Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

MR. DARCY RECOGNIZED the dress first, which was strange, because he didn't think he spent much time noticing Caroline Bingley or what she was wearing. But he saw the dress and thought, Caroline has worn that before. I wouldn't have thought she would wear the same dress, not when she has been seen in it within the past four months.

And then he realized it was not Caroline in the dress, but Elizabeth Bennet.

What was she doing here?

He was at a ball in town, a crowded one. Everyone had been abuzz with the anticipation of it, and he'd felt he must come, even though he would have been happy enough passing the evening alone, quietly, with a book by the fire.

Instead, here he was, spotting Elizabeth Bennet at this ball, of all people.

The thing he likely should have done was to point her out to Mr. Bingley, but he didn't do that. Instead, he tore through the room, swerving around people if they got in his way, and went straight for her.

She looked up from where she was standing, all alone, in Caroline's dress, and was startled. "How did you get there?" she said, probably because he'd just made his way across the room in seconds.

"Miss Bennet," he said. "I see you are in town."

"I am," she said, smoothing her gloves .

"I did not think that your family had a house in town," he said, far too bluntly. He should be exchanging pleasantries, inquiring after her family's health, speaking of the weather, that sort of thing.

"They do not," she said. "I am staying with my aunt and uncle."

The ones in Cheapside? But they could not be here. They would not have secured an invitation.

At this moment, Caroline Bingley swept in. "Apologies, apologies. I've returned now."

"You are here with Miss Bingley?" said Mr. Darcy to Elizabeth.

"She was kind enough to extend an invitation," said Elizabeth.

"And a dress," he said.

Elizabeth flushed, embarrassed. "Yes, it must be such a thing to be Mr. Darcy," she said archly. "I suppose after you wear a suit, you simply tell your valet to burn it. No point in getting any more use of that."

"My apologies," he said, feeling wretched about it, truly wretched. "That was beneath me. I do not care about things like dresses."

"Obviously not," broke in Caroline. "I didn't realize you were ever noticing anything I was wearing."

He looked back and forth between the two women. When had they become friends? "I only meant that other things are much more important than a fragment of fabric or a bit of lace. I care about more substantial things."

"Like moral character," said Caroline Bingley. "A woman should be upright, shouldn't she? She should hold firm and guard her virtue. That's a kind of substance."

Elizabeth barely flinched, but Mr. Darcy saw it.

It was the flinch that caught his attention, that told him the tale.

Caroline kept going. "Not that you'd know about that, considering it was the kind of substantial woman you could not manage to convince your sister to be."

But he'd already understood. So, Elizabeth was here because she had ties to Mr. Wickham, who was feeding information through Elizabeth to Caroline, information that Caroline thought to gleefully use to destroy him. Right then, Caroline was smiling.

Mr. Darcy regarded her, but he couldn't find any words to say to her. Right then, not to his credit, he had the urge to hit her. He wouldn't, of course. He'd never raise a hand to a woman, but he thought, in that moment, that she deserved it.

She held his gaze, triumphant. "Nothing to say to that, Mr. Darcy?"

"I am sorry, you know, Miss Bingley," he said quietly. "I never meant to give you a false idea of my interest in you. Perhaps I did not take care when I was with you. That is my fault. I shall fully own that I have behaved badly, if that's what you wish to hear from me. But this? What you're doing? This is far and above whatever it was you think I did to to you. This is an overreaction."

"I'm not doing anything , Mr. Darcy," said Miss Bingley. "Your sister has already done it all."

Mr. Darcy addressed Elizabeth. "You want Bingley that badly? Or do you just wish to hurt him since he jilted you?"

"Is he engaged to your sister?" said Elizabeth.

Mr. Darcy sighed. Oh, so Caroline had discerned that somehow? Or Bingley had spoken to her about it? There was, of course, no official agreement, but he did sometimes think that it would be the best arrangement for everyone, since there was a precariousness to Georgiana's reputation at that point. He trusted Bingley, and he thought it was sort of tidy and easy.

He wanted Georgiana to have a choice, of course, but if that choice was taken from her, Bingley was better than the alternative.

"He is not," said Caroline firmly. "He will not tie himself to a girl who's been sullied by the son of a servant. I won't allow him to do it, and if I give out the information that I have—"

"If," he said. "There's a chance you'll keep quiet?" What did she want? Whatever could this woman want from him?

Caroline only laughed. She linked her arm with Elizabeth, laughed in his face, and said, "Come, Eliza, let us seek out something to drink." Then she pulled Elizabeth away, into the crowd.

Mr. Darcy clenched his hands into fists.

Then, he sought out Bingley.

But Bingley's reaction to Miss Bennet's name was to go still and silent and gaze off into space.

"Bingley," said Mr. Darcy. "Bingley, can you hear me? Charles, your sister knows about Georgiana."

