Chapter 5

Five

Her silent tears slayed him. If it were within Darcy's power to knock Mrs Bennet's head into Collins's and pound some sense into them both, he would do it. How could they have so easily dismissed her feelings, her choices, her health ? Finding his handkerchief, he placed it upon her lap. She took it without a word. Though still supporting her with his arm, he had not felt so helpless, so useless, since his sister's melancholy over her failed romance.

Harwood, however, had never in his life been thus afflicted. He chose that moment to approach.

"Miss," he said quietly, holding out an open tin, "perhaps you would have a peppermint? It settles the belly, it does, and sweetens the tongue."

She looked up then, and Darcy watched as she visibly took command of herself. With a still-trembling hand she selected one, thanking his man graciously, and placing it delicately in her mouth. The mouth he had plundered as if it were pirate's treasure spilled upon a desert isle. Guilt assailed him.

Harwood retreated, and he knew he must as well. In her presence, he was out of his depth; he could not trust himself.

"Where can I take you?" he asked lowly. "My carriage is yours to command."

Turning to face him, her expression was startled, as if he had said something remarkable. But her voice, when she spoke, was calmer now, more…herself.

"Where are we? I have no idea, I fear."

"Frost," he called. "How far are we from London?"

"A bit over half-way."

"London," she whispered. She turned to him. "Can you bring me to my uncle's house? On Gracechurch Street, in Cheapside."

She sounded more assured, as if the thought of these relations gave her strength. It was none of his business; he was duty-bound to carry her wherever she wished. However, if he recalled correctly, was this not her mother's brother? Could the man, a merchant, be trusted?

"If you are certain of a welcome," he said warily, "then of course."

"I am." She took a deep breath. "I think I can walk now."

Darcy realised that his arm was still about her; she was, undoubtedly, wishing for distance. He removed it, grateful that she was more composed but regretting the loss. He stood, holding out his hand to her. She bit her lip. Was she reluctant to take it, to re-enter the carriage with him? Did she no longer trust him?

"If I fall upon my face, do catch me, will you?" She smiled at him, a little crookedly, and the relief he felt was beyond anything. He smiled back.

"Word of honour," he murmured.

Taking his proffered hand, she allowed him to ease her up. He gave her his arm, and together they walked back to the carriage; she trembled a little, he noticed. She was not so steady as she pretended. He handed her in, and then seated himself opposite. Even though their knees were nearly touching, she seemed much too far away. He longed for her nearness, to hold her once again.

For several minutes after the coach was underway, they were silent. As for himself, he did not know what to say. Did she remember what had happened between them? If he apologised, would it only embarrass her? And then—most importantly—the question now constantly circling his brain: Should he offer for her?

The idea did not fill him with the alarm he had once supposed it might. Yes, he would have some work to do in order to compensate an absent settlement, but he was prospering; there was no reason to believe his children would go hungry or Pemberley would suffer, whether or not he married a woman of wealth. Was not a woman of Elizabeth's beauty and spirit worth a thousand fortunes?

And yet…there was her family to consider.

At last night's ball, Miss Lydia and Miss Catherine had made numerous trips to the punch bowl, their flirtatious laughter growing ever louder as the evening wore on, their behaviour towards the officers outrageously appalling. In an obviously hungry bid for attention, Miss Mary had displayed her ‘talent' at the pianoforte, without interruption, for far too long—seemingly unaware that she ought to surrender the instrument to anyone else. The idea of introducing any of those younger girls to Lord and Lady Matlock was off-putting. Elizabeth's elder sister had almost completely entrapped Bingley; after Sir William's words of anticipation regarding a wedding between them, he had carefully observed Miss Bennet. Her manner, like Elizabeth's, was in every way proper, but there was absolutely no sign of especial attachment. For all he knew, this was yet another, albeit subtler, scheme of Mrs Bennet's, to foist her daughter upon a hapless young man while encouraging the entire community's expectations.

But there were worse considerations—namely, Elizabeth's words spoken in defence of Wickham. Was she taken with the scoundrel? She did not, could not truly know him; it was not within her power to discover his practised deceptions. Ought he to explain something of his past association with the man? Everything within him rebelled at the idea of even speaking his name, bringing him into what had thus far been one of the oddest and yet rightest mornings of his life.

Unfortunately, Wickham was already here, a poisonous echo of their history—almost a physical presence in the carriage. So numerous were his reflections, so lost was he within them, that he nearly startled when she spoke.

"Please, tell me the truth, sir," she said, head bent, her voice low and serious. "Did I…did I brazenly attack you?"

He leant forwards, not nearly as close as he wanted to be, but closing some of the distance between them.

"Miss Elizabeth," he said.

She would not look at him, so he gently lifted her chin with one finger. "I knew you were not yourself. I ought to have stopped you. I could have, and yet…the truth is, I forgot myself. You are, to me…" Darcy floundered, searching for words adequately describing his infatuation, his affection. "I had not known you a week before I regretted the poor first impression I gave of myself. You are surely the handsomest woman I know."

Her mouth opened, her eyes widening. "That is not possible. Please, sir, you need not invent flattery. I understand I was not…I was not well. I wish to apologise for what happened, and promise that you need never worry that any word will ever escape this carriage. My uncle and aunt are most trustworthy. If you could only see your way to forgetting this entire day, you would have my sincerest appreciation."

"How I could possibly forget the best few minutes of the last year is beyond me," he said a little drily, remembering those sweet, scorching kisses.

He meant it in acknowledgement of their mutually thwarted passion; she must know what she had done to him, what she did to him even now, sitting so near, her lips still swollen from his kisses returned so passionately by her own, her hair in wild disarray from the way he had mussed it within his desire.

