by Emma East
However, that satisfaction was short-lived for, upon arriving at the dress shop to attend Jane’s second appointment for fittings, they met an unexpected acquaintance.
“Oh! Pardon me!” Jane exclaimed when the door opened to a couple filling the doorway. Elizabeth, her attention caught by the shock in her voice, looked away from pondering the shop next door.
Ignoring her sister’s scared rabbit expression, Elizabeth peered around her. Then her extremities froze all at once. Faintly, she felt her aunt place her hand on Elizabeth’s elbow, a subtle support.
“Mr. Darcy,” Jane said, her voice as faint as Elizabeth’s heart was loud in her ears. She curtseyed abruptly—late, in fact—and then she moved aside so Elizabeth could fully take in the gentleman in the doorway and his tall, willowy companion.
“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said gravely, and Elizabeth thought someone had kicked her heart out of her chest at how his eyes seemed merely to glance over her. She curtseyed as was appropriate, but her movements were stiff and she couldn’t imagine how graceful she looked. Not very, she thought, from the amused gleam in the woman’s eye.
She tried not to notice how possessive her hand appeared on his arm.
“Mr. Darcy, this is our aunt,” Jane said, properly introducing the two while trying to avoid looking at Elizabeth. Once their aunt was introduced, Darcy introduced them to the beautiful woman at his side: Dorothea Honeyfield.
“A pleasure,” she said with a cultured, mannered voice that spoke of years of dedicated tutors. Elizabeth hated her instantly, but she couldn’t help but admire Darcy’s taste. Miss Honeyfield was not only cultured, but an adroit conversationalist. Before Elizabeth could quite comprehend the danger they were in, the three women had accepted an invitation to Darcy’s townhome for tea the next afternoon. Darcy made not a peep when Miss Honeyfield volunteered his house for the task. If he made any sign of disagreement with the scheme, she didn’t know. She couldn’t look at him.
“Mr. Darcy is having a casual get-together for his friends. Of course, the Bennets he’s spoken so highly of from his time in Hertfordshire should come. What a coincidence we ran into you three today,” she said with a musical laugh, her gaze sliding to Darcy.
Elizabeth, feeling the veiled knowledge in that comment, told Jane, “We should get inside for your appointment, Jane.”
“Yes, we really should, Jane,” Mrs. Gardiner said. Still holding onto Elizabeth’s elbow, she led them in saying goodbye to the couple and then chivvying Jane inside.
Elizabeth hesitated slightly upon the step, looking north to follow Darcy and Miss Honeyfield’s path down the street. Were they here for her wedding trunk? A jealous, piercing pain squeezed her chest.
“Oh, Lizzy,” Jane said when Elizabeth stepped inside. Her expression was one of deep sympathy, and beside her Mrs. Gardiner appeared just as sympathetic. The knife could not have slipped more deftly between her ribs.
She exhaled. “Let us see to your gowns, Jane dear. We do not wish to waste the attendant’s time.”
Jane bit her lip and Elizabeth looked desperately for the attendant and found her lingering with another attendant by the window. Anger shot through her and she stomped over and cleared her throat. “Pardon me, Miss Clarke. My sister is ready now.”
The two young women, staring after Darcy and Miss Honeyfield, turned pink, and both gave their apologies before Miss Clarke came to aid her sister with her gowns.
“Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner murmured in shock when Elizabeth returned with the chastised Miss Clarke. Her brown eyes examined Elizabeth in concern. “We were perfectly fine waiting a few minutes.”
Elizabeth avoided her outstretched hand. “They had plenty of time to be ready for us,” she said, and then she threw herself into complimenting her sister as much as possible, aiming to erase the worried furrow between Jane’s brow and to encourage the return of Jane’s lovely, soon-to-be-wedded glow. It wasn’t absent for long, and by the time they left the shop for Cheapside, Jane and Mrs. Gardiner both were enamored by the new gowns and the image of Jane wearing them around Netherfield hall.