Mr. Bingley walked off without a word, however, and Mr. Darcy had no choice but to follow him as he searched through the rooms for her.

When Mr. Bingley saw Elizabeth and Caroline, in the tearoom, sitting together at a small table, he stopped and stared.

"Charles," said Mr. Darcy, standing behind his friend. "Your sister—"

"She's prettier than she used to be," said Bingley.

Mr. Darcy didn't say anything.

"You think she's pretty?" Bingley turned to look at him, a challenge across his features.

Mr. Darcy stared at Elizabeth. "Obviously." She was more than pretty, that was the truth of it. She was compellingly attractive. She was a siren, and he was going to stare at her while his ship was dashed against the rocks, dashed to smithereens, and while he drowned.

"What is she doing here?" said Bingley.

"She's here because she is in communication with Wickham," said Mr. Darcy. "She has the story from him, and she has come—"

"That seems convoluted," said Bingley. "I imagine she's here because of me."

Mr. Darcy bowed his head. He really couldn't argue with that.

"I gave her up," said Bingley. "But she came after me." He let out a wistful sigh .

"Bingley, your sister is set upon destroying me and my sister," said Mr. Darcy. "I don't know if you haven't heard this part of it or if you're just ignoring it."

"I shall handle Caroline," said Bingley, and then he strode over to the table.

Elizabeth looked up at him and a smile stretched across her features that made her shine like a beacon of bright beauty.

Mr. Darcy's heart stuttered in his chest. Why was she so especially lovely?

Mr. Bingley was smiling back at her, and they conversed back and forth for a few minutes before he offered her his arm, and she got up and took it, and they strolled out of the tea room together.

Mr. Darcy approached the table where Caroline was seated, smiling a wicked smile of triumph.

He thought again of hitting her.

Instead, he sat down. "What do you want, Miss Bingley? What do you want from me?"

"I want you to suffer," she said, still smiling.

"But my sister," he said. "Why does she have to suffer? Or does that not matter to you?"

Caroline scoffed. "Your sister brought it on herself, I think."

"She did not. You don't know Mr. Wickham very well," he said. "Besides, Miss Darcy was very young. I thought you liked my sister. Did you not? Was all your praise heaped upon her simply for the benefit of trying to snare me? Is that it?"

She glared at him. "Snare you? Am I some hunter, Mr. Darcy?"

"I don't know. Are you?"

She scoffed.

"Do you wish me to marry you?" Oh, why have I said that aloud? I can't marry her. Of course, if Georgiana is to be saved, I suppose there are sacrifices—

"Never," she said disdainfully. "I would not marry a man who didn't want me. "

"Good," he said.

"Because you remember my castoff dresses, but you never were the least bit interested in me."

Maybe he had been, maybe once, sort of, not really, but in an off-hand sort of way… and then, those damnable Bennet girls. "Miss Bingley, I have already made a speech admitting that I have behaved badly, have I not? Shall I repeat all those sentiments? How many times would you like me to apologize? Maybe you want me to do it on my knees, prostrate on the floor, or—"

"Oh, stop being sarcastic." Her eyes flashed.

"Can you not find some way to make me suffer that doesn't involve watching my sister suffer?"

"I don't know about that, Mr. Darcy," she said.

"Please," he said.

She stood up from the table, clearly enjoying herself. She smiled down at him.

He was at her mercy now. There was nothing to do now but wait and see what she might do. She held Georgiana's reputation in her hands.

ELIZABETH DANCED TWICE in a row with Mr. Bingley, who didn't say much. Instead, he gazed at her face and her bare upper arms and he sucked in an audible breath every time they came close during the dance, or anytime they accidentally brushed into each other.

For her part, she found herself gasping too.

If it had been anyone else, maybe she would have said something, tried to break whatever the tension was between them, because she didn't actually enjoy it. It made her feel vulnerable and this made her feel frightened.

But she was well aware that when she spoke, sometimes she said things that came off too sharp, things that didn't always sound complimentary. If she'd been dancing with Mr. Darcy, she might not have cared .

However, she did not wish to ruin things with Mr. Bingley, not when he seemed so very taken with her again, not when she might have a chance of bringing this off after all.

Be silent, Lizzy, she admonished herself.

And she was.

Then, they were on the side of the dance floor, and he tugged her glove off and tucked her hand behind his back and linked their fingers. His thumb traced patterns against her palm, and it made her feel dizzy and overly heated.

"I was a cad," he told her. "I shouldn't have left the way I did. I shouldn't have left you there, no word, all alone. I had indicated I would be back. You must have felt very shocked, very hurt. I wouldn't blame you if you never wanted to see me again."

