Chapter 11

Eleven

Darcy went to bed that night with thoughts of the encounter at the temple with Elizabeth heavy on his mind. Hours passed, it seemed, with him lying awake in bed recounting every word, every look, and every touch that had led to the two of them coming within moments of tossing propriety to the wind and surrendering to their passions.

Even in his dreams, the incident would not be repressed.

Lightning, thunder, wind, and rain conspired to create a sensuous symphony, enveloping the two lovers, tempting them to give in to their bodies' desires. The promise of a kiss—their first kiss—urging them toward yearnings unspoken. A leap of faith, as it were.

As Darcy peered into Elizabeth's dark, bewitching eyes, he could resist no more. Slowly, tentatively, they leaned in, lips meeting in a soft, gentle kiss that soon deepened as his pent-up longing was released. Darcy wrapped Elizabeth in his arms, reveling in her warmth, her softness. She melted against him with a sigh, fingers tangling in his hair, urgent yet tender. Time seemed to stop as they lost themselves in each other, kissing passionately and clinging tightly, as if they would never let go. He longed for more, ached to run his hands along her curves, to feel her soft skin against his.

Trailing kisses along her neckline, relishing her body arching against his, he whispered in her ear, "My dearest, loveliest, Elizabeth—my heart's greatest desire. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love ? —"

His words penetrated the back of his mind like a forgotten truth, striking him with sudden clarity, like a bolt of lightning splitting the darkness. Darcy awoke with a start, heart pounding, as the floodgates of his memory crashed open. He vividly recalled that fateful night when he had offered his hand in marriage to Elizabeth, only to be sternly refused in no uncertain terms. Her words had pierced him to his very core. He had been so utterly convinced of the rightness of his suit, so arrogantly certain that she would accept him. How wrong he had been.

The disgust in her eyes, the disdain in her voice... It was as if she had seen someone entirely different from the man I believed myself to be.

With mingled incredulity and mortification, he recalled the last words she spoke to him before he took his leave of her, for what he had at the time thought would be the last they would ever see each other.

From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike and I had not known you a month before I felt you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.

How had he been so wrong about her ?

I thought she would accept me—thought she understood my feelings. But her words... they had cut deep. "The last man in the world..." How had I misread everything so completely?

While those were by far the worst words she had expressed, there were other sentiments avowed that had equally caused him a great deal of consternation that night:

"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly.

"I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which you tell me have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation."

He recalled leaning against the mantelpiece, his eyes fixed on her face, struggling to maintain the appearance of composure and how he had not opened his lips until he believed he had attained it. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he had said:

"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honor of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavor at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."

"I might as well inquire, why with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil?"

Indeed, he had quit the parsonage with the most generous sentiments he could muster under the circumstances—words to the following effect:

"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness."

Upon later reflection, however, he had been unable to leave it at that, for his sense of honor would not allow him to ignore the charges she had leveled against him.

Did Elizabeth get my missive? Pray it did not fall into the wrong hands.

The events of the past weeks were beginning to make sense. He imagined she did indeed come into possession of his letter, no doubt by way of his cousin the colonel.

It now made sense that Elizabeth was among those standing vigil over my bedside when I awakened. Everyone's startled reaction to my saying Cousin Anne and I were betrothed is quite understandable. My cousins must have supposed there was more to my relationship with Elizabeth than there was. But surely she knew better. How is it that she was persuaded to behave toward me as she did these past weeks?

The tumult of his mind increased with every review . Why had everyone conspired to keep me in the dark with my believing Elizabeth was a stranger to me?

Did they all think of me as a fool? Were all of them laughing at me?

Darcy was half-tempted to storm into the young lady's apartment just down the hall and demand answers.

The inconvenient hour of the morning taught him to think otherwise. Soon enough, he would confront all of them—his cousins, his physician, his valet—a theretofore, most trusted servant, his aunt, and finally, Miss Elizabeth.