, Mr. Wickham the son of the elder Mr. Darcy’s steward. The elder Mr. Darcy had promised a good living to Mr. Wickham, but upon his passing, Mr. Darcy had refused to give it to him…
Was she worried about Mr. Wickham? Why was she trying to force herself to care? When really, in truth, since the moment Mr. Darcy had asked her to dance—he and he alone and completely occupied her thoughts.
Elizabeth paused and bit her lip, then let it go immediately—but not before Mr. Darcy caught that small, nervous motion. His gaze was now caught on her trembling bottom lip, and Elizabeth realized that Mr. Wickham had never looked at her like this.
No one had.
Mr. Darcy looked…injured. And heated. And when he met her eyes again, his so blue they appeared molten, she almost gasped. Her body had never reacted like this, not for anyone, not for anything. She felt a burning sensation in her chest, and her stomach, and everywhere. It was as if she was slowly expanding, so much so that her skin tingled and her dress felt tight. She knew it was just because she was—tired. Or hungry. Or—hot.
It was because of something, was it not?
It could not be because of this man.
“How do you know my typical manner of behaving?” Mr. Darcy finally said. He glanced quickly at Mrs. Long and Mrs. Cooper, but they were still turned, yelling directions at Mr. Abernathy. Elizabeth was surprised to find that she felt as relieved as he looked by this turn of events.
By the chance to speak somewhat privately with him.
“I have studied your manners. When I have been exposed to you.”
The left side of his mouth quirked up in an exasperatingly handsome way. “You have studied me?”
“As I study everyone I meet.”
“And what have you discovered?”
“That you loathe dancing.”
Mr. Darcy shifted, moving his tall, lean body slightly closer—no, the chair had not moved, but somehow, they were entering into their own small, private world. The sounds of the ball, the music and the footsteps and the conversation and the laughter, all faded away. Mr. Darcy took a deep breath as he watched her, and Elizabeth’s body somehow responded. She breathed in unison with him, and the feeling was heady and wonderful and—
Awful.
Remember Wickham. Remember…
She’d almost told herself to remember her pride. But it was Mr. Darcy who was too proud, was it not?
“I do not loathe dancing. I asked you to dance with me tonight. But you said no.”
Elizabeth looked away, back out across the dance floor and the whirling bodies. “I did. And I would again. I do not need to dance with a man who does not truly enjoy my company.”
She heard his sharp intake of breath, but refused to look at him.
“What makes you say such a thing? That I do not enjoy your company?”
“I am certain you were being kind, sent on an errand from Mr. Bingley.”
“I assure you, I was not sent here by anyone. In fact, I asked you to dance at the dinner at Lucas Lodge. You rejected me then, as well.”
She finally turned to face him and he looked—stricken.
“Perhaps.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps, Madam, I am just now realizing that it is you who does not wish to associate with…me.”
Elizabeth shook her head. How dare he look so wounded? “Mr. Darcy, the very first time I met you, you refused to dance with me.”
Now she had finally said it, and his reaction was all she thought she had hoped for—he looked thunderstruck. First his face lost all color, and the slowly his jaw tightened and his cheeks grew ruddy. But his eyes—his eyes seemed pained, even more so than a moment ago.
“You—you overheard me that night?”
I will not repeat his words to him. I will not. “Do not worry. My pride was not offended. We all know Jane is the true beauty of the family.” Oh, stop it, Lizzy—you sound a fool! But she could not stop talking. “It did not matter to me that you found me so unpleasant. But there were many women without partners that night. In all your state, you could have taken pity on one or two of them—”
“I had not—” He bit out those three words, then took a deep breath and spoke once more in a measured pace. “I had not, at that time, the honor of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.”
“True,” Elizabeth said. “And nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom.”
Mr. Darcy actually groaned and hung his head for a moment! And then quietly, oh-so-quietly, he said, “I have not the talent which some people possess, of conversing easily with those I have never seen before.”
“You have done well enough with my dear Meryton neighbors.” Elizabeth surveyed the room again. Charlotte and Mr. Collins’ dance continued; she would flee to Charlotte as soon as the music ended—both to rescue her friend from Mr. Collins, and escape the man next to her.
“Miss Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth, please, look at me.”
