My shock at his declaration was such that I gasped. "Are you referring to the gentleman or the dog?" I had given the dog a good long pat when we returned home. Darcy surely was alluding to that, because he could not possibly be suggesting I had been inappropriately attentive to Sir Sebastian Seymour.
"You know very well I am referring to the gentleman."
"I do not know it. I spoke to him often, of course. He sat next to me at dinner. He was my whist partner! I realize you might think it perfectly permissible to remain silent even at a party, but most people find it uncomfortable."
"Your attention was more than mere politeness. You were flirting with him. Your reputation cannot bear even slight indiscretions such as that."
"Flirting with him! You think I was flirting with him?"
"I know you were."
"I did no such thing. I am perhaps a little more playful than some ladies—"
"I know of your teasing nature this was more than that—."
"It was not!"
"I see from your surprise that it was not intentional, however I noticed your flirtation—as did others. In the future I urge you to be more circumspect."
"People are reading too much into an innocent situation. Sir Sebastian is just gregarious—like Mr. Bingley, you do not have any objections to me speaking to Mr. Bingley, do you?”
"Sir Sebastian is quite a bit less benign than Bingley."
I recognized the truth of his statement immediately. I had had a nagging feeling ever since I met Sir Sebastian Seymour this morning. He was both too flattering and too familiar.As Mr. Wickham had been. But not every genial young man was a Mr. Wickham, surely.
"Sir Sebastian is undeniably an outrageous flirt, but he is well aware I am married. It is all harmless."
"I would argue the fact that you are married—which I am relieved to find you remember—is what makes it not at all harmless. People will already be inclined to think the worst of you, making a display of yourself by flirting with a man with a reputation for pursuing married ladies who has been in more than one duel as a result of his folly, will ensure you will never be accepted by good society."
"Sir Sebastian has a reputation," I murmured not really intending Darcy to hear.
"Yes. Lady Truesdell should not have invited him, but I believe she has a soft spot for him," sounding more than a little resentful he added, "Most ladies do it would seem."
"But he watches birds . . . how could he partake in duels?" I whispered nonsensically. I do not know why I found this information so shocking. Perhaps because it confirmed, once again, I was not the good judge of character I had thought.
"I do not think the enjoyment of bird watching precludes someone from dueling, Elizabeth," he said gently.
I must have appeared even more affected by his tidings than I felt, because he was looking at me sort of pityingly. He stepped closer to me and took both my hands in his.
Well, this is strange. I think it was meant as comforting gesture. But while his touch does not bring discomfort exactly, it is not making me feel at all soothed. At initial contact I felt the same reaction I have experienced the other times when I had touched him; it feels like the momentary terror a sudden stumble brings before the correction when one is certain one will fall. Now having had time to adjust to the sensation it just feels odd.
Perhaps Mr. Darcy is feels the same, he is certainly looking at me rather oddly.
"I should not have framed this conversation as a critique of your behavior."
Ah, I see. Darcy looks odd when he admits he is wrong. Not something he is used to doing, I suppose.
"Well . . . I should not have acted so familiar with Sir Sebastian . . . it was just that he was so helpful to me this morning. . . ." I trailed off having misplaced my thought.
Darcy was still looking at me very oddly. And it seems to me it is not the sort of oddness of one who is doing something that makes them uncomfortable, rather it is the oddness of one who has found a delicious piece of cake and intends to eat every crumb. IfI was cake his expression would not be odd as that is a perfectly reasonable intention to have towards cake, but I am not cake.
And he was not just looking at me, he was staring specifically at my mouth. Why on earth was he staring like that? He had looked at me like this before, on the night of the ripped bodice—the night my life as the carefree Elizabeth Bennet came to an abrupt and tragic end.
At the time, I had thought he was going to kiss me. Why a man would kiss a woman he was arguing with, a woman he found only tolerable, I could not think, but now . . . well, I still can not explain why he would kiss me.
But Mr. Darcy is going to kiss me.
Nine
