“Not especially. Do you?”
“No, but I fear how your hair will look when we are finally discovered.”
As if she had not considered that! Of all the pompous, know-it-all… A quick reminder of Mr. Darcy’s kinder qualities curtailed her irritation and bolstered her forbearance. Good heavens, the man tried her patience! “You would have me cross my arms and wait for someone to discover us? How long might that take? Does Mr. Bingley even use this room?” She had appreciated the comfortable seating area around the fireplace, but she had not failed to notice the lack of glowing embers as well as the desk’s lack of a chair.
“I only mean that it is to our advantage not to appear disheveled when we are finally found.”
She turned to face him directly, one hand holding her pin, the other fisted on her hip. That he was right only irritated her more. “Do you have a better idea?”
“I am thinking.”
“Excellent. While you think, I shall attempt to pick this lock.” Returning to the door, she twisted her pin with too much enthusiasm. The pin bent and snapped.Confound it!Defiantly reaching for another, she pulled one free. No hair tumbling. She smirked at Mr. Darcy. He could think all he wanted. She preferred to act. “I would rather escape before anyone notices our predicament. My hair can be fixed more easily than my reputation.”
Snap!
“Blast and botheration!” she mumbled, reaching for yet another pin. She refused to look at Mr. Darcy. Oh, how she hated to admit he was right! Too stubborn to admit her error, too determined to stand by doing nothing, she pulled the pin out of her hair.
Another curl tumbled down. She gestured heavenward, wondering what she had done to deserve this. She was the Bennet who got her sisters out of scrapes, who exerted herself the most to compensate for their faults, and yet, unless a miracle happened, she would be their ruin.
She raised her eyes to the heavens. Did God still do miracles? She prayed for one, but the door did not burst open. She prayed again and tried the handle. It was still locked. Evidently faith the size of a mustard grain could move mountains, but it did not open study doors.
The ridiculousness of their situation tickled Elizabeth’s humor, but now was not the proper occasion to laugh.
“Pray, allow me.” Mr. Darcy sounded so calm. Did nothing catch him off guard?
Her first thought was to assure him that she had, indeed, been praying. Most fervently. But he made his meaning clearer when he held out his hand.
She dropped the pin in his palm, his gravity threatening her light humor, which she could not allow. If she did not laugh, she feared she might cry. “We would make terrible thieves,” she teased.
He did not laugh. Not so much as a crinkle of the eyes or a twitch of the lips. Did Mr. Darcy feel anything at all? Was his impassive composure the result of years of repression—heaven forbid a highborn gentleman show any feeling!
Or did he believe himself above obligation? She did not want to think it of him, but had not Mr. Wickham’s history with the man suggested that Mr. Darcy was capable of dealing as selfishly with her as he had with his childhood friend? She could never be happy attached to such a dishonorable man.
A promising click sounded inside the lock, and Elizabeth held her breath with every scratch and tap she thought she heard. To think that her entire future depended so fully on the strength of a hairpin...
CHAPTER10
Snap!Darcy swallowed an expletive.
Without a word, Elizabeth withdrew another pin from her hair.
He took it. “Thank you.” He waited for her humorous banter, but she had grown more pensive over the last few minutes. If she was contemplating the advantages a union with him would bring to her and her family, she gave no indication of it. Rather, standing beside him with her arms crossed and her lips pinched, she looked peevish, though he dared not look too long. Half of her hair was down, and the sight of her wild curls tumbling down to her waist captivated him.
She ignored him, which only added to her appeal. The undivided focus with which she attempted to gain their freedom impressed him, though his pride wilted a bit at the ferocity of her determination to get away fromhim,as was evidenced in her bruised hands and feet and her willingness to impale herself on the window glass.
Miss Bingley would have sold her own sister for the opportunity to be trapped here with him. Not Elizabeth. Darcy doubted her capable of indifference or indolence. She was decisive, sure in herself and her opinions, passionate in her behavior.
Catching himself before he smiled, Darcy rubbed his hand over his face and assumed an expression more fitting to the occasion. What was wrong with him?
If Elizabeth could see his stupid grin in the dark, she would think him mad. Hewasmad! Here he was admiring the lady for her industrious determination, and what was he doing? Jabbing a flimsy hairpin in a rusty lock.
He ought to be doing something more useful to escape rather than waste time admiring the lady stuck with him—a lady very eager to depart from his company. Much more eager than he was to leave hers.
Stepping away from the door, he held the pin out to her. “Perhaps you will have better success.” She plucked it from his hand and turned to the lock with nary a reply. Now he was convinced she was vexed. Never before had he observed her forfeit so many opportunities to jest. She was similar to Richard that way. Always poking fun, always quick with a witty remark.
Widening his stance, he examined the lock and tried not to notice how Elizabeth bit her bottom lip as she twisted and turned the pin in her long fingers. Instead, he studied the door itself. It opened inward, which eliminated the possibility of barging it down. He would sooner shatter his shoulder than budge the barrier.
Another pin snapped, and Elizabeth muttered, “Blast and botheration!” under her breath. Balling her fists at her waist, a picture of stubborn intention, she took a deep breath and doggedly reached for another pin.
