“I am in your debt,” he said formally. “Both for the news of impending snow, and for helping me with my horses.”
Mrs. Long blushed and smiled, pretty lines radiating from the corners of her eyes. “We are but simple country women, Sir. But when the farmers and the field hands say bad weather is coming, we know enough to believe them!”
Mr. Darcy nodded and Elizabeth watched in awe as the women simply melted in front of him. Who is this man? she wondered. After his prideful behavior at the Meryton assembly and Sir William’s gathering at Lucas Lodge, all of her neighbors had felt Mr. Darcy, though rich, was too proud and haughty. And Elizabeth herself had assisted in spreading this notion, she realized. She had told her sisters and Charlotte about his cutting remarks.
And, of course, her mother had told the rest of the world.
But now… Mr. Darcy glanced up at her, and it appeared his blue eyes were…twinkling. He smiled, a small little secret just for her. What was he saying, with that look?
Elizabeth realized she was gaping at him like a caught fish. She closed her mouth and turned to look across the ballroom. But she could not stop listening to Mr. Darcy’s every word.
“I respect country folk. Truth be told, while I have a house in London, my true home is in Derbyshire. I feel far more at home in the country than in the city.”
“Why, I’ve an uncle that far north! It’s lovely country,” Mrs. Cooper said.
“Very nice, quite lovely,” said Mrs. Long. “A good lad, then, you are.”
Mr. Darcy smiled gently. How had she found herself staring at his face again? And how was she now smiling back at him?
No, she reminded herself. Do not stare at him so. He is rude and haughty and him being kind to two elderly women only makes him…human. Do not be so entranced because he simply lent his carriage to them. He probably owns ten carriages.
Elizabeth sat up straight, wiping away whatever awestruck expression must have been on her face. She was annoyed to see that this action only made Mr. Darcy’s smile grow wider.
“My home—Pemberley—is far from town, and if you don’t pay attention to the weather, you are a fool,” he said.
“You are no fool, we can see that!” Mrs. Long said, her eyelashes fluttering until her cap fell onto them.
“And you aren’t all high and mighty, like they say you are!” Mrs. Cooper added, causing Mrs. Long to elbow her again.
“You are both kind, but I am a fool. Or have been in the recent past.” Mr. Darcy said this while staring straight at Elizabeth, and she could not help but think he was apologizing directly to her. Elizabeth realized that if she had met this man tonight, and only tonight, she would be as smitten as Mrs. Long and Mrs. Cooper.
Elizabeth stared at Mr. Darcy in wonder. He’d charmed her elderly neighbors, and somehow helped these poorer, less fortunate women—while making them feel like queens who were assisting him.
After they eagerly agreed, Mr. Darcy stood and bowed and said he would make the arrangements. But before he left their group, he turned to Elizabeth.
“Is there anything I could do, to help with your injury?” he asked.
“My injury?” Elizabeth said, her voice sharper than she’d intended. But she felt adrift at sea: she did know how to act around this kind and charming Mr. Darcy. It was much easier—and more familiar—to aim to hate him.
But despite her tone, Mr. Darcy flashed that slow, secret smile once more. The one that said he was vastly amused, but would not share why. “Your ankle,” he reminded her. “You hurt it while dancing?”
“Ah, yes,” Elizabeth said. Blast, how did I forget? It was his eyes. And his smile. And his stupid, horrible, lovely niceness.
“I do believe it has healed, thanks to this brief rest.”
“Excellent. Then I will leave go to order the carriage. Thank you again, Mrs. Long, Mrs. Cooper. You have saved me tonight.”
He looked at Elizabeth once more, a dark, searching glance that held no trace of a smile. And this time, Elizabeth felt it—felt that he wanted something. Something from her that, although she could not name, answered him from deep down, in her very core.
Mr. Darcy opened his mouth as if on the verge to speak, but then drew back and said nothing. He bowed curtly and moved swiftly away from them.