That left Elizabeth to walk behind them, and as she did, she recalled the gleam in Miss Honeyfield’s beautiful blue eyes as she gazed at Darcy. Possessive, knowing, enchanted—as any woman would be after experiencing his artful lips and his fierce, single-minded lovemaking.
And though appearances can deceive, she would not be some poor gentleman’s daughter.
That evening as the house settled into silence after everyone retired to their rooms, Elizabeth’s slippers whispered on the stairs. She disappeared out the door and through the gate, trailing the ribbon of a kitten mask behind her as she went.
Chapter Six
Glassware tinkled and clinked as people toasted to each other. Servants in green livery drifted through the crowd with canapés and champagne for whoever wished. The smell of fresh-cut flowers from some greenhouse overwhelmed the senses, combined with the mingled scents of several hundred pounds worth of expensive perfumes.
Darcy watched from his position on the stairs. Out of the way, unobserved. He could be up here and pretend this was any party in any house and there was nothing amiss about it at all. He could pretend he wanted to be here, though that was a difficult task on its own. In three weeks, they had held these parties nine times. Darcy had attended all of them, though he pretended to be part of the woodwork instead of an honored guest.
Dorothea Honeyfield—a name as authentic as her British accent—called him childish and proud. Darcy called it prudent. If one had blackmail on the other, the victim did not compound it further by piling on the sins. The mass of bodies below, many of them women dressed in beautiful silks and fabrics, jeweled and dazzling, held no interest for him.
A flash of a blue gown reminded Darcy of that same color complementing Elizabeth’s dark hair that morning. Pretty was not an adequate enough adjective to describe her appearance.
He tore his gaze away. He had no right to be thinking of her in that manner. But his hands curled around the balcony railing, his knuckles turning white in stark contrast to the heavy, dark wood underneath. But he wanted to think of her, to see her into his home the next day as a valued guest… a permanent tenant. Not as some tool for Miss Honeyfield to hold over his head to keep him in line.
A kitten comes with many strings attached, Mr. Darcy, she had said when they walked away from the Bennets that morning. Remember that when you meet with Mr. Caldwell today.
Then, her mouth curling in delight at him, she had said, Perhaps your kitten will come play with you again soon. You never know what mischievous activities those rascally creatures will get up to.
That was when he snarled and tore his arm away from hers, unwilling to pretend any longer that they were something more than enemies. He would not allow her to drag Elizabeth into this. He would cancel that stupid invitation to tea, claim a head cold or something else that would allow him to escape the situation, and then he would destroy Miss Honeyfield and her nest of vipers with as much dedication as he brought to everything else.
That had started immediately. It was only tonight that he thought he would see the sprouting of his seeds.
His eyes scanned the crowd again, nearly desperate. He had so far managed to round up two gentlemen of his acquaintance to the functions. Not ones he liked very much—they were more Willoughby’s sort than true respectable gentlemen. However, that had allowed him some breathing room from Miss Honeyfield. As long as he pretended to play the game, to contribute to the cause, she would suspect him to be as toothless as a baby.
She would not expect the fangs.
But his plan did not count on Elizabeth, or for her to appear in the entranceway with a familiar mask hiding her face.
Darcy froze, his heart beating hard in his ears. Was it her? Had his eyes deceived him? But closer inspection confirmed it—the dark hair, the same blue dress she had worn that morning, the nervous gestures she made like smoothing down her skirts. It
was definitely her.
And if she had just been admitted, then Miss Honeyfield would—
As he looked for her, the door behind Elizabeth opened and Miss Honeyfield slipped out, moving to Elizabeth’s side like a shadow. She looked like a vulture in her black fabrics and hood, no matter how luxurious the materials. He couldn’t see their expressions from so far away, but he could see how Elizabeth drew away from Miss Honeyfield as she leaned close to whisper to her.
Darcy began to move. He would not, could not allow this. Miss Honeyfield could use him however she wished. He could fight back. But he would not allow her to sink her claws into Elizabeth, who knew nothing about defending herself from such schemes.