Elizabeth did as he asked, shocked by the gentle tone of his voice. It was soft, but strong. His eyes were kind, and he looked so very—so very beautiful. And…angry? But he voice belied any such emotion. And as he spoke, Elizabeth realized that he might be angry only at himself.
“I hope you do not remember my foolish words to Charles. But if you do, I will admit to you—I will admit to anyone—that I was lying.”
Elizabeth could not conceal her shock. He nodded as her eyes widened. “And I apologize. In truth, I had not wanted to be at that ball. Have you ever been in a situation where everyone around you seems full of joy and happiness, and yet you are tortured? Perhaps ‘torture’ is too strong a word, but my mind and heart were elsewhere that night, and I could not countenance dancing and laughing when I had heavy burdens upon my soul.”
“I—what can I say to this, Sir? You have no need to apologize to me, or explain. I certainly hope that whatever has burdened you is now lifted.”
He shrugged, the slightest gesture but it spoke volumes. No, he still hurt. He still carried something that he shared with no one.
And he is sharing all this with you, is he not?
“But I must apologize,” Mr. Darcy continued, “both for lying, and for what you heard. And I must now tell the truth.”
“You owe me nothing—”
“I want you to know.” Mr. Darcy stopped suddenly, and he searched her eyes, her face—for what?
What does he want from me? Elizabeth could not breathe, her curiosity grew so great.
Mr. Darcy’s cheeks reddened, and a small muscle on the side of his face jumped. He clenched his jaw, and then his gloved fist. Then he appeared to force himself to look her in the eyes and said, “I want you to know that you are, in fact, the most—”
And then Mrs. Cooper turned around and said, “Ah, yes, my dears? I believe Mr. Abernathy is awake now. What were we discussing?”
Elizabeth
Mr. Darcy stopped speaking immediately, his face slowly regained its normal, haughty appearance. But now Elizabeth knew better. He was hiding something—hiding his emotions. But what had he intended to say?!
Before either could answer, however, Mrs. Long turned to face Mr. Darcy and asked what time it was. “I cannot see a clock, can you, Mrs. Cooper? Mr. Abernathy has nearly fallen off his chair, and we should take him home, you see,” she explained to Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth.
“I daresay I cannot see a clock, but it is late, very late!” Mrs. Cooper said.
“This is why we discussed the candles, you see,” said Mrs. Long. She pushed her cap up out of her eyes. “B
ecause we cannot stay up till dawn, as you young folk do. And there is going to be snow tonight, we fear.”
“Yes, we worry about the roads.”
“And the horses.”
“And the candles.”
Mr. Darcy nodded at the women, his face ten thousand times more kind than when he listened to Mr. Collins. He did not look at Elizabeth now, and any trace of…of secrets or a private world between them…was erased.
“It is close to ten o’clock, I believe,” Mr. Darcy said. “May I assist you? Should I call for your carriage?”
It was the elder ladies’ turn to blush, and Elizabeth felt horrible for them. She knew they did not own a carriage, but had accepted a ride with a neighbor. She opened her mouth—but what to say? How could she lessen Mrs. Long and Mrs. Cooper’s embarrassment, and end this conversation?
And then Mr. Darcy surprised her, again. “I just realized: I am a guest here at Netherfield. I had planned on returning to London on the morrow.” He paused and glanced at Elizabeth, his blue eyes dark and inscrutable. “But if the weather is to be as bad as you say—and I trust you both know of which you speak—then I believe I will remain at Netherfield for a few more days, at least. I wonder if I could ask for your assistance?”
“Well certainly,” said Mrs. Cooper. “But how can we help you, Mr. Darcy?”
Mr. Darcy leaned forward slightly on his seat. “I had my carriage and horses readied for the journey to London tomorrow. As such, I haven’t exercised my mares—they’re young, and need to run. I’d kept them mainly indoors today, so that they would be fresh for our travels. But if we might be snowbound for a few days, they need to run. Would you mind terribly, if I lent you my carriage to take you home? It’s too late for a groom to ride them, but putting them to work to take you to Meryton and back would be the perfect solution.”
Elizabeth watched in awe as both women’s acute embarrassment turned to pride. He continued to flatter them gently as they readily agreed.
Snowbound with Darcy Page 2