Elizabeth breathed again, only once Mr. Darcy had turned to make his way across the room. He had said it was close to ten o’clock? Thank goodness, as surely her parents would be ready to leave soon, and she could flee—this stifling room, her sisters shouting while they danced, her unctuous cousin—but most especially, Mr. Darcy.
Darcy
Mrs. Cooper and Mrs. Long, Darcy thought to himself, would be horrified: the twelve-hour candles were guttering, and soon the sun would rise in the east.
“The Bennets would be the last to leave,” Caroline Bingley drawled, coming to stand next to him. She wavered slightly, and he wondered if Bingley’s sister was exhausted, or had drunk too much tonight, or both.
Lord knows he felt like he had drunk all night from the finest wines, when in fact, he hadn’t touched even one brandy. He couldn’t have—he did not dare lose control—not with her nearby.
Elizabeth. Elizabeth Bennet.
He had watched the young woman all night, and now fully felt his danger: he was attracted to her, beyond reason. Thank God—thank God—he had been interrupted by Mrs. Long and Mrs. Cooper, before he had said something foolish.
As in, his true feelings.
Had he really been about to tell her she was beautiful? The most beautiful woman he had ever met? First of all, that would have had to have been a lie. He had no earthly idea why he would have spouted such nonsense. Darcy paused, his mind racing over all the women he had met in London and Edinburgh and other cities. Surely, with so many of the Ton thrusting their eligible young daughters in his path, he would have met someone more beautiful. It was only logical.
But his memory failed him. All the young ladies’ faces and dresses and conversations blurred into one another, and the only image that remained was a pair of fine, flashing brown eyes. A sardonic little smile. A taunting tongue that challenged him in the most dulcet tones…
He had to leave Bingley’s estate.
The longer he remained in Elizabeth Bennet’s presence, the deeper he fell under her spell. He had no use for fairy tales or love stories; he loathed that Georgiana was addicted to gothic novels. But he could not deny the strange, swelling feeling in his chest, whenever he thought of the sweet, smart, irreverent Elizabeth.
There, in that moment, he resolved to leave Hertfordshire immediately on the morrow. He’d also lied to the women from Meryton: his horses hadn’t needed to run, and they could handle a flurry or two. He had to do anything to get away from Elizabeth Bennet. If he remained here, he didn’t know what other inanities he might be tempted to tell her. And he could not trifle with her. Elizabeth Bennet was the daughter of a gentleman. She was not to be toyed with, yet she was completely unsuitable for marriage.
At least, marriage to a Darcy.
His heart rebelled against this thought, and the idea of leaving so soon. Why couldn’t he be more like Bingley, for once, and simply enjoy the lady’s company for a fortnight? But he did not flirt. Darcy knew himself well enough to know that compliments did not flow easily from his lips—as was evidenced by his dreadful stuttering behavior tonight.
Still, her response had been…remarkable. Most women, if a man of his stature had shown any interest in them whatsoever, would have done everything in their power to secure his affections.
She had looked both astounded and terrified, and had obviously wanted to flee his presence.
Darcy sighed and ran his hand over his face. He could feel his beard growing in, and he longed for bed. He would leave tomorrow. He would never flirt again, especially with women who were unsuitable to be his wife—and good God, he did not even plan on getting married for at least two more years! Why was he even thinking of marriage? Ever since his parents
had died—too young—and he had taken on the duties of caring for, growing, and expanding the Darcy empire.
After so much upheaval, Darcy had focused on making his life, and Georgiana’s—and every person who depended on them—solid. But he, himself, had slowly turned…solid and unyielding.
His childhood had ended so quickly, and then he had worked and worked and worked. Of course, he would never call it that. He was a gentleman, after all. And did not all gentleman aspire to leisure? To enjoy their wealth and all that came with it?
Well, he never had. The year his father died, all the crops that Pemberley’s tenant farmers raised had failed. Blight, everywhere. A fire had killed another tenant family. His father had just invested in new technologies and the company attempted to steal the money, thinking that the new, fresh-faced heir would be no wiser.
He’d stopped them. And taken over their company. And spent the next—God, had it really been eleven years since his father had passed?—eleven years being everything he thought he had to be.
