It was, he realized, very similar to what he felt inside. Confused, frustrated, and elated. But he felt himself giving in to his desires. She was here. There was no escaping her—the storm trapped them bodily together, and he could no longer escape his impulses. He wanted to know this woman. He wanted to see why he…why he liked her so much.
And he wanted her to like him. Why did she not like him?
Mr. Collins stared, flustered, as Darcy guided Miss Elizabeth out the door. Caroline followed close behind, but not so close that Elizabeth could not quietly reprimand him. “Sir, we made no such agreement. Why did you declare it so?”
Darcy resisted leaning toward her, though he could imagine what it would be like to have a relationship with Miss Bennet. How lovely, if she were his…friend. He would not have to be so formal and stiff. He could offer her his arm, and bend down to whisper back in her sweet, shell-shaped ear.
“I was thinking of your ankle.”
“My what!” Her cheeks colored and she glared at him.
“Your ankle—how dancing with Mr. Collins injured you last night. I was afraid Mr. Collins might become dangerous, should he have missiles at his disposal.”
She took a deep breath and lifted her pert little nose in the air. “Nine pins does not exactly involve missiles, Mr. Darcy. I imagine even Mr. Collins could manage to throw a ball and not injure anyone.”
“Are you certain of that?”
She glanced up at him, and he watched in fascination as she bit her bottom lip so as…not to smile? He could not help the burst of pride that filled his chest; he was making her laugh! Even if she was too stubborn to do so outright.
When was the last time he had tried to amuse anyone? He faltered for a moment. The last time he’d worked hard to make someone smile—had it really been when his sister was young? And what did that say about his life now?
“Are you making a joke, Mr. Darcy?”
“Me? Never,” he said.
Now she laughed out loud. “You are different here. Different than I expected. I could almost imagine we could be friends, but for—” She bit her lip again, but this time she looked concerned.
Darcy wished that he didn’t sense Caroline, desperately racing toward them from behind. But for what? He did not get the chance to ask, for Caroline had reached them and now he was trapped between the two women.
On his left, Elizabeth stared straight ahead and engaged with him no more. Caroline, on his right, made such a great show of breathlessness that he was obliged to offer her his arm so that she might walk in a straight line.
As the group approached the open ballroom doors, they could hear shrieks of laughter, Mrs. Bennet exclaiming, and Bingley shouting about which pins were worth how many points.
“Miss Elizabeth, I do hope you are worthy of your partner,” Caroline said as they entered the room. “He is quite the sportsman.”
“I cannot claim to excel at nine pins,” Elizabeth said. “But I shall aim to compete as well as I can.”
Both women had stopped and were staring at each other. The fact that Caroline was taller did not seem to cow Elizabeth, and Darcy could not help but admire how she tilted up her chin and stood straighter. He had the feeling Elizabeth Bennet could take on anything—Caroline, a pack of wild dogs, a French army—and still look so determined and beautiful and strong, all at once.
Caroline sniffed. “There’s Louisa. I know she shall be my partner. We should wager on something, don’t you think?”
“Wager on who will be required to sit next to Mr. Collins at dinner,” Elizabeth said. “should he discover our gambling.”
“Do you fear him so?” Caroline raised an eyebrow.
“I do not fear him at all. But he has been our houseguest for the past fortnight; let me assure you that you do not wish to be his dinner partner.”
Caroline sniffed and turned toward him, pasting a bright smile across her face. “Mr. Darcy, you should be the prize! Whomever wins is allowed to sit next to Mr. Darcy. I should know, he is an excellent conversationalist.”
Darcy shifted uncomfortably. “I would never describe myself as such.” And Caroline knows that.
“You are too humble,” Caroline said, smiling triumphantly at Elizabeth before she flounced through the room to her sister’s side.
Elizabeth glanced up at him, her eyes dancing.
“You are amused?” he said, conscious of how tall her was next to her petite form. It made him want to protect her, while the challenge in her eyes made him want to spar with her. Verbally, at the very least.
“Truthfully? ‘Humble’ would have been one of the last words I would have used to describe you, Mr. Darcy.”
He stepped back on his heels. What did she mean by this? He paused, that familiar tension rising in him. The stiffness and formality that descended on him, when in a room full of people he did not know.
And now, when standing in front of confounding woman whom he wanted to flee from and kiss, all at once.
Darcy watched the chaos in front of them. Bingley stood in the center of the room, holding a pin above his head and shouting about which pins count for three, four or five. Jane stood nearby, repeating what he said in earnest. Caroline stood near a wall with her sister, both practicing their tossing motions and arguing over form. Mrs. Bennet was arguing with Mary over where to stand for the optimal shot. And Kitty and Lydia were standing on the opposite side of the ballroom, dancing around the nine pins and knocking them over, much to Bingley’s gentle consternation.
He cleared his throat and finally said, “You give your opinion quite decidedly, Miss Elizabeth.”
“And does that offend you, Sir?” She stopped and turned to stare at him, a challenging look in her pretty, bright eyes. Darcy realized that despite his nerves, he was smiling. How long had it been since he had matched wits with anyone, much less a beautiful young woman?