"No, I'm all right," she said. She didn't like admitting that she had been quite pained by it all. "I suppose I was foolish to have assumed you might want a woman such as me anyway." She said this while his bare fingers were entwined with her bare fingers, while his thumb moved in patterns against her skin, while she felt breathless and unsure and confused. The closeness of his body made her cognizant of things she had never been quite so cognizant of before, not when thinking of marriage.

He was so very male. She was close enough to see the hint of his stubble under his chin from where his valet must have shaved him before the ball. She was near enough to smell the scent of him.

If she married this man, they would be much closer than this. He would put his hands in other places. Holding her hand would be the least of it.

She hadn't thought about that for some reason.

Why hadn't she thought of it?

She felt overwhelmed. Mr. Bingley was not an unpleasant man, but she didn't know him. It seemed monstrous to be so intimate with a man who was essentially a stranger in so very many ways.

"I want you, Miss Bennet, don't be ridiculous," he said, his voice breathy.

She swallowed hard.

He squeezed her fingers.

She shuddered.

Unbidden, she thought of those dreams she'd had of Mr. Wickham, his breath hot on her neck.

She felt quite confused. She had no true interest in Mr. Wickham, this she knew. For one thing, he seemed to have quite decided on Jane, no matter which of them he had found interesting to look upon in the first place. And for another, there was this business with Miss Darcy, and the way that reading his excuse had made her feel.

Something about Mr. Wickham…

Well, that didn't matter.

But what did matter was that there was something about Mr. Bingley which didn't move her in the same way that Mr. Wickham did.

It was foolish, she supposed. Yes, Mr. Wickham was quite an attractive man, beautiful even. Mr. Bingley was perhaps not quite as appealing, though he was not unappealing .

At any rate, he shouldn't be unappealing.

And yet, this close, his hands on her, she felt fright. She felt a certain sense—God help her—of wrongness when Mr. Bingley touched her.

"You forgive me, then?" he said in a low voice.

"You made me no promises, sir," she said. "There is nothing to forgive."

"I promised to come back," he said. "I promised to hurry back to you. And then, I sent no word."

"Yes, but you had reason not to come back," she said, although she was confused. What was the reason? Had he agreed to marry Miss Darcy? Had he decided she was a gossip and he did not wish to associate with her? No, that didn't seem to be the case.

"Oh, you know why, then?" he said.

"Well, I assume you had a reason," she said. "But I don't know what it was."

"It was a tangle of things," he said. He rubbed his thumb over the inside of her wrist.

A shiver went through her at his movement, but it wasn't a good shiver, not exactly. "I ought not have shared gossip with you about Mr. Darcy. That made you look on me unfavorably."

"Oh, no, it wasn't your fault, Miss Bennet," he said. "Not at all. But Mr. Darcy told me some things in confidence when we spoke of it, and it became clear his sister was in need of possible rescuing. And since he and I both fancy you, and I thought that it would cause a rift between us if I—"

" What? " She pulled her hand out of Mr. Bingley's. She had not heard that correctly.

"Right, right. I know you don't like him," said Mr. Bingley. "But you see, he's only that way with you because he was trying to cede to me. I saw you first, and he said he couldn't marry someone with your connections anyway, so… anyway, I think he overcompensated, trying to show how little he liked you. But anyone who looks at you, Miss Elizabeth, anyone who speaks to you, cannot help but be struck by how winsome you are." He seized her hand again, tucking it behind his body. "Don't show everyone I took your glove off," he said, giving her a mischievous grin. "That wouldn't be proper."

She could not breathe.

His fingers traced her knuckles now, not holding onto her fingers, but exploring her. "It was easy to give you up when I wasn't looking at you," he whispered. "It was easy to say that my loyalty and friendship to Fitzwilliam was worth more than this attraction to you when you weren't right next to me. But now, here you are, and I…" He let out something like a groan.

Mr. Darcy fancied her?

That could not be.

She still could not breathe, except here and there, in sharp gusts. Mr. Bingley's fingers were still toying with hers, still running haphazardly all over her fingers and hand and palm and wrist, and it was distracting. Almost pleasant, perhaps? But overwhelming and confusing. If she could barely breathe, she certainly couldn't speak.

"Anyway, this business with his sister is taking on some kind of unwieldy shape," said Mr. Bingley. "I told him I would help if he needed me to do so, but I… oh, dash everything, Miss Elizabeth, why are you so dazzling?"

She was not dazzling.

"I wonder if I speak to him, if he will not understand why it is that I can't give you up after all," said Bingley. "I think he might. I think he might understand very well."

And then, as if by some awful twist of fate, he was there.

Mr. Darcy came through the room, his dark gaze fixed on the both of them.

Mr. Bingley took her hand again, firm, giving her fingers a squeeze she thought he probably meant to be reassuring. However, with her hand bare and tucked behind their bodies, she felt uncovered and vulnerable and as if she had done something wanton besides. She had allowed him this liberty.