And yet, he had failed, had he not?
Yes, he’d made the Darcy empire grow and flourish, just like their lands and estates. But what of the people? First there was Wickham, who’d always had a streak of the devil in his soul. Darcy hadn’t been able to tame him or help him. Or stop him from trying to ruin his dear sister. Just last year, Wickham had tried to elope with Georgiana, at the tender age of fifteen.
Darcy groaned. He did not want to think of such things, not tonight. His failures were great. But now, as the last of Bingley’s guests gathered in the almost-empty ballroom, Darcy could not help but run his past, over and over in his mind.
And watch Elizabeth.
She could be your future.
He clenched his fist at the silly, hopeful voice inside his head. No, no she could not. It was clear—it was clear as the impending day, and right in front of him.
“Look at these people,” Caroline sighed.
“I am,” he clipped out.
His voice was more curt than he’d intended, and he felt Caroline stiffen for a moment. But then she studied his face—he imagined he looked exhausted and bored and judgmental, or at least, that’s what Bingley would tell him he looked like. Caroline seemed to find comfort in his angry glower, however. He could see that she imagined they shared the same object of loathing: the Bennets.
He watched the Bennets from across the room. Bingley stood surrounded by the lot of them, Mrs. Bennet on his right, talking and talking. Mr. Bennet beside his short, squat wife, quietly ignoring the chaos. The two younger Bennet girls, giggling shrilly. The middle one quiet but sullen. Bingley seemed to see none of them; he stared only at Jane, the oldest daughter. And she stood, politely, seemingly unaffected by it all.
Mrs. Bennet again thanked Bingley for having them, so loudly that it carried across the room.
“How does she breathe? She does not cease speaking.” Caroline yawned widely and leaned back against the wall, something she normally would never do. At least, not in front of him. Normally Caroline held herself to the strictest society standards, trying to hide her family’s background in trade by playing the perfect part of the perfect young lady.
All the Bingleys were trying so very hard to better themselves. The Bingleys had wealth now, more than they knew what to do with, which is why Bingley had begged Darcy to come here to Hertfordshire, in the first place. Charles’ father, too, had died too young, and never realized his dream of buying an estate. A family seat. A place of permanence, that would shelter generations of Bingleys to come. Bingley and Darcy had met at school years ago, and reunited three years ago when the elder Mr. Bingley had passed. Bingley had begged Darcy to help guide him, but now—Darcy was torn.
He watched as Charles stared lovingly at Jane Bennet. Only the two of them were quiet. The rest of the family were astounding—astoundingly loud. As they had been for the entire evening. Mrs. Bennet had “whispered” to one and all that her daughter Jane and Bingley were to be engaged at any moment; Darcy was sure even the cooks downstairs had heard the supposed “news.” The two younger girls had run amok on the dance floor, flirting with the militia and any man who would pay them any heed. The middle girl was the only quiet Bennet—until she’d sat at the pianoforte and unleashed a caterwauling Darcy wished he could erase from his memory. And even Mr. Bennet—a gentleman, who had retired to play whist and such, as far as Darcy knew—had allowed his family to display their exuberance and absurdity.
I would have reined them in, Darcy thought. I would never have let them stray this far from propriety, were it my family.
The path of his thoughts startled him, enough that he shifted and frowned and caused Caroline to ask lazily, “Whatever is wrong? Excepting, of course, that is it three in the morning and they are still here. I am going to follow Louisa’s example and smartly find my bedchamber.” She hesitated, wavering. Her red hair was a bit loose, and her crimson gown slightly wrinkled. She was a beautiful woman, not yet four-and-twenty. Darcy knew she wanted a good marriage. Beyond good, actually. She craved wealth and power.
She looked at him and smiled, a small, slightly vulnerable smile. “Walk up with me? I could use an arm to lean on.” She gestured helplessly at her feet, where one shredded dancing shoe appeared just slightly beneath her gown.