“Do I look offended?” he said, allowing his smile to widen.
She raised her eyebrows. “Do you answer every question with a question?”
He laughed. “No. And you do not offend me. I appreciate a person who knows himself—or herself—well enough to express their opinions.”
“And not be cowed by you, in all your stately glory?”
He stopped and stared at her, realizing they were slowly making their way in a circle around the large, open ballroom. It had been cleared of any evidence of the night before.
“I am truly asking,” he said. “Do I appear so very—stately? Or do you wish to offend me, Miss Elizabeth?”
“I would not wish to offend anyone. I am merely trying to make out your character, Mr. Darcy.”
“Is my character so very mysterious, then?” he said.
“When you respond to my questions with more questions, I believe you are attempting to be mysterious.”
He paused, feeling daring, and thinking of her sitting with him last night. “Perhaps I am trying to work out your character, Miss Elizabeth.”
She turned, regarding him archly. “Until today, I would have said we have 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 éclat of a proverb.”
“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure.” Darcy clenched his fist as they made another turn around the room. He did not know her mind, or how she had gone from laughing to…attacking him. “How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait, undoubtedly.”
She shrugged. “I must not decide on my own performance.”
He made no answer, and they were again silent as they walked down the length of the ballroom. The only sounds were the discussion of the players and the occasional smack of the ball on the wood pins.
As they turned again at the end of the room, she remarked, “It is strange to think, that just last night this room was full of dancers and frie
nds and merriment. How quickly it has all been erased.”
“Does this make you melancholy?”
“It makes me feel for the maids and footmen who had to work so hard to perform this magic. And yes, I suppose it makes me melancholy, a bit. When there is a ball, a girl has such grand expectations. You cannot help it, no matter how rational you might attempt to be. There are days of anticipation, and once it is all over, you must adjust to your everyday life again.”
Darcy watched her face closely. She both spoke the truth, and yet concealed some deeper emotions beneath the smooth, perfect surface of her skin. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he cared to know what another person was thinking. And that bothered him exceedingly: how unfeeling had he become toward others? Had he truly never sought out another person’s good opinion? Had everyone around him given him their good opinion so easily, based on his being…who he was?
Having what he did?
Indeed, the only person who had ever caused havoc in his life was George Wickham, and whether that was due to a deficiency of character, or jealousy, or both, he did not know. He had tried to erase the man from his—and Georgiana’s—lives.
And yet, the image of Wickham walking with the Bennet ladies filled his mind, and his heart, with quiet, desperate rage.
“And did all your anticipated hopes come true last night?” he asked. They turned another corner, and her skirts brushed against his legs, for one brief moment.
“In truth? No.”
“Ah yes, dancing with Mr. Collins.” He tried to make a joke, but his mind was filled with worry about Wickham.
Nor did she smile. Elizabeth kept her face averted, studying her sisters in the center of the room. “I had hoped to see a new friend at the ball last night. When you met my sisters and I in Meryton the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”
Darcy stopped walking, a deep, old anger resurfacing in his heart. She brought up Wickham? Here? Now?
She had wished to dance with him last night?
Darcy forced his voice to remain low and even, but it took an effort to respond to her and not reveal everything: every wicked deed Wickham had done, and every particle of anger that still swirled through Darcy’s soul.
“I presume you speak of Mr. Wickham?”
“I do.”
“He is blessed with such happy manners, as may ensure his making friends—whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”
Now it was her turn to stop, and Elizabeth turned and stared up at him. Ah, there it was. The lift of the chin, the tilt of the nose. Her flashing brown eyes. Her full pink lips, angry and speaking quickly.
Why did his chest ache and heave so? Why did he care what she thought—why did her anger make him want to draw closer, rather than step away and erase her from his life altogether?
“He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,”' she replied with emphasis, “And in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”
Darcy took a step closer to her quivering form. “You defend him, then?” He felt himself shaking with rage, but he could not be mad at Elizabeth—it was Wickham. Trying to twist another woman’s opinion of him. And who knows what else he might attempt to do…
He could not leave this be. What if Wickham seduced Elizabeth, the same way he had Georgiana? Darcy did not think Elizabeth that naïve about love, but here she was, defending that man. What lies had he told her? Darcy wanted to tell her everything, tell her the truth—now—but how to do that and protect his sister at the same time?
“I wonder what Mr. Wickham has told you of his past?” Darcy stared at her, a slow feeling of dread overtaking him. “Or perhaps I should ask what Mr. Wickham has told you, regarding my own past.”
Elizabeth kept her face still, but she clasped her hands together. She was nervous, he realized. Finally she said, “I have heard such varying accounts as puzzle me exceedingly.”
“I would wish to enlighten you,” he said, and he was going to say more but then there were footsteps and suddenly all her sisters surrounded them.
“It is your turn, Lizzy! Kitty and I have bested everyone so far, so now you must play us!”
Elizabeth gave him one final, curious look, then turned and clapped her hands as her sisters bombarded her with the story of their last few points.