He went down the stairs two at a time, keeping her within his sights even as the crowd shifted to block her from his view. Miss Honeyfield caught his eye at one point when he was still across the room, and the twinkle in her eyes made his stomach clench like a fist.
But by the time he had crossed the room, Miss Honeyfield had escaped into the crowd. As had Elizabeth. He used his superior height to peer above the heads of the other guests. However, because of her smaller stature, Elizabeth could easily hide in the crowd.
Then he saw a hint of a blue gown, disappearing toward the ballroom. Champagne bubbles were thick in the air as he pushed through the other attendees, thick enough that when, combined with the perfume hanging heavy in the air, his nose burned. He followed the flow of the crowd toward the ballroom and then stood in the entryway, his gaze scanning the crowd for another hint of her.
Had he not been in this position once before, upon first meeting her? Seeing her across the room back then had caught his attention. Seeing her now, his mouth dried up.
He closed the gap between them with five quick, long strides, not caring who was in his path.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
She gasped and looked up at him, her wide eyes brimming with surprise and then vicious hurt. She tore her arm out of his grip. “I thank you not to handle me so roughly, sir.”
“Eli—Kitten, will you not even speak to me?”
She glared at him, her mouth a straight, thin line. No pleasure to spare from the sight of him. Then she nodded. “Fine. I came here to see you, anyway.”
Darcy blinked. This was the last place he would expect Elizabeth to show up looking for him. “You did?”
“We have unfinished business.”
“We do?” Her eyes flashed with irritation and Darcy didn’t blame her. But he was genuinely confused. He assumed his letter to her had wrapped everything up well. He frowned. “Did you receive the letter I left?”
“I did.”
Darcy shifted in front of a man who would have bumped into Elizabeth. They were getting jostled by the crowd. Looking around, he caught sight of the doors thrown open to the gardens. Few people would be in the gardens with the weather as cold as it was.
“Will you join me outside? Perhaps we can speak more privately there?”
She hesitated a moment and then nodded. With relief, he led her through the crowd, eager to escape the noise and the overwhelming perfumes.
The first touch of winter on his warm skin made him hiss, but he forged ahead though the open doors. Elizabeth followed behind him, her arms wrapped around her middle. If only he had a coat to drape over her shoulders.
The gardens were blessedly empty. In daylight, they were a complex maze of hedges and overgrown bushes. Tonight, they hid them from any prying eyes. Though someone could still sneak up on them, it would require some effort to find them.
Satisfied with their spot in front of a small, burbling fountain, further shielding their conversation from any eavesdroppers, he stopped and faced Elizabeth.
“What did you want to tell me?”
She appeared as she had several months before in the gardens of Netherfield. Nervous yet resolute. When she had told him how she wished to end their affair. When he hadn’t listened, proudly believing himself above her petty concerns.
How wrong he had been.
She tilted her chin up.
“I’ve decided to move past you.”
He released a breath, a man surprised by the fist coming from a stranger on the street.
Elizabeth continued, “And I do not intend to go to tea tomorrow at your home, so you need not fret about making some excuse to my family. It is better for all involved if we avoid one another entirely and pretend as if we never met at all. It is the outcome that should have happened, anyway.”
Darcy considered her. The words she spoke coincided with his plan—but it felt wrong, hearing them so plainly spoken. The thought of seeing Elizabeth upon the street as he had that day and not recognizing her, not remembering their wild, unadulterated lovemaking seemed a travesty to Darcy. Unfathomable. Wrong.
I’ve decided to move past you.
He swallowed against the fear that idea brought to him, the fear and pain like an arrow in the chest.
With her in front of him, he knew he couldn’t pretend. Not wouldn’t—couldn’t. His heart ached to have her so far away, both in proximity and in their hearts. And why had he run away? Because he might ruin her reputation? But if he made things right, if he corrected his course, her reputation would be safe. Not only that, but he could quench the pain of losing her. Those terrible nightmares would finally leave him in peace.
