“Lizzy, don’t you want to do, well, something with yourself?” Mrs. Bennet had scolded. “Mr. Collins will likely sit near you, and you must pay him more attention.”
“I cannot imagine why,” Elizabeth had said. Her mother had immediately become incensed, but her father had gently drawn her away, leaving Lizzy to have a few moments of peace.
But her mind was distracted, and she could read more than a few pages before she would find herself staring blindly at the fire. Elizabeth paced the room, then walked to the window and pressed her palm against the cold glass of the window.
Mr. Darcy.
What was he doing now? And why did she care?
Her palm began to burn, but she pressed it against the glass a moment longer, then pulled it back and rubbed her warm hand over her cold flesh.
“My apologies, Madam.”
A low, masculine voice startled her. Elizabeth closed her eyes. No, no, it could not be him.
But of course it was.
“Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth turned around and there he was, standing in the open doorway. He had dressed for dinner, his dark blue jacket highlighting his eyes. She could not help but admire his long legs and fine figure, though she forced herself to look him in the eyes.
That was worse, though, for what she found there was…heat.
Fire.
Some fierce emotion she could not name but recognized nonetheless.
Mr. Darcy took a step backward. “I did not mean to disturb you, Miss Elizabeth. I only thought to read before dinner.”
She smiled. “Read, or hide from the rest of us?”
She watched his lips, his eyes, as he hesitantly smiled back. They stared at each other for a long moment before she blinked. He did the same, as if waking from a spell.
“Why would I—ah, but I should just answer your question.” He smiled somewhat shyly.
“It would be appreciated, but I am growing accustomed to your questions.”
He laughed then, and looked so boyish and sweet that Elizabeth felt her heart ache.
“May I—may I join you?” He glanced back at the open doors, and then at her face, as if ensuring her of his propriety.
Why did she feel slightly…disappointed?
“Of course. Or, if you wish to have privacy, I will leave—”
“No! I mean, please stay. If you desire to. I would not scare you away,” he said.
Elizabeth sat in one of the two matching chairs, set close to the fire. “You do not scare me, Mr. Darcy.”
He sat across from her. “I am glad. Being around you has taught me that—that many do fear me. But not you. Never…you.”
The fire highlighted his high cheekbones and he cocked his head, studying her. Elizabeth did not know quite what to say. His words, his way of seeing her, seemed so very personal. But they also brought to mind Mr. Wickham, which brought to mind the heated conversation from this afternoon.
Perhaps Mr. Darcy was remembering this as well, for he grew silent and stared at the fire. Elizabeth pretended to do so, but surreptitiously studied him from the corner of her eye. His clothing was simple but expensive. His dark hair was curled slightly and damp, and Elizabeth wondered if his valet had provided him with hot water and a cloth, as the maids had done for Jane and herself.
He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, finally looking at her.
Finally. Oh, but he was handsome when he was serious. Elizabeth wished she didn’t notice his perfection.
It was annoying. And distracting.
She forced herself to remember Mr. Darcy’s horrified face, when he discovered he would be trapped at Netherfield with her and her family. Or his stern, disproving glare as her sisters had cavorted loudly all afternoon. She decided to ask him—or goad him, perhaps. She did not know what made her press him, but she needed—she needed to do something. She could not just sit here, while they stared at one another silently.
Mr. Wickham had been so easy to get to know. Why was Mr. Darcy so difficult? And why did she want to work even harder, then, to discover his true nature?
“So, are you hiding from anyone in particular, then? You must be honest with me. It is a full moon and a snowy night. It feels almost magical—the sky so black and blue, and the world so white and silent. I do believe it would be bad luck to tell a lie, tonight.”
He half-laughed and stared at her as if she were a changeling, just discovered in his home. He shook his head slightly, as if to say, Who are you?
“Though you must know, I never lie. I abhor lies, so you should always tell me the truth.” She had no idea what she was saying, but she felt half-drunk on the way he looked at her, on the way he tried to puzzle her out. Wickham had never looked at her like this.
No man had.
Mr. Darcy spoke, finally. “You value honesty above all else, then, Miss Elizabeth?”
“You have answered my query with another question, Sir. But I will answer you outright: I value honesty well enough. I am not old or wise enough to know if is what I prize above all else.”
He processed this, the fire crackling and his eyes heavy-lidded as he stared at her. Elizabeth felt that strange, lovely claustrophobic feeling again: as if the world were pinholing down to just this room, just him and her. As if time were stopping, as if even the flames in the grate moved slower and with a quieter, muted heat.
Mr. Darcy blinked and then surprised her by roughly running his hand down his face. A tell, she thought. If she were to play a game of cards and he made that motion, she would double her bet.
“Miss Elizabeth, I have wanted to discuss a matter of great importance with you for some time. May I have your permission to speak freely?” As Mr. Darcy spoke, he glanced back at the open doors, as if ensuring they were alone.
Elizabeth felt herself freeze in place. Why would he want to speak with her alone? It could not—it could not be something as insane as—
He was not making an offer, was he?!
“But it is not my story to tell, and so I have hesitated. I would ask for your discretion,” he said quietly. “It concerns another, and I would not betray her trust or privacy for all the world.”