Just my hand, just my hand, she cried internally.

But was it a horrid thing to have done? Did it say something about the state of her own virtue?

"Darcy," said Bingley as Mr. Darcy stopped in front of them.

"You're with her, of course," said Mr. Darcy. "Still with her."

"We shall need to talk at some point, Darcy," said Mr. Bingley, and he gestured with his other hand, the one that wasn't holding Elizabeth's. Of course that hand had Elizabeth's glove balled up in it, and Mr. Darcy saw it, and his eyes widened.

And Bingley cringed, blushing, and made to put it into one of his pockets.

But Elizabeth'd had enough of it, and she pulled her hand out of his and reached over with her gloved hand and snatched her glove back from him. She put it back on, feeling her face heat up, feeling mortified and shamed and awful.

She busied herself with the glove, and she supposed she didn't notice that they weren't saying anything until she was done and she looked up to see the two men staring at each other, both quite still, the expressions writ on each of their countenances inscrutable.

Were they angry? Were they pained?

She clasped her gloved hands together.

"I am going home," said Mr. Darcy, finally. "But I was hoping that you would not be so distracted that you could be counted upon to make sure Miss Bingley is not destroying my good name. If you are, I shall stay and keep my eye on her."

"I shall obviously keep Caroline from doing anything rash," said Bingley.

"Yes," said Mr. Darcy. "While you're over here doing heaven knows what with Miss Bennet's glove."

Bingley smiled, pleased with himself.

Elizabeth felt violated, as much from his obvious pleasure in it as from anything else. Why did I let him take it? Why didn't I stop him? What is wrong with me? A desire to flee welled up inside her, but she didn't see where she could go, or what she could do. This was what she wanted, to be loved by Mr. Bingley, to be desired by him, to have him wish to marry her.

Mr. Darcy's gaze fell on her. His brows came together. "Whatever is the matter, Miss Bennet?"

Her jaw worked, but no sound came out. She shook her head.

"You needn't worry that I shall censure you," said Mr. Darcy. "What leg would I have to stand on with my sister's story? It's so much worse than a glove."

But Elizabeth felt trapped and afraid.

There was nothing wrong with Mr. Bingley. He wasn't a bad man, but he frightened her for some reason. She was not frightened that he would hurt her. That wasn't it at all. It was only that the prospect of Mr. Bingley wanting her, physically wanting her, in the way that he clearly did, it was not appealing.

Her gaze settled on Mr. Darcy, though, and it was different . He was close, too, and she could see his stubble beneath his skin. It was darker than Mr. Bingley's and more prominent, and he had a scent this close also, a scent she found oddly intoxicating. His shoulders were even broader than Mr. Bingley's. By all rights, he should be more intimidating than Mr. Bingley, but he… the look of Mr. Darcy, the scent of Mr. Darcy, the presence of Mr. Darcy…

It wasn't like Wickham, not like the dream and his breath, because she wanted Mr. Darcy more than she had ever wanted Mr. Wickham.

She looked down, hunching up her shoulders, wishing she could disappear.

Oh, Lord in heaven, protect me, she thought. This cannot be happening.

She thought about Mr. Darcy taking off her glove and her body reacted in a shameful way. She needed to leave now, because she didn't know exactly what to do with herself in this moment.

She looked up again. She did not know what infernal desire within her urged her action. Her gaze met Mr. Darcy's, and his dark eyes locked onto hers, and something happened , something instant and powerful. It was brief, but she knew he felt it, knew because of the way his expression changed.

For her part, it was as if the entire room went silent and fell away. There was nothing but Mr. Darcy, nothing at all. His eyes, his features, his—ah, goodness—his lips .

Mr. Darcy jerked his gaze away. "Bloody hell," he said distinctly. Then, "Heavens, forgive my vulgarity. I am out of sorts and it has been a rather awful evening. I need to take my leave. Bingley, we shall speak. I shall visit you on the morrow. Good night, both of you. Please excuse me." He turned without waiting for a response from either of them and stalked off, his movements stiff.

She was tingling all over, tingling from that moment where they'd gazed into each other's eyes, and she felt as if her entire soul had been crushed in that moment. She wanted to sob. She wanted to wail. She wanted to run out in front of a carriage and get crushed to death.

Well, that was dramatic. Far too dramatic.

However, whatever it was that had just passed between her and Mr. Darcy was dramatic.

"Miss Bennet?" said Mr. Bingley.

She turned to look at him. "Hmm?"

He gave her a little smile. "You're all right, then? I'm sorry. I promise never to remove your glove surreptitiously again. Please tell me that if you can forgive the fact I abandoned you months ago, that you can forgive that I am mad with wanting to feel my skin on yours."

She wanted to turn and look after Mr. Darcy. "Of course I can forgive you, sir," she said faintly.