And he would never have to see her move on from him.
The silence had stretched for too long between them. Elizabeth hunched her shoulders and let her head fall. “If you have no response, then I consider this matter o-over…”
Before she looked away, he glimpsed the sheen of tears in her eyes. She didn’t want to walk away either.
He took a step forward, and his voice broke the wintry silence. “You came here to tell me this?”
She attempted the iron that he saw in other women, the condescension and casual cruelty. But she was too kind a soul to sound anything like those jackals. “Obviously a mistake. I should have realized that you had already resolved to do as such, and shouldn’t have bothered,” she said, her voice choked. “I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your night, sir.”
She intended to run, he knew, and he couldn’t let that happen. Not when he had finally woken up to the woman in front of him. Darcy caught her wrist as she turned away. “Don’t. Won’t you look at me?”
Despite everything she must feel, his Elizabeth was brave. Her dark lashes trembled when she looked up at him, but she still met his eyes. A single tear succeeded in falling free, disappearing behind her mask. Laughter floated to them from the manor, but the last thing in the world he wanted to do was laugh.
“Please don’t,” she said. Her lower lip trembled and then another tear burst free from her control. “I could bear no one’s pity, much less yours.”
“No, kitten. Pity is the farthest thing from my mind.”
He leaned down, expecting a slap or an outcry or his own senses to come back to him. That never happened. He could not allow her to continue suffering, or to see that suffering, when he could cure it. When he wanted to cure it, no matter how much of a mistake it would be to drag her back into his life now.
But she did not deny him, and he could not deny her to himself.
He groaned, embracing her tight against him. Eagerly. Desperately. It had been so long since he’d just held her like this, held her against him while he made love to her sweet lips. Her hands gripped the front of his jacket and he was grateful for the grounding or else he would have believed himself to be back in those haunting, seductive dreams. But she was corporeal, her tiny fingers caressing his jaw, her warm body shivering against his. Real. His.
“Darcy,” she whispered, her voice faint and tearful.
He tore away from her and pressed kisses down her exposed cheek and then down her neck. “I swear, I am not here for pleasure. I left all desire in Hertfordshire in November.”
“Truly?” Her whisper sounded desperate with hope.
“There hasn’t been another.” He wanted her to know—needed her to know. She was too precious to lose to doubts about his fidelity, especially with their relationship starting as it had.
Her faint voice caught his attention. “But… Miss Honeyfield…”
Darcy captured her sensitive earlobe in his teeth and relished her quiet sigh as she relaxed into his embrace. “Who?”
Her husky laugh made his fingers curl into her soft hips. “Miss Dorothea Honeyfield. The woman I met you with earlier?”
Sense was returning to Darcy. They were secluded in the gardens, but only partially. Anyone who wished to could sneak up on them and overhear their conversation.
He pulled away, but only reluctantly. She fit so well in his arms, in his life. In his heart. He was a fool to have given up on making her his legitimately. “You’re shivering,” he said, tasting her lips again. “We have to get you back home.”
“Just a touch longer. I-I’ve missed you.”
Hearing her voice the words his heart echoed made him jolt and her eyes, wide and shining, tugged him down, down to meet her again. To taste those sweet lips and shudder as her hands slipped into his coat, tiny and desperate to touch his skin. He hissed as her hands finally tugged free his waistcoat and her cold-as-ice hands met his burning skin. Steam should have boiled off him, but it failed to do so, and then Darcy could only groan as her nails scraped down the sensitive skin of his stomach.
“I want you,” she whispered, nipping at his bottom lip.
He groaned. There was little he could do. His mind sped through the options. Inside waited Honeyfield and her schemes. Going for his carriage would draw attention, and he wanted no one else’s eyes on Elizabeth tonight. He could bring her to the manor, but the servants would surely notice the young lady and then there would be talk. That was unacceptable.