“Thank you for explaining my feelings to me so fully,” he said, frustration in his voice. “Has it occurred to you that you might be wrong? That your father will beunable to prevent rumour and scandal, affecting not only you but your sisters as well? That not everyone will think Collins’s tales ridiculous? That you might be exposing us both to the world for disgrace and dishonour?”
It was hard to hear the anger and hurt in his tone. It was difficult to consider that her choices now might poorly reflect upon her sisters. She did not know whether she loved him; her feelings had only recently undergone a rapid transformation. But she knew that, once she had accepted as fact a belief that they were married, she had felt neither panic over the future nor distress in the present. Instead, it had been as though she had been handed a gift; upon opening it, she had glimpsed something of inexpressible value, a dream she had never dared to dream.
Now she was tossing the gift back at him, as if it were worthless.
“I do this for you,” she made herself say. “Your honour demands immediate action—you are literallyunableto do aught but try to protect me. I also do this for me—lest with any and every future disagreement, I wonder how many regrets you harbour over this day.”
His jaw firmed at her words as the silence grew fraught between them. Abruptly, however, he sighed. In that sigh, she heard acceptance.
He sees the sense in it now, she thought, even as regret filled her. Had she wanted him to argue? Refuse to take ‘no’ for an answer?
Yes, her fickle heart answered for her. Yet, her sensible brain realised his cooperation was for the best.
For what seemed an endless time, they sat in a silence grown miserable, at least to her—side by side, but as if a brick wall had arisen between them. The well-sprung carriage swayed with the undulations of a rough patch of road beneath the wheels.
“Can you give me your uncle’s direction? I will relay it to Frost at our next stop.”
It was nothing less than what she had asked for—to be taken elsewhere, away from him. But regret was an ache in her heart and a lump in the pit of her throat. Quietly, she gave him the information. He only nodded in response, and silence fell again.
The night was cold. She had not noticed it before, but now that she had no distractions it was positively frigid. She wrapped her arms around herself, wretched, and tried not to think, not to remember, not to hurt.
But his words would not leave her mind.
“To call you wife would be an honour and privilege for any man. I understand you do not know me well. I beg that I might be given a chance to earn your respect.”
“I have been dying for this—to hold you, to kiss you, to make you mine.”
“Because I love you.”
She was trying so hard to do what was right, what was best—only to have his words haunting and taunting the honour she attempted. In situations such as these, a good memory was unpardonable! Why was it so difficult toleave him, when she had known him so little? Yesterday, she had thought them practically enemies! Beyond that, she was fatigued, heartsick, and freezing. The first tear fell, and then another. She did her best to weep silently, desperately not wanting him to know, but even a small sniffle sounded loud in the quiet between them. Perhaps, however, he would politely pretend not to notice, thereby leaving her dignity intact.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low. “Come here.” He turned towards her, breaching the invisible distance, pulling her into his arms.
Instead of refusing as she ought, she went easily, burrowing into his warmth willingly, allowing him to cradle her unresistingly as he wrapped the edges of his greatcoat around her and held her close.
“You are so cold,” he said, by way of excuse for both of them. It was an insufficient one; he might have offered to give her the coat instead.
But it was the last time she would ever feel his arms around her, safe and soothing. One final memory to cherish, as the sound of horse hooves and the grind of carriage wheels against the gravel, his strong heartbeat beneath her head, created an odd sort of lullaby. Her tears dried almost instantly on her cheeks within the peace of it, and—though she tried to fight it, to stay awake, to relish every remaining moment—between one breath and the next, she slept.
CHAPTER 9
Darcy held Elizabeth in his arms for the rest of the journey. She stirred a bit when Frost stopped just beyond the outskirts of London, but he was able to give directions to Gracechurch Street without waking her. She was exhausted, the poor girl; he admitted, if only to himself, that he was glad of it. Had she possessed her full strength, she would never have allowed him to continue the embrace—even though it was only Frost, his trusted coachman, who saw it.
In the meantime, he memorised every inch of her face in the unsatisfactory flashes of carriage lantern lights through the window—high cheekbones, perfectly shaped lips he longed to kiss again, thick lashes resting against the pale, perfect beauty of her skin.
He wanted her, oh yes, that. Holding her like this was exquisite torture. Yet, it was not all desire, as she feared.
How stupid I was,to remind her of the flaws of her mother andsisters when she already was feeling such mortification!She truly was the victim of her mother’s machinations, had already made clear that she did not expect him to receive Mrs Bennet—and while her sisters had shown themselves to be undisciplined, that, too, was a failing of their parents. Elizabeth’s behaviour was always faultless, as was her elder sister’s.
It was not as though his own family was perfect. His uncle, though an earl, constantly overspent his means, while his aunt, the widow of a wealthy baronet, preferred to talk instead of listen, meddling in the lives of everyone around her without doing anything to improve them. He was powerless to change either of them—indeed, it had never before occurred to him that he ought to try. Why had he even mentioned his distaste for her family members? Had he expected her to rejoice in his critical opinions? No, he had only succeeded in making her feel more deeply their differences, emphasising a fearful approach to the future.
Her father had chosen poorly, a once pretty girl of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. Nevertheless, her eldest daughters were lovely women of charm and steady disposition. To that, Elizabeth added poise, a clever wit, a happy nature, a keen intelligence, and exceptional fortitude. He could not think of another who could have withstood the day she had just endured with such grace and courage.
She had wakened that morning with a poor opinion of him, thanks to Wickham—and thanks to his own refusalto counter any of Wickham’s deceits, to give her or anyone else a reason to think better of him. After beingpoisonedby her mother and believing herself married to him, she had nevertheless proceeded to ‘make the best of a bad situation’—by joining him in a passion he had never dreamt. Deep down, Elizabeth trusted him—without it, she never could have responded as she had. Many women would be eager to wed him simply due to his wealth and standing; she thought only of whether they could truly be happy together.
She did not wish to repeat her parents’ mistakes, of course—but theycouldavoid them. His thoughtless pride had caused their current rift; he only needed to be the gentleman he had been raised to be, to continually show her, by every civility within his power, her importance to him and his respect for her and for those she loved.
Would she give him the opportunity to prove his worth? Would this be the last time he would ever hold her? He did his best to stay fixed in the present, to cherish these moments of closeness—but with every passing minute, he grew more and more aware that he was about to deliver her to unknown relations who may or may not be amenable to his continued interest in her life. He could not know whether they would allow her to stay in London, or if she might be whisked away elsewhere. His future—once so staid, so predictable—had become a great unknown.
