“Truly, Fitzwilliam, you must not worry. I was not hurt in the slightest.”
He nodded once but said not a word. She frowned in consternation. “And you must think no more on Mr Greyson. I see you are distressed, but you ought to know I should have refused him even were I not promised to you.”
“I assure you, I am not thinking of Mr Greyson.”
She puffed out her cheeks. Darcy saw it, and in an impatient tone, added, “It is your wellbeing that concerns me, not my own.” He clamped his mouth closed and stared directly ahead, his jaw clenched and his countenance severe.
Elizabeth smirked. If one was going to be an awful object, one might as well be an awfully handsome one. She ceased walking, put her hands on her hips and attempted in vain to conceal the grin onher lips. “If you do not tell me what the matter is, I shall be forced to conclude ’tis I who has vexed you.”
He turned to face her, wincing as though pained. “It is you, woman!” The look he gave her belied his claim, however. “You would push me?” he enquired softly. “Very well. Though it would be more accurate to say torture than vex.”
Her heart began to pound as he took up her hands and tenderly removed her gloves. “All day I have watched these hands toying with your hair, pouring tea, playing the pianoforte.” One after the other, he lifted them to his lips and kissed them. “All day I have watched those eyes sparkle and laugh at the world.” His gaze fell to her mouth. “All day, I have watched these lips talk, smile, and hum.” He slid a hand around the back of her neck. “To see another man’s hands upon you was insufferable.” He leant closer, ’til she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. “I would make you mine.The wait is torture.”
His kiss was barely gentle, his struggle for restraint unmistakable. Elizabeth’s heart was thundering too loudly to be discouraged by so trifling a thing as temperance, however. They were to be married within the week and given the day’s objectionable events, she was sure a little less restraint would be entirely forgivable. She lifted onto her toes to press herself against him and held his face with both hands, encouraging him to kiss her more deeply.
With an inarticulate groan, he thrust both arms around her and pulled her closer than ever before. His hands ran a path up and down her back, settling finally upon her hips. His mouth left hers and rained kisses along her jaw, down to her collarbone and farther, to the swell of her breasts at her neckline, making her gasp. Driven by a passion altogether unknown to her, she drew her hands down over his chest and without overmuch consideration, unbuttoned his waistcoat. He seemed not to notice until she slid her hands around his broad back and gripped his shirt in her fists, tugging him roughly against her.
He brought his mouth back to hers with a kiss that felt as hard and unyielding as had his previous restraint; yet, just as she thought to abandon herself to his passion, he withdrew it. With a groan that clearly evinced his reluctance, he ceased his ardent kiss. Cradling her face, he peppered her lips with light, chaste touches until, finally, he dropped his hands to her shoulders and pushed her gently away.
“Marry me,” he said gruffly.
She laughed breathlessly. “I shall have to now. That was a rather damning embrace.”
He smiled faintly but shook his head. “Now. Marry me now. I cannot survive until Tuesday.”
She smiled broadly and began buttoning his waistcoat. “If it is any consolation you have at least succeeded in making my anticipation as great as your own.”
“GoodGod, would you desist your torture, woman!”
Before she could reply, however, he kissed her again—one last, passionate kiss that devastated her equanimity and proved he was not without the talent for torture himself.
“The ladies are in the drawing room, sir,” Peabody informed Bingley when he, Darcy and Fitzwilliam arrived home later that evening.
“Then be a fellow and bring us some supper to the library, would you?” he replied. It was late, his day had been atrocious, and he was in no humour to make small talk with his sisters.
His failure to save Elizabeth weighed heavily upon him. He had desperately wanted to, but the rug in the hall had hindered his flight from the house, and by the time he recovered his footing, Fitzwilliam had escorted Greyson off the premises, and Darcy had led Elizabeth back inside. He had been too late to help her. Again.
“Is there any brandy in the library?” Fitzwilliam enquired.
“You drank me dry the last time you were he—” He gave a muffled grunt as he bumped headlong into Elizabeth, who was coming out of the library. She stumbled backwards, landing heavily on the floor.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, partly in apology, partly in chagrin as he belatedly recognised her as the maid with Elizabeth’s eyes.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Bingley, sir. I was lightin’ the candles.”
“No, no,” he replied, leaning down to assist her to her feet. “That is neither here nor there. Are you hurt?”
“Strike me!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “I thought for a moment you had smuggled Elizabeth back here with you, Darcy.”
Amelia took the opportunity to give a quick curtsy and dart away into the shadows.
“She looks nothing like Elizabeth,” Darcy remarked airily, walking past Bingley into the library.
“Not a mirror image, I grant you,” Fitzwilliam replied, following him in. “But an uncommon likeness, you must admit. Wherever did she come from, Bingley?”
He shrugged. “I have nothing to do with hiring the housemaids.”
That settled the matter, but Bingley was too uneasy to attend to the conversation thereafter. Such was his discomfiture that, after only a few minutes, he invented a spurious pretext and made his excuses. His surprise could not have been greater when he opened his study door to discover Amelia now lighting the candles in there.