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, exhaling. She hadn’t even known she was holding her breath. What a fool she was! First, to pin so many hopes on Wickham. And now, like an idiot, to think that—that Mr. Darcy, of all people—had any interest in her!
She took a deep breath and placed her hands over her stomach.
I can never tell anyone about this moment. What a silly, silly girl I am. And worse: was I…excited? Did I hold some form of hope and affection for this man?
“Miss Elizabeth, are you well?”
“I am fine,” she said, her voice thick. “Rather, I would hope you know that I would never share your story—your friend’s story—with anyone, without express permission.”
Another woman. A woman he would not hurt, for all the world.
She ignored the painful feeling that arose at his words. It greatly resembled jealousy and lost hopes—hopes she hadn’t known she felt until just now.
He nodded and exhaled, as well. “Earlier today you said that you were attempting to make out my character. I—I believe you have been told misinformation about myself, and my life. And my relationship with a certain gentleman.”
Mr. Darcy could barely look at her. His voice was low, deep and pitched so that she had to lean forward slightly to hear his words. Elizabeth watched as he clenched his jaw, a tic pulsing ever so slightly high on his cheek.
She surprised herself by wanting, suddenly, to run her hands along it. To sooth him.
“It is none of my business. Nor my concern,” she answered quietly.
He spoke quickly and urgently. “I have struggled mightily with what to tell the world about George Wickham. I fear you will not believe me, but I must warn you away from that man.”
“Mr. Darcy, why do you say I would not believe you?”
Mr. Darcy’s blue eyes burned into hers. “I am aware
that Wickham is a favorite of you and your sisters. And that I am not…a friend.”
Elizabeth was at a loss. There was so much she wanted to ask. But how could she admit that Wickham had been a favorite of hers…and yet, that she had barely remembered his very existence, since being in the presence of the confounding Mr. Darcy? That she had literally thought Mr. Darcy himself had intentions for her, not a minute ago?
“Mr. Wickham is a new friend. He is merry and likes to laugh, which makes him a well-liked acquaintance—liked by all my sisters. But he is no more than that.” She met his eyes. “And I would listen to what you have to say. Most eagerly, even if we are not…friends. Please, if you have information to share, I am most eager to hear it.”
Elizabeth made sure she kept her face calm, but her head was pounding and she could not stop wondering who this woman was. Someone who had been hurt by Wickham? Of course. If Mr. Wickham had injured a woman that Mr. Darcy loved, that would explain the animosity between the two men.
Someone Mr. Darcy loved…
“Am I distressing you?” he asked. “I would not do so, for all the world—”
“There you are!”
Both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy jumped as a voice shouted from the hall. And then her mother came bustling into the room, and stopped short with a shriek when she saw Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, sitting near the fire.
Darcy
He was not able to speak with her after that. But he could not keep his eyes off of her.
And a confounding discovery: Darcy felt that as long as he could see Elizabeth Bennet—watch her face, discover her shades of emotion—then he felt calm.
Or, somewhat in control.
But once he could not see her, he became agitated. Wary and pacing.
It was like a beast had been unleashed inside of him.
After Mrs. Bennet had discovered them in the library, the older woman had vacillated between outright hostility toward him and confusion at her daughter. She had hustled Elizabeth to dinner, barely acknowledging him and refusing to walk close by. But for the first time, once they were all seated at the table, Darcy saw that it was not just Mr. Collins who pursued Elizabeth Bennet.
It was her mother who was pushing them together.
“Darcy, did you hear? We might go skating on the ice tomorrow!”
Darcy blinked and focused on Bingley at the head of the table. “Skating?”
Caroline, on his right, cleared her voice and said huskily, “Yes, Mr. Greene the butler says there are plenty of skating shoes in storage. How remarkable, to glide on ice? Oh, but I am simply terrified thinking of it. Would you help me tomorrow?”
Darcy forced himself to take a deep breath before he answered her. He did not want to hurt her or be curt, but he in no way wanted to encourage Caroline in her foolish pursuit of him.
Especially in front of Elizabeth Bennet.
He could not control himself. He looked up and sought Elizabeth’s face. There were those deep, dark eyes staring at him. When had they begun to communicate without words? She stared at him as if encouraging him, as if saying, You can stand this. You can stand these fools.
No, he was the fool.
That was not what Elizabeth was saying to him. She probably simply wondered what in the blazes he had begun to tell her there, in the library. She was a curious, intelligent woman. She just wanted to know what…
He stopped thinking as she took a sip of wine, closing her eyes to luxuriate in the taste.
What would she taste like?
“Mr. Darcy?” Caroline spoke again, and he forced himself to attend to their conversation.
“Metal blades on shoes?” Mr. Hurst declared. “It sounds rather dangerous to me. We shan’t be involved, Mrs. Hurst.”
The rest of the table ignored him and discussed other activities they could plan for a second, snowy day.
Mr. Collins monopolized Miss Elizabeth’s conversation, but Darcy saw clearly now that she loathed him. Of course, he had known she felt little affection for the man—but now that he saw how very little, it was heartening.
