Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

W ho is this man? Elizabeth marvelled, allowing him to lead her onto a heretofore unnoticed path into wilderness, unexplored and unknown. It was undoubtedly foolish to go, especially so eagerly. Yet, she had continuously tried to put him back into the category where once he fitted so neatly—an arrogant stick-in-the-mud. He continuously escaped.

Mr Darcy did not smile often, but when he did, every inch of her leapt into awareness. It was as if a part of him was panther-like, caged and oh-so-carefully controlled—yet patrolling its parameters, putting out its paw, testing its boundaries. Wanting to be petted.

She wanted to test his boundaries as well, although she did her best to resist. It would help if he would treat her the same as did Reginald Goulding, John Lucas, Herbert Long, or Sidney King—or in other words, as a not overly intelligent infant. Had she a fortune of ten thousand, any one of them might have asked to marry her. These young men, the best her neighbourhood had to offer, would admire her, but would never try to know her. They thought they already did.

Mr Darcy pulled her down the path, leading in a definite direction. It did not take long to see his destination. They entered a woodland glade, a smallish meadow surrounded by birch and hazel, with a few gracious old oaks standing sentinel. Mr Darcy removed his greatcoat and hung it upon a convenient branch, doing the same with his hat, as if the tree were a cloakroom. Even, and adding to her confusion, he removed his gloves. Then he gave her a courtly bow.

“Bingley is dancing with your sister, I believe, and has suggested that I cease standing about stupidly, and instead ask the prettiest girl in the room to dance. May I have the next set, Miss Elizabeth?”

She could not help her grin. “That is not a very close approximation of what Mr Bingley said.”

“I vow ’tis what I would have heard,” he said, smiling roguishly, “had my hearing been in working order that evening. But one cannot expect the hearing of a relic to always be acute.”

“One cannot expect a relic to hear anything at all.”

His smile faded as he looked down at her. “A relic might also be blind to what is standing before his very eyes.”

She felt her cheeks heat, and to cover it, she made a show of removing her coat and hanging it on another limb; on impulse, she removed her gloves as well, and turned to face him .

“Do you waltz?” he asked.

“Jane, Charlotte, and I did once, with Hortense Goulding’s dancing master,” she said. “I am certain you will find nothing lacking in my execution, with such training as I possess.”

Mr Darcy held out his arms, and she walked into them.

He was nothing like Hortense’s dancing master. Humming a tune in perfect pitch, he might have been in a ton ballroom instead of whirling her about a forest glade. Oddly, there seemed nothing remarkable in the exercise. He led flawlessly, lending his partner an expert grace; one could rest in his arms and allow him to control the steps, never worrying that one’s feet might be in danger, no matter the uneven ground.

They twirled, the glints of sunshine and meadow prettier than any ballroom she had ever imagined. He wore his poise perfectly, with a confidence fitting him like a coat from Weston. When he dipped her low, she laughed—but he did not; he just held her there, balanced, breathless, his dark gaze imprisoning, capturing her between mirth and a longing she could not explain.

Feeling her hair beginning to break free from its constraints, Elizabeth reached to rescue her hat. Before she could, Mr Darcy brought her upright in a graceful manoeuvre, and, bewilderingly, plucked the hat off her head with an expert twist of a hat pin. Her hair—never easily confined—spilled out over her shoulders with the loss of its last remaining tether. He dropped the hat to the ground, but she found herself unable to worry about its ruin.

“Your hair,” he said softly, lifting one strand, stroking gently, admiring it as if a rare jewel. “I have dreamt of seeing it this way. ”

His dark eyes coasted over her, regarding her as if she was something precious; Elizabeth felt his words in her skin, in her spirit. Speechless, she could only look back at him in wonderment. This was not happening, it could not be, and yet, he was near enough that she could feel the heat of his body, hear his soft breaths.

His hand—an unusually calloused hand for a gentleman—dropped the strand of hair in favour of threading his fingers through the masses of it, his warm skin touching her scalp. He watched her, doing no more, but somehow conveying the strange feeling he saw not with his eyes only, but as if an essential part of him was fixed upon her. Seeing me as no one else ever has , she thought, although it was a nonsensical one, for she was hardly a hermit. Yet, it was a strangely compelling notion—to be appreciated by one such as he, who had grown to adulthood surrounded by splendour, riches, and the best of everything. That he perceived her beauty, finding her unique and worthwhile, was flattery of a nature never before felt.

For the first time in her life, Elizabeth understood the feelings Lydia seemed constantly to chase. “You do not understand, Lizzy,” her young sister had complained, when she advised her away from her flirtations with various members of the regiment stationed nearby. “The notice of a man is a dozen times more exciting than any of your dusty old rules. You have grown old and dusty yourself, if you cannot see it.”

She saw it now—how instinctive it was to look up at Mr Darcy and wish for his attention to linger, to want more of it. He leant in a little, and in a flash of quiet wonder, she thought he meant to kiss her.

More surprising still—considering how she had been well on her way to hating him a day or two before—she wished he would. But as he drew her up to gather her in more closely, the screech of a magpie interrupted the quiet glade, startling them both. He glanced up at the bird, pausing, his face mere inches away from hers, and she waited, unsure, part hoping, part wondering at his boldness—and her own.