How different Elizabeth was from her—from everyone. Most women did throw themselves in his path. Darcy didn’t think himself incredibly handsome. He knew he was too taciturn, and truth be told, too quiet in public to make friends easily. But he had ten thousand a year, didn’t he? He laughed to himself. Even those old women from Meryton knew his blasted worth.
And because of that, women like Caroline wanted him. They’d use any excuse to spend more time with him. But not Elizabeth Bennet. She’d lied about her ankle, just to avoid dancing with him. She’d ignored his bumbling attempt at honesty, and an apology, and a compliment.
Why did it make him want her even more?
“I’ve promised to wait and have a drink with your brother,” Darcy said. Lord, there he was, lying again. But for the higher good. He couldn’t give Caroline any hope. She was pretty and smart, but he was not attracted to her.
And even if he was, he could imagine his Aunt Catherine’s reaction to such a match: Her father? Was in trade!?
Not that Darcy cared what his aunt thought, but Caroline wasn’t for him. Not only because he didn’t want her, because a Darcy had to marry the right person. And that wasn’t Caroline.
And it certainly wasn’t Elizabeth Bennet.
“Ah, well, tell him goodnight for me.” Caroline smiled tightly, that eager, confident mask she wore slipping back so easily onto her pretty but strained face. “And good night to you, as well, Darcy.”
She turned to walk away, but he did not watch her go, even as he briefly registered that she looked back—turning to see if he would.
Instead, he scanned the room for Elizabeth. Where had she gone? Then he saw her, hurrying in from the entrance foyer. She looked beautiful, even after hours of being packed into a crowded, overheated, shrill ballroom. She was carrying a heavy coat, but she still wore those dainty satin slippers…
A footman hustled across the room, in Elizabeth’s wake. Darcy could not stop the smile that spread across his features. She loved to walk, and she did so at such a speed that the young man could barely keep up.
Darcy had to leave this place. This instant. This strange new habit—this smiling—had to stop. This feeling in his chest, it had to stop. And now that he was alone, he could admit to himself if no one else, the feeling all over his body…
It all had to stop.
He could not keep his eyes from following her fine figure as she sped across the room. She was petite, but as her gown flowed around her form, he could see her perfect, slight curves. He could imagine touching her, embracing her, feeling her limbs pressed against his…
God, his mouth was watering. It had been ages since he’d been with a woman. Since he felt like this�
�had he ever felt like this, before?
He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He would leave—tonight if he could.
Surely the Meryton ladies didn’t truly know any special secrets about the weather. All old people feared storms and rain and thunder and disaster. His horses could handle the ride to London, for the sooner he removed himself from Elizabeth Bennet’s presence, the better it would be.
And if he stayed here, he knew Bingley would only want to spend as much time as possible with Jane Bennet. Which reminded Darcy that he should talk to Bingley. He’d watched Jane Bennet this evening—not as much as he’d unwillingly been entranced by her sister—but he’d carefully observed the elder girl. While she danced merrily with Bingley, she did much the same with any of her partners. While she laughed at his jokes and smiled as he spoke, she did not give him any particular regard. The girl seemed as apt to smile at a potted plant as at any man here.
I should take Bingley to London with me, Darcy thought. I can save us both from a fate worse than death: an imprudent match.
He glanced outside, but it was still too dark to see what weather the day would bring. It was only then that Darcy realized Bingley was waving at him, from across the ballroom.
“Darcy! Darcy! Come here, good fellow!” Bingley called.
Why were the Bennets not leaving? Darcy slowly walked toward the group, wondering if there was a problem with their carriage and they needed to borrow his. But Bingley would jump at the chance to offer Jane Bennet anything she might require…
Darcy kept his gaze on Bingley, then on Mr. Bennet, who nodded sagely at him as he joined the small circle.
“You will never guess! It’s absolutely dreadful!” Bingley said, smiling widely. “There’s a terrible snowstorm outside, and the Bennets are stranded!”
Elizabeth
“Look at all that snow,” Jane sighed. “Everything’s transformed. It’s like a fairy world outside.”
Snowbound with Darcy Page 3