Chapter 35

What Darcy wanted to do was hoist her over his shoulder, take the stairs two at a time to his chambers, throw her upon his bed and show her exactly how good he could make, not just this kiss, but every single one thereafter. More than his gentleman’s ethics stopped him, however.

He had just spent several hours with a first-hand look into the workings of her mind. She was honest and forthright, but her brain apparently did nothing except twist and turn, imagine and reimagine possibilities and outcomes.

He ought to be grateful for her refusal to consider his impulsive proposal and ensure that he never again came within ten feet of her.

Such actions—or inaction—would be impossible. He had not lived seven and twenty years without knowing the difference between infatuation and love. He had experienced the former a few times himself; the latter, never—never before this. It was rare, it was exquisite, and it was not likely to come again.

He studied her dear face—half defiant, half aroused, wholly certain their romance was doomed. Affection alone was unlikely to change that intriguing, stubborn mind of hers, but he would give it every effort.

Carefully he framed her face within his hands, tracing her high cheekbones with his thumbs. Her gaze was fixed upon his mouth, and it was all he could do not to cover hers with his lips, pressing urgently, joining in the only way he could.

“Have you ever kissed a man?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She did not explain, but such a look as crossed her face! Regret, sorrow, and distress all were there, plainly displayed upon her open countenance.

“Forget I asked,” he said. “Forget the past. Forget everything except this, and me—us, and how we are together.”

And then he set about doing his best to make her forget the world.

He began gently,tenderly, but it quickly progressed to a purely passionate maelstrom that obliterated any experience Elizabeth ever claimed.

Mr Simpson had kissed her as if she were brittle glass and might break. It made sense, with all she had discovered later, but at the time she had only believed he would be gentle and kindly. It was what she had wanted to believe.

And then there was no room for memories as her very mind was swept up in mouths joined, Mr Darcy’s large, hard body surrounding hers, his hands in her hair as she was pressed against the wall. There was nothing to do except return his kiss in equal measure, learning passion from him and excelling in his lessons. She wrapped her arms around him and gave as good as she got, frantically, feverishly, hearing a sound like a mewl that she was sure came from her own throat. Suddenly, he moved back, holding her at arm’s length, breathing hard.

Had he been disgusted by her aggression, by her loss of control?

“I am sorry,” she whispered, bewildered.

“Never,” he gritted out. “Never apologise for the best moment of my life.”

Without so much as a by your leave, he turned on his heel and quit the room, leaving her alone with the snoring Mr Bingley and the slumbering Jane.

Elizabeth wakened Jane as quietly as possible, and led her groggy sister up the stairs and to her chamber. But when she was at last in her own bed, she lay awake, tossing and turning, trying desperately to fit her life back into the pleasant, orderly package where it once had been so easily contained.

The next morning,Darcy found he could not face his houseful of guests; he had his man, Harwood, deliver his excuses of estate business that could not be delayed to the shooting party he had been meant to join, with his apologies.

Then he took out his stallion, Perdition, and rode long and hard, challenging himself and the beast with a recklessness he seldom indulged. By the time he came back in sight of Pemberley, he was physically exhausted, and yet his mind would not cease troubling him.

Elizabeth had been staying at Pemberley for more than two weeks now, a first-hand spectator to wealth untold and the finest life money could buy…and yet she had refused him. No, that was not quite correct—she refused to even believe that he might be serious, convinced he would come to his senses ‘in the morning’.

It was long past morning, and his senses were nowhere near ready to submit. He did not want them to. It was not simply her delectable figure, that wide, delicious mouth, or the passion simmering just beneath the surface of her cool, steady character. He would never get enough of her brilliant mind. He had never thought about having children except in the abstract—the duty of it, the fulfilment of an obligation to his future. Now he had found the only woman in the world he would want to mother them, their minds a blend of his and hers, and she would not even consider him.

The reasons she had given suggested she worried only about her monetary value. It made no sense—at least, not for his Elizabeth. From the very first, he had sensed her confidence, her belief in herself; it was part of what he so admired, her ability to laugh at the world and its foibles. She had a gift of seeing people for who they were—and it took far more than rank and wealth to impress her.

There was only one possible reason: she could not believe or trust in him or his love. Why not? Because her mother had unfairly blamed her for her father’s death? Did she still blame herself? Possibly, but not only that. She insisted she would not even rely completely upon her uncle—who, as near as he could tell, she adored and who adored her. This was a woman who shouldered burdens she could not seem to lay down.

In settling Perdition to a slow walk, he paid less attention to his route and soon found himself on the path to the dower house rather than to the stables. A boy emerged, reaching for the ribbons before he had fully decided to dismount, and Richard hailed him from the portico before he could refuse.

