“Lizzy, come with me, now!” Mrs Bennet pulled her daughter to the side, attempting to get around him. “Mr Collins, forget this nonsense and help her into the carriage!”
“Miss Elizabeth is going nowhere with the two of you,” he said, stepping in front of the pair of women, effectively blocking their path forward. “Anyone can see she is not in her right mind.”
“Simply because she does not care for you—and had the courage to say so to your face—does not render her irrational. I daresay women have been lying to you for a chance at your fortune for years,” Mrs Bennet snapped, clearly furious.
Elizabeth was searching the sky again. Taking anotherstep forward, Darcy firmly tugged her away from Mrs Bennet’s hold, placing his hands on either side of her face so that she was forced to look directly at him.
“Do you understand that your mother is attempting to force you into a marriage with your cousin, Mr William Collins?”
As she gazed into his eyes, her own beautiful dark ones filled with tears. “You were unkind,” she whispered, and though her speech was not pristine, and she tripped over some of the syllables, he understood well enough what she said next. “Why not…simply say … in no mood to dance?” A single tear spilled over, and he slid his thumb across it, his heart aching. How he wished he had never attended that stupid assembly! But she was not finished tearing his integrity to shreds. “I love to dance,” she sighed, still swaying to an invisible rhythm, still peering up at the clouds. “Dance with the…clumsy. The ugly. The awkward. No matter. To twirl, to whirl. Freedom, for an hour. But you…” Her eyes rested again directly upon him. “You ensured I knew I…no better than something scraped off your shoe. You, sir, are no mentalgem. Genmaltem.”
“Gentleman,” he said, helping her. He forgot their audience, and even his purpose in being there, only wishing he could feel the delicate skin of her cheeks through his gloves, longing to kiss away those tears. “I am sorry,” he said softly. “I have regretted those words many times. You are correct. I am a brute.”
“Mr Darcy,” came a somewhat frantic cry from Collins. “I apologise if my cousin, in a moment of forgetfulness,neglected to demonstrate all the respect due your consequence. I beg your forgiveness and can assure you that, as her husband, I will ensure such insolence never occurs again.” He cleared his throat and drew his bulky form up even taller. “Miss Elizabeth, I order you to proceed at once to the carriage. You may regard my instruction as a command.”
Darcy gave him a sour look, but the interruption did remind him of his purpose. “Miss Elizabeth is plainly out of her senses. Taking her to a church in this condition, with intent to wed, is not simply illegal, it is immoral. It is depraved.”
“There is nothing the matter with her that a wedding, with its accompanying joy, would not resolve. This is none of your affair, Mr Darcy,” Mrs Bennet retorted.
“Now, now,” Collins reproached, “we none of us wish to cause offence in so illustrious and honourable a person as the nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. He simply misunderstands the situation. Mr Darcy, Miss Elizabeth has given me her assurances that she wishes for the marriage to take place. I have a licence! A licence!”
To Darcy’s amazement, he extracted a piece of paper from his pocket and fluttered it before them both like a banner, continuing his chatter.
“Possibly you mistake my bride’s liveliness and high spirits for conduct instigated by less flattering motives. However, I can reassure you that nothing such as you imagine is the source of her behaviour. Once she is my wife, I shall assist in refining her comportment to matchthat exhibited in the higher circles which I have the good fortune to inhabit regularly, and which, naturally, she shall wish to emulate.”
“I do not criticiseher, you dolt,” Darcy snapped. “How can you not see that she is out of her head? Miss Elizabeth,” he said, more sternly this time, desperate to direct her attention to the offence in progress. “Do you understand that your mother is trying to wed you to this buffoon, right now, at this very moment?”
Instead of answering, Elizabeth laid her head on his shoulder. “I am very sleepy.”
Both Collins and Mrs Bennet made their moves—Mrs Bennet attempting to pull her daughter back, Collins trying to shove her away from Mr Darcy and gasping at her effrontery in touching the ‘great man’—but Darcy blocked them both. At that moment, his carriage thankfully turned up the drive. It was plain to him that the only recourse was to carry Elizabeth away from these reprobates until she was in her right mind. If he had to drive all the way to London and back to gain time enough for her to regain her sensibilities, that was what he ought to do.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy asked, “shall I take you for a drive in my carriage?”
She smiled at him. It was answer enough.
