She sounded more assured, as if the thought of these relations gave her strength. It was none of his business; he was duty-bound to carry her wherever she wished. However, if he recalled correctly, was this not her mother’s brother? Could the man, a merchant, be trusted?
“If you are certain of a welcome,” he said warily, “then of course.”
“I am.” She took a deep breath. “I think I can walk now.”
Darcy realised that his arm was still about her; she was, undoubtedly, wishing for distance. He removed it, grateful that she was more composed but regretting theloss. He stood, holding out his hand to her. She bit her lip. Was she reluctant to take it, to re-enter the carriage with him? Did she no longer trust him?
“If I fall upon my face, do catch me, will you?” She smiled at him, a little crookedly, and the relief he felt was beyond anything. He smiled back.
“Word of honour,” he murmured.
Taking his proffered hand, she allowed him to ease her up. He gave her his arm, and together they walked back to the carriage; she trembled a little, he noticed. She was not so steady as she pretended. He handed her in, and then seated himself opposite. Even though their knees were nearly touching, she seemed much too far away. He longed for her nearness, to hold her once again.
For several minutes after the coach was underway, they were silent. As for himself, he did not know what to say. Did she remember what had happened between them? If he apologised, would it only embarrass her? And then—most importantly—the question now constantly circling his brain: Should he offer for her?
The idea did not fill him with the alarm he had once supposed it might. Yes, he would have some work to do in order to compensate an absent settlement, but he was prospering; there was no reason to believe his children would go hungry or Pemberley would suffer, whether or not he married a woman of wealth. Was not a woman of Elizabeth’s beauty and spirit worth a thousand fortunes?
And yet…therewasher family to consider.
At last night’s ball, Miss Lydia and Miss Catherine hadmade numerous trips to the punch bowl, their flirtatious laughter growing ever louder as the evening wore on, their behaviour towards the officers outrageously appalling. In an obviously hungry bid for attention, Miss Mary had displayed her ‘talent’ at the pianoforte, without interruption, for far too long—seemingly unaware that she ought to surrender the instrument to anyone else. The idea of introducinganyof those younger girls to Lord and Lady Matlock was off-putting. Elizabeth’s elder sister had almost completely entrapped Bingley; after Sir William’s words of anticipation regarding a wedding between them, he had carefully observed Miss Bennet. Her manner, like Elizabeth’s, was in every way proper, but there was absolutely no sign of especial attachment. For all he knew, this was yet another, albeit subtler, scheme of Mrs Bennet’s, to foist her daughter upon a hapless young man while encouraging the entire community’s expectations.
But there were worse considerations—namely, Elizabeth’s words spoken in defence of Wickham. Was she taken with the scoundrel? She did not, could not truly know him; it was not within her power to discover his practised deceptions. Ought he to explain something of his past association with the man? Everything within him rebelled at the idea of even speaking his name, bringing him into what had thus far been one of the oddest and yetrightestmornings of his life.
Unfortunately, Wickham was already here, a poisonous echo of their history—almost a physical presence in thecarriage. So numerous were his reflections, so lost was he within them, that he nearly startled when she spoke.
“Please, tell me the truth, sir,” she said, head bent, her voice low and serious. “Did I…did I brazenly attack you?”
He leant forward, not nearly as close as he wanted to be, but closing some of the distance between them.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said.
She would not look at him, so he gently lifted her chin with one finger. “I knew you were not yourself. I ought to have stopped you. I could have, and yet…the truth is, I forgot myself. You are, to me…” Darcy floundered, searching for words adequately describing his infatuation, his affection. “I had not known you a week before I regretted the poor first impression I gave of myself. You are surely the handsomest woman I know.”
Her mouth opened, her eyes widening. “That is not possible. Please, sir, you need not invent flattery. I understand I was not…I was not well. I wish to apologise for what happened, and promise that you need never worry that any word will ever escape this carriage. My uncle and aunt are most trustworthy. If you could only see your way to forgetting this entire day, you would have my sincerest appreciation.”
“How I could possibly forget the best few minutes of the last year is beyond me,” he said a little drily, remembering those sweet, scorching kisses.
He meant it in acknowledgement of their mutually thwarted passion; shemustknow what she had done to him, what she did to him even now, sitting so near, herlips still swollen from his kisses returned so passionately by her own, her hair in wild disarray from the way he had mussed it within his desire.
But her expression turned to dismay. “You would not…surely you would not go to all the trouble to rescue me, only to see me ruined? If anyone were to hear?—”
He sat up straight. “You cannot believe I would do that,” he said, much offended.
“I hope you would not.”
She sounded doubtful. How could she distrust him? He had changed all of his plans and practically thrown himself at her feet in effecting this rescue! She ought to be looking at him with admiration, gratitude even. Did she believe he would make love toanyonehe was alone with? There was a man she knew who would, but it was not him.
The ugly spectre of Wickham’s influence forced itself again to the forefront of his mind. Was she, even now, wishing thathehad been her rescuer, her knight in shining armour?Hah!If Wickham found himself alone like this with her, he would not hesitate to seduce her. If seduction did not achieve the result he coveted—and even though she was a young lady of good birth—he might, probablywouldtake what was not offered freely, and blame her for all of it.
Elizabeth had kissedhim, first! Yes, he had not thrown her off, but he had hardly pressed his advantage, either. A cold feeling crept down his spine, chilling him. In her dazed state, had she been imagining another? Had it beenWickham’s eyes she had seen, when she looked into his? Wickham’s mouth to which she had wished to join her lips? A tiny voice in his brain urged him to say nothing more, but frustration, repressed desire, pride, and…yes, hurt, all combined to silence it.
“My mother was the daughter of an earl. My father’s family has owned a goodly portion of Derbyshire for over a century and a half.Yourmother drugged you and nearly handed you over to your moronic cousin! Which of us, I wonder, could be thought most trustworthy?”
“That is certainly a self-righteous stance you take,” she snapped, “considering the unjust and ungenerous part you acted inyourfriendship with another.”
He had been correct. Wickham lived in her mind and heart.
“You refer to Mr Wickham, I suppose,” he spat. “You take an eager interest in that man’s affairs.”