Somewhat reluctantly, he joined his cousin on the back terrace where a frosty pitcher of some sort of refreshment waited, making him feel better about exposing himself to his cousin’s caustic humours.

After several minutes, in which both drank deeply and said little, Darcy looked at his cousin more closely.

His ever-present anger was not on display; instead, he appeared tired.

“Are the night terrors back?” Darcy asked. For the first months upon his return, Richard had avoided sleep due to them.

Richard nodded slowly. “Not battle dreams this time. I keep seeing those horses charging, and Miss Bentley attempting to drive them away from the crowds. She was heading for the river. Somehow, I knew she would—it is why I knew which direction to run before she had even fully committed.”

“There is every chance the ponies would have stopped themselves, rather than drag the curricle into the current.”

“That is what she counted on, plainly.”

“The odds are in your favour that, even had you failed to reach her in time, she would have been safe.”

Darcy knew, though, that had it been Elizabeth, the words would not comfort him.

“I asked Elizabeth to marry me last night,” he heard himself say.

Richard opened his mouth, brows raised. Then he shut it again.

“She has nothing to her name, nothing except her name. She is virtually penniless. I am irrational, she said. I will regret the offer, she said. We will pretend I never asked, she insists.”

“She refused your proposal?”

“She would not hear it.”

“Is she a fool, or the most sensible female you have ever met? Such an unequal alliance is bound to lead to disappointment. If she does not love you, man, let her go.”

“If I thought she felt nothing for me, I might.” Darcy stood, pacing back and forth across the terrace. “I was carried away. I surprised her with the strength of my feelings. We had been playing a game of chess for over four hours, neither of us even realising the time. She nearly had me in check. Again.”

“An unusual woman, to be sure. No one at Cambridge could ever best you.”

He reached the edge of the balustrade and, turning to face his cousin, leant against it. “I told you of her father’s death, and how she was blamed for it by her mother, the guilt she feels. Could it be that she cannot trust herself to know her own mind?”

They were both silent for a few moments, before Richard spoke. “You have worried that she has been at the centre of plotting by Anne and Miss Bingley—including at least the possibility of a direct attack by one of them. Yet, she says nothing to you or Lady Matlock—the only ones, really, who could do anything about it. Instead, you believe, she dispensed a bit of justice quietly, via tainted lemonade. I would say this is a woman who feels she can only trust herself.”

“But why would she utterly reject a companionship that is so clearly in her best interest?”

Richard directed a piercing stare in his direction. “You should know the answer to that.”

“How could I possibly?”

“You, my friend, have been in the same state—refusing to accept most invitations tendered, keeping all your associates at arm’s length except for Bingley, a man several years your junior.”

“So I have forgone town for a year, what of it?” Darcy replied quietly. “You have been ill.”

“I appreciate your company and care,” Richard said, seemingly choosing his words cautiously. “However, you have been pushing others away from you for much longer than a year. Even with your own family, you are wary. You were such an open, driven lad—a bit full of yourself, ’tis true—but no one blamed you for that. You were heir to Pemberley, and who would not be proud? My father believes school was not good for you, that you ought to have been educated at home instead.”

Darcy stared at him, open-mouthed with astonishment. He had believed he successfully hid everything from his family. He had believed himself unchanged, in essentials. It was a bit of a shock to realise they had all seen and discussed such a vast change in him. Was he distrustful? Suddenly he realised—he and his cousin had been talking, talking and sharing as they once had, before the war.

“I have always trusted you,” Darcy said at last, and because he did, he found himself explaining Wickham’s extortion.

“That dastard!” Richard hissed, once he understood. “You ought to have gone to Father. He would have taken care of the matter.”

“You know the earl. He would never have accepted my advice on how to do it.”

“Not if your advice was to pay the bloody blackguard.”

“The earl would have gone directly to my father with the whole of it. Father would have been doubly humiliated, to know that his mistakes—for which he had already tried his best to make amends—had punished me instead.”

The colonel opened his mouth to reply—then closed it. “Probably. The earl could never have accepted your…your right to suffer for it. It was your choice.” He walked to him, setting a calloused hand upon Darcy’s shoulder. “I would not have understood either, not then. I do now. I am sorry you had no friend then, to suffer with you—as you have since helped me to endure mine.”

A lump formed in Darcy’s throat. “No apology needed,” he managed, and took a deep breath. “What of you? Elizabeth says Miss Bentley is half in love with you. Shall you help her come the rest of the way?”

It was Richard’s turn to look away, to stare unseeingly at the vast beauty of Pemberley. Together, they watched nothing in particular for a long, long while.