But her expression turned to dismay. "You would not…surely you would not go to all the trouble to rescue me, only to see me ruined? If anyone were to hear?—"

He sat up straight. "You cannot believe I would do that," he said, much offended.

"I hope you would not."

She sounded doubtful. How could she distrust him? He had changed all of his plans and practically thrown himself at her feet in effecting this rescue! She ought to be looking at him with admiration, gratitude even. Did she believe he would make love to anyone he was alone with? There was a man she knew who would, but it was not him.

The ugly spectre of Wickham's influence forced itself again to the forefront of his mind. Was she, even now, wishing that he had been her rescuer, her knight in shining armour? Hah! If Wickham found himself alone like this with her, he would not hesitate to seduce her. If seduction did not achieve the result he coveted—and even though she was a young lady of good birth—he might, probably would take what was not offered freely, and blame her for all of it.

Elizabeth had kissed him , first! Yes, he had not thrown her off, but he had hardly pressed his advantage, either. A cold feeling crept down his spine, chilling him. In her dazed state, had she been imagining another? Had it been Wickham's eyes she had seen, when she looked into his? Wickham's mouth to which she had wished to join her lips? A tiny voice in his brain urged him to say nothing more, but frustration, repressed desire, pride, and…yes, hurt, all combined to silence it.

"My mother was the daughter of an earl. My father's family has owned a goodly portion of Derbyshire for over a century and a half. Your mother drugged you and nearly handed you over to your moronic cousin! Which of us, I wonder, could be thought most trustworthy?"

"That is certainly a self-righteous stance you take," she snapped, "considering the unjust and ungenerous part you acted in your friendship with another."

He had been correct. Wickham lived in her mind and heart.

"You refer to Mr Wickham, I suppose," he spat. "You take an eager interest in that man's affairs."

"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?"

"His misfortunes! Yes, his misfortunes have been great, indeed!" Jealousy, thick, ugly and venomous shot through him. "Let me give you one piece of advice, to take or discard at your leisure. Do not ever pay him such attentions as you so generously bequeathed me, lest you find yourself bearing the consequences of it alone—he would never do the honourable thing, even did you hold a pistol to his head!"

"And you call yourself honourable?" she asked, her voice rising, her eyes narrowing.

"Yes, I do," he said, struggling to put just the right insouciance into his tone, so that she might not know how much the words he uttered now meant to him. "I have been contemplating offering you marriage, after all, for the sake of a few careless kisses."

She sat up straighter, and her eyes sparked with fury. "Well, let me ease your sanctimonious conscience," she all but hissed in fuming contempt. "I would not marry you if you were the last man in England! I had to be drugged in order to accept your attentions! May your conceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others rise up to choke you!"

Her words sliced through him, inflicting pain with every syllable. In the distress of it, his dignity, his very sense of self rebelled; how dare she, possessing near relations of such tremendous inferiority as to be nearly unmentionable, pretend that his attentions meant nothing ?

"Oh, it will not, for my pride is under perfect regulation. Of what have you to be critical? If you are in the mood for meting out judgment, why not complain of the total want of propriety possessed by your younger sisters? They certainly could use a lesson or two upon sobriety."

She flushed but did not remain silent. "My sisters are none of your concern!"

Again, a part of his mind began flailing, cautioning him to cease and desist. Unfortunately, the wild way he wanted her had not diminished; her now obvious disdain only drove him further into a despairing sort of rage. He managed a sneer.

"Miss Lydia, Miss Catherine, Miss Mary, yes—their behaviour is beneath my notice. Your eldest, however, has attracted the attention of my dearest friend. With unscrupulous apathy, she has allowed your manipulative mother to move him as a pawn in her scheming. I bow to her mastery. If it is Wickham you wish to ensnare, I highly recommend your sister's technique—Miss Bennet pretends to desire nothing of her victim, an appealing indifference he would find irresistible. If lessons are to be taught, perhaps she ought to dispense them. You might find her sort of Machiavellian purity to be rather instructive."

Her jaw dropped. Suddenly, to his amazement, once more she dove for the door of the carriage.

Outrage, pure and simple, filled him as he grabbed her to keep her from throwing herself out of it, while she struggled violently against his hold. "What is wrong with you? This carriage is moving! Would you bash your head against the pavement in defence of your absent lover?"

As if in answer to his question, she suddenly stilled. For a moment, she simply looked at him. Carefully she straightened; somehow, during their struggle, she had become perched upon his knees, his hands clutching her shoulders. Her chin lifted.

"Unhand me," she commanded, her voice low and firm. "You need not worry that I shall risk so much as a scrape, much less my head, over any man." Tears glistened in her eyes, but somehow he knew that she would never allow them to fall. Not before him.

His anger deflated, his rage defeated. What he wanted to do was enfold her in his arms. He wanted to beg her forgiveness with every fibre of his being. The steely expression upon her face told him his desires were useless. Practically one finger at a time, he forced himself to release his hold.

She lifted herself from his lap onto the seat opposite.

"You, sir, are an idiot," she said.

"Yes," he agreed, scrubbing his face with his hands.

Momentary surprise flashed across her features.

There must be an apology she would accept, and he needed to come up with it quickly. At least some of his history with Wickham had to be explained. He must make her understand, somehow, why the man was so vicious, so untrustworthy. Above all, he could not allow their brief association to end like this. As if she truly had cursed him, words rose up in a flood, choking him with their panicked incoherence.

And then as he watched, her eyes fluttered shut and she pitched forwards, collapsing in a graceful heap at his feet.