He straightened. “It appears that the gardener was incorrect in his weather forecast,” he said, his voice formal now. “I believe those dark clouds grow more ominous.”

Elizabeth glanced at the sky—which looked exactly the same as it had earlier—and released a tremulous breath. Mr Darcy turned away from her to restore his coat, hat, and gloves. Her own appearance, she realised, was probably unforgivably dishevelled, and she did her best to twist her unruly hair into something resembling its former style. Pretending that she was as self-possessed as he appeared, she pulled on her coat and stuffed her gloves into a pocket, knowing that her hands were far too unsteady to don them. Bending, she gathered up her hat, and was fumbling with its return to a proper position on her head, when a sudden touch at her nape froze her in place.

“Allow me,” he said, and moments later she felt gentle hands skilfully placing the hat and pinning it securely. But once he was finished, he did not move, his hand upon her shoulder.

She stood self-consciously still, trying not to wonder where he gained his expertise in dressing women, confused by his abrupt formality, tempered against his almost lover-like behaviour.

A man at war with himself , she suddenly realised. None of her attractions included suitability to one such as him. Even in her inexperience, she could feel it—the desire, the dismay. Her own disappointment was threaded through it all, and she straightened her spine in response.

Well. I shall take the battle out of his hands.

She whirled to face him. “You need not worry that I shall take your behaviour amiss,” she said, shoving those feelings away. “I am certain you did not mean to break into a waltz, apropos of nothing, whilst touring the gardens. Perhaps you are feverish.”

The intensity of his expression vanished in a heartbeat, and to her utter astonishment, he grinned. “Perhaps I am. Will you marry me?”

Her brows shot up. She could not have heard what she thought. “Marry you?”

“You do not suppose that I waltz in the woods with just anyone, do you?”

“You are mad, not feverish. I shall call Mr Jones back to Netherfield. Perchance he has a helpful poultice.”

His smile deepened. “Possibly, I ought to have begun by explaining that I have grown to admire and love you. I would be honoured if you would agree to be my wife.”

“ Im possibly, I should have said. You cannot mean it.”

His grin disappeared. “You question my honour? You believe me a liar?”

Elizabeth was taken aback. Would he lie? The very idea of it was preposterous. Had she just been unforgivably rude in the face of a genuine proposal of marriage? She struggled to make sense of the situation .

“I…I am confused. You have to know—you must know I bring nothing, or almost nothing to any match.”

He retreated once again into grave formality. “And you must know that I am in a position to marry where I choose.”

“But…” She found herself without the right words to explain her bewilderment. “You do not know me. Not really. It is…this is…” She hesitated, then, with some reluctance, pulled back a page of her family history to expose it to his view. “My father is a gentleman, from a very old family—there have been Bennets at Longbourn for over a century. When a new solicitor—with an exceedingly pretty daughter—moved to Meryton to take over the practice of an uncle, my father was entranced. Papa had been acquainted with my mother for only a month before they wed. It…it has not always been a happy match.”

Her cheeks flushed with heat, as she recalled her mama’s manners in Mr Darcy’s presence upon various occasions. Mrs Bennet had never got over her bluntness, her habit of saying whatever it was she thought in the moment she thought it. Her mother had not been pleased with his insulting behaviour upon the occasion of their first meeting at the assembly, and felt absolutely no shame in letting him know of her contempt.

Mr Darcy reached out then, softly touching her cheek. “Perhaps we only met a few months ago,” he said, “but I had not known you a week before I realised your beauty. You are not your mother’s daughter. I have often watched you—at first, yes, wondering at my instant attraction—for it is not common for me to feel so deeply, most especially so soon. I am not in the habit of falling in and out of love, but you…you draw others to you with disarming candour, with genuine in terest in their concerns. Your spirit is a generous one. There is nothing mean in your understanding or petty in your temperament. My young sister would do well to become as accomplished as you.”

Elizabeth’s shock was overpowering, as a conversation from a few evenings ago blazed in her memory. He had claimed not to know more than a half-dozen ‘accomplished’ women—and she had protested him knowing any. “Accomplished…as me ? As I recall, you approved Miss Bingley’s substantial notions of its definition, few of which I fit.”

“And you did not approve.” He shook his head. “I was attempting that evening, not very skilfully it seems, to compliment you,” he added ruefully.

“I could not agree without dis approving of myself, sir. A number of abilities were asserted that I have never acquired. I am no great musician, my French is barely passable, and my drawing, mediocre.”

He raised an eyebrow, and some of the intensity was returned to his gaze. “It was not those talents to which I particularly referred. It was the most important gifts—you possess that ‘certain something’, in your air, in your address, in your expressions. Once my attention was captured, I found I could not look away. I have never met your equal, not amongst all the diamonds of the ton .”

She gazed helplessly at him, searching for words to explain her confusion.

“I do not know what to say, Mr Darcy. To call my amazement great is to understate it completely. I am flattered, I am bemused, and I am…I am dazzled. I do not know whether any of those emotions could be called a precursor to love. I have no t believed you could think of me in such a manner, and thus, I never before considered thinking that way of you.”

“Could you begin considering it now?” he asked, and there was an undeniable sincerity, even a yearning, in his question.

Elizabeth could think of but one reply. “Yes.”