Darcy followed the chattering women to the center of the room. He was astounded. She defended Wickham. Did she care for that scoundrel? He should walk away now. He should forget this woman, this town, forget he ever came here.
But would that leave her vulnerable to Wickham’s charms and lies? He should speak to Elizabeth, at least once more, to ensure that she was…safe.
Or to ruin Wickham in her eyes, and defend yourself, a part of him added.
Was it possible? Could he change the anger in her eyes to—friendship?
Or something more?
“Mr. Darcy, if you wish to choose another partner, I relinquish any claims to you,” Elizabeth said from a few paces in front of him. She turned back to stare at him, her cheeks still two pink spots on her face. She was upset by their conversation, he realized. He had the sudden urge to cup her face, to calm her. He could not be mad at her.
She had been fed lies, and he would fix this. He would right it, and all would be right with the world again.
And—he considered the young woman before him—once he did so, perhaps she would look at him with admiration. Or respect.
Or more…
“Mr. Darcy?” she said again.
He realized everyone was staring at him.
“In truth, I have awful aim,” Elizabeth said. “Would you prefer another partner?”
“No,” he said curtly. He heard her soft intake of breath, but he offered her his arm nonetheless, then stared down into those deep, confusing, burning brown eyes. It was madness, to offer her his arm. To want her. To stay here, in her intoxicating presence.
But perhaps he was tired of always being logical, of always doing the right and proper thing. When was the last time he felt a thrill moving up his spine, simply from a woman’s hand on his jacket? When was the last time he imagined touching her back?
He cleared his throat and looked down at Elizabeth Bennet and said, “I have excellent aim. And when I find my target, I never miss.”
Elizabeth
Their first day at Netherfield had been interminable. And though Elizabeth had tried to find joy in Jane’s obvious happiness, every other aspect of the day had been as slow and continuous as the steady snowfall outside.
She could not decide who in her family was determined to embarrass them all more effectively. Kitty and Lydia were all glee and mischief; they delighted in asking footmen for anything and everything, simply because there were footmen at their disposal.
Elizabeth had tried to put an end to this behavior, but was hushed by her own mother, who said the girls were just having a bit of fun. And then, too loudly, Mrs. Bennet had exclaimed, “After all, perhaps we too will have footmen aplenty in our very near futures!” And she had giggled worse than her daughters, while looking over at Jane and Mr. Bingley, seated across the room.
For her part, Jane had borne it all admirably. She remained pleasant and kind, engaging Caroline and Louisa in pleasant conversational topics that centered entirely around them and their lives. She smiled through their mother’s countless soliloquies.
Jane even kept a perfectly serene face when Mary had, in fact, discovered the pianoforte. For once, Elizabeth was thankful Caroline Bingley was nearby. As hostess, Caroline suffered through only one of Mary’s songs before declaring it time to dress for dinner.
“Oh,” Mrs. Bennet had cried. “But we have no new gowns to wear. If only I had known a freak blizzard was to befall us!”
“Yes,” Caroline had said archly. “If only we had all known, we could have cancelled the ball.”
But Mr. Bingley had cried, “Not I! Why, if I had known in advance, I should have pl
anned the ball just as it was, for I am greatly enjoying being snowbound with new friends.”
And then he had turned to Jane, his heart simply shining from his eyes, and they both had sighed at each other quite beautifully and dramatically.
Elizabeth had turned from staring at her sister and her sister’s obvious suitor to find Mr. Darcy glowering in the corner. For that had been the worst of it. Elizabeth realized that she was, to an extent, accustomed to her relatives exposing themselves in and around Meryton. But when they were surrounded by the same people they had all known for simply ever—well, it was what it was.
Everyone knew Sir William Lucas would tell the same tales about going to Court, during every other dinner. And everyone knew Mary would frown at cards and refuse to play. And everyone expected Kitty and Lydia to have high spirits. And everyone knew her mother…well, they all knew what to expect with Mrs. Bennet.
But Mr. Darcy was not everyone. And for the first time, Elizabeth was dismayed—more than dismayed—by her family.
When Kitty and Lydia insisted on dancing this afternoon, Mr. Darcy had sat in the corner, reading and judging them with his eyes.
When Mary had played the pianoforte, Mr. Darcy had suffered through three verses before excusing himself and leaving the room for a moment.
Even during nine pins, he had been stiff and formal and—and maddening! He had asked her about Wickham and then seemed to grow angry and withdrawn, and Elizabeth did not know how to change the mood or even address the topic again.
And she couldn’t even go for one of her typical walks.
Outside the snow was so thick you could not see the ornamental hedges, where the verandah ended and the wilderness walks began. Though the view from the library was comforting, and the room warm. She had escaped here while everyone “dressed” for dinner, even though all of the Bennets had only one set of clothing and a few borrowed scarves.
Elizabeth had discovered her father here, as well. They’d shared a quiet time, perusing the wonderful books of Netherfield before Mrs. Bennet had appeared and called for her husband to come be social “with the menfolk” before dinner.
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