“Come,” he said, and lifting her in his arms, strode to meet his oncoming brougham, which stopped beside them several yards away; one of Bingley’s stablemen sprang out to put down the step. As he helped her into the carriage, Darcy glanced back. Collins’s mouth was an ‘o’ of surprise,while Mrs Bennet, her fists clenched and very red in the face, called for him to bring her back this instant. Ignoring them both, he climbed in after Elizabeth, leaving the stableman to return Bingley’s hunter. Settling himself, he knocked on the roof. Moments later, they were off, Elizabeth curled up beside him, a contented smile upon her face.
The situation was, of course, absurd, ridiculous, even offensive.
How was it, then, that it struck him as so oddly right, so impossibly perfect that she be exactly where she was?
“I do not understand,” Mr Collins said, still gaping like a fish. “What has happened?”
Mrs Bennet looked at him with some contempt. During the entire interlude, he had done naught but accuse Lizzy of misbehaviour. Obviously, he worshipped at the altar of the aristocracy and made excuses for every insult. How Mr Darcy had learnt of the morning’s scheme, she could not guess; perhaps it was coincidence. Probably it was. He was departing Netherfield, or so it appeared, and likely come to pay his respects—only to have that fool Mr Collins announce his immediate marriage to Lizzy who acted, to anyone with eyes to see, completely soused. Mr Darcy was arrogant, but hardly stupid.
On the other hand, Mr Collins was the most credulous fellow she had ever had the misfortune to meet. Nevertheless,he had influence, of a sort—with Mr Darcy’s aunt, no less. Perhaps something could be salvaged of the situation. She may have failed to gain the heir of Longbourn estate for Lizzy, but perhaps a marriage was still possible. Mr Darcy might be no worthier, but he was certainly wealthier, more intelligent, and better looking than Mr Collins. She turned to face him.
“What has happened, my dear Mr Collins, is this: Mr Darcy has eloped with your bride.”
CHAPTER 4
Elizabeth wakened gradually, feeling as if she was drifting within a pleasant fog. The first hint she received of something strange afoot was the sound of horses’ hooves blended with the vibrations of carriage wheels rolling upon cobblestone pavers. She must be dreaming, she concluded, a very vivid dream. Perhaps she travelled to Wales; she had always wanted to see it. She had no sooner reached this conclusion when she realised that, rather than the comfort of a seat cushion beneath the weight of her body, she felt something much different. It took her several moments to realise what it was, however; in her foggy state, deducing that she was being held within strong arms, that firm muscles and expensive wool surrounded her, seemed as fantastic as any dream. Opening her eyes required an effort, and at first, everything appeared fuzzily out of focus. Gradually, however, she was able to discern shapes, and finally details.
It began with a chin. That it was a male chin was undeniable—firm, cleft, with a shadow of beard just beginning to show. A thin scar cut through the perfection of its form, running from that chin until it disappeared into the twists and coils of the exquisitely tied cravat framing it. It was a familiar chin, somehow, and yet not Papa’s; as well, neither Papa nor his man would ever expend so much effort on such a knot. Her gaze travelled to his hair, a bit overlong and barely brushing his collar, curling at its ends in just such a non-conformity as to exasperate any good valet. The urge to touch it seemed a natural one; she found it as soft as it appeared.
Her touch moved to the bristled chin, held suddenly still, motionless as a deer once startled. Her vision had not deceived her as to the hardness of its shape. A stubborn chin, she decided. A chin which knew the direction it faced, and was unafraid to travel it. The jaw supporting it was a worthy accessory, squared, determined, unwavering, perhaps even descending into dogged. She reached up farther, to the lips set above it. They ought to be soft, gentle, and tender, to restrain that chin and jaw’s effect upon the whole. Gleefully tracing them with her fingertips, she realised they were everything lips ought to be.
It was absurdly difficult to lift herself so that she could explore further; thankfully, the strong arms supporting her helped, else she would have had lips and chin only, and how foolish a partial face would that be? With his assistance, however, she could now see the nose—a patrician nose, noble, even. A nose perfectly matching thatchin and jawline. A nose of which, undoubtedly, his aristocratic ancestors had pridefully bequeathed to their progeny, an inheritance equally as valuable as castles, forests, and fields. She traced its aquiline shape up to an equally princely brow. The sable brows were soft; the eyes beneath shut, shielded from her explorations.