After dinner, the men retired to smoke and drink, while the ladies went to set up whist in the yellow parlor. Darcy could scarcely pay attention to Bingley, who spoke only of Jane and asked her father a million questions, from her favorite color to her favorite dessert. Mr. Bennet bore it all with the patience of a saint, though Mr. Hurst was asleep on the sofa within five minutes. Darcy finally stood and walked over to the window, staring out over the frozen night which was just as Elizabeth had described.
“Happy plans, happy plans,” Mr. Collins said, sidling up to Darcy.
Darcy raised an eyebrow, trying to remember if he had ever seen this man at his aunt’s estate before. If he had, he had blocked it from his memory.
“Mr. Bingley and cousin Jane,” Mr. Collins explained. “It seems as if felicitations will soon be due to the happy couple.”
“I know not of what you speak,” Darcy said. He would not gossip.
“Ah, well, let me enlighten you!” the shorter man clapped his hands together gleefully. “I would not speak of it in mixed company, but it is a fact that the Bennets’ estate, Longbourn, is entailed to me. Due to a disagreement between my father and his brother, Mr. Bennet, I had never actually visited that lovely place. But now that I am of age, and now that my gracious patron—your illustrious Aunt Catherine de Bourgh—has explained to me how very fitting it is for a man of my stature to be married…”
Darcy stared down at him, and tried to separate his innate dislike of Mr. Collins from his vast, searing loathing at the idea of this man even touching Elizabeth Bennet.
Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “I—I knew that the Bennetts had five daughters. I thought what a kindness—what a generosity!—for me to choose a wife from among those humble young ladies. Of course, I had been set on the idea of the eldest.”
“Jane Bennett?” Darcy said, incredulously.
“Yes, but her mother informed me she already had an understanding with someone. I see now that it is Mr. Bingley.”
Darcy stared at Bingley from across the room, and then at Mr. Bennet. “An understanding,” he repeated.
“So naturally I looked for the next prettiest—er, eldest daughter.”
“Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy felt his vision cloud with a red mist of rage. He had no right to feel this way. But he did. He could not deny it.
“Yes. I’m sure you saw us dancing at the ball.” Mr. Collins leaned back and clasped his arms together. “Two dances, you know.”
“Excuse me,” Darcy found himself growling. He could not stand to be near that man one more minute.
He ignored Bingley’s questioning look and stalked into the hallway, then down the long, shadowy corridor. He could not imagine Elizabeth Bennet with that obsequious fool.
You cannot imagine her with Collins or Wickham, because you want her for yourself.
He stopped then, because at the end of the hall stood Elizabeth herself. She was walking swiftly toward him. Once she saw him, she skidded to a stop.
“Mr. Darcy!”
“Miss Elizabeth.”
“I was just fetching—”
“I was simply going—”
They both spoke at once, then abruptly stopped.
“My apologies. I was taking some air,” he said, feeling like a fool.
“I was getting my mother a shawl. She was chilled.”
They stared at each other, and Darcy knew that it wasn’t Collins or Wickham or Bingley or any other man who was the greatest idiot in England—it was him.
For he wanted to stay there, on the cold marble—under that ridiculous painting of the sheep in a meadow—and just stare at her.
“You never finished your story, Mr. Darcy. I admit to having been kept in a state of great suspense.”
Darcy glanced behind them. There was no one here, nothing but the moonlight coming in from the lone, recessed window.
Darcy could scarcely believe himself. He did not act
like this. He did not usher young ladies into a hidden alcove, where they could stand opposite him and be bathed by moonlight. But that is exactly what he did.
And she followed.
“Mr. Darcy?” whispered Elizabeth, for already in his mind he called her that. Elizabeth. Lizzy. My…Elizabeth.
He shook his head, feeling torn between the weight of this impropriety and the weight of his desire to speak with her. To be near her. “I’m sorry. We can discuss this tomorrow. I will let you return to the ladies.”
“Please, don’t. It’s torture.”
“Not knowing the end of my tale?”
“No, playing vingt-et-un with my mother.” She laughed then, startling him. The sound was like candlelight in the cold, dark night. “Of course your mysterious tale. But, I did not mean to jest. It sounds serious indeed.”
“It is.”
She turned to face the frozen vista outside. “And it involves a young woman? I hope she is well and there is a happy ending for her.”
“It involves my sister, Georgiana.”
Elizabeth turned and gasped. “Your sister!” She covered her mouth, and then her face. “I’m sorry. I meant…your sister.”
“Please, I ask that you keep this in the strictest confidence. No one—not even Bingley—knows what I am about to tell you.”
She dropped her hands and stared at him, her fine skin alabaster in the moonlight. He wanted to step closer to her, but instead he leaned back against the wall. By God, she was beautiful.
But he had to focus.
“I will tell no one. I swear it.”
“Thank you.” He cleared his throat, and then began to tell the story of Wickham and Georgiana.
Elizabeth
“My sister is sixteen—the same age, I believe—as your sister, Lydia?”
“Lydia is not yet sixteen, but she will be soon.” Elizabeth stared up at Mr. Darcy, his face like marble in the moonlight. He was like a living statue: so perfectly carved, so cold, so untouchable.
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