Just as she came to this conclusion, Molly stuck her head in, startling Elizabeth from her reverie; she stood, motioning the maid into the adjoining sitting room, that their conversation might not awaken her sister.
“Excuse me, ma’am, I only wanted to tell ye—your trunk arrived from Stoke just now, and I had it put in your chamber. Might I unpack it for ye?”
“My trunk?” Elizabeth repeated blankly, she was so astonished. Her surprise was followed by a burst of gratitude towards Mrs Heartly, who must have again risked the disapproval of her employer in order to have some necessities delivered. It took another moment to remember to express appreciation to Molly for the offer.
After the maid’s departure, Elizabeth returned to her sister’s bedside, staring down upon Jane’s sleeping countenance. There was one problem solved, in the matter of more appropriate clothing. The other two—Jane’s silence and Mr Darcy—remained.
Being held within his arms had been the most wondrous, exciting thing to happen in…well, ever. She had known, with a feminine instinct, that had she lifted her face to his, he would have kissed her. What then? She did not know, hadneverknown what it would be like to have a manwantto kiss her, much less towantto kiss one in return. To want anything at all from a man in the way of affection, much less lust, was as unfamiliar as it was astonishing.
Lust is all it is, she scolded herself. Those matrons had provided an education on that, too—one that, in past years, had only caused a revulsion and embarrassment she had struggled to keep hidden. Where were those emotions now, when she needed them most? Not anywhere to be found when they would be useful—for instance while experiencing his heat and scent, the strength of him, the press of his body against hers. What was more, a slow burn within her had been ignited, a fire she could not seem to crush whether or not he was even in the room.
Nevertheless, she had decided on a life for herself—a life where no one would ever again force her to give her mind and body, her decision-making freedom, over to another, and where no one could ever again hurt or misuse her. She would travel, see the pyramids of Egypt and the canals of Venice, fill her life with adventure, art, architecture, learning. She was no fool; in the circles Mr Darcy inhabited—those of the wealthy, the powerful—they all married each other. They didnotwed impoverished widows from nowhere in particular.She was not stupid; if he offered anything at all, it would be a brief affair, and the most she could hope for at its end would be a piece of jewellery when he tired of her. Even if he did somehow offer the permanence of marriage—a notion too ridiculous to seriously consider—beautiful women would be throwing themselves at him all his life. Plenty ofthemwould be happy to accept that jewellery, trophies proving they had managed to capture a particle of his affection and attention—however fleeting. She had lived it once already—a different situation, but still as a powerless wife, helpless to change any of what was wrong in her life; she could not do that again.
After all her internal lectures, however, she returned to her chamber to change into a more presentable gown. Perhaps, afterwards, she might go to the library and see if there were any books of interest—maybe of a country she had not yet researched. And she knew, even as she tried to convince herself that immediate departure was the wisest choice, that she was going to stay at least one more day.
Darcy stared at the page without seeing a single word on it. Instead, he only saw Elizabeth’s smiling visage and his friend’s deeply interested expression of the night before. He saw Bingley leading her into his study, ostensibly to show her his ‘snuff box collection’. Yes, yes, of course he had one, and never mind that his study was directly beyond the drawing room, that the doors remained open, and that he could hear Bingley’s chatter—or at least that hewaschattering, and not taking advantage of having a beautiful woman alone, out of direct sight of the company.
But no one—and certainly not the clever ElizabethAshwood—could possibly bethatinterested in such an uninspiring topic. Then again, a shrewd woman might use such a tactic to attract the interest of an otherwise naïve male. And it had worked, had it not? Bingley had grownprovokinglyinterested. Her insipid questions had floated across the length of the drawing room.
“Truly? That many? Which is the oldest of your collection? Do you know anything of its history?” On and on it went, each enquiry more banal than the last. Not to Bingley, however. He ate up the attention like a famished shark within a school of small fish. The remembrance was infuriating.
The library door squeaked as someone entered; as he was seated near the fireplace on the opposite side of the room, he saw who it was well before he was seen.
Elizabeth!Without even glancing about to see whether she was alone in the chamber, she shut the door behind her, walking directly to the sparsely populated bookshelves. He had a perfect view of her in profile.
Darcy nearly swallowed his tongue.
She was clad in a burgundy velvet that coasted over her figure like a cascade of wine; her sleeves were long, but puffed at the shoulders and tied with flirtatious dark satin bows that seemed to point to the squared, deep-set neckline. While not precisely immodest, in comparison with the ugly, dingy dress he had become accustomed to seeing her wear since her arrival, it was provocative in the extreme. This one displayed her figure to a degree he foundinflammatory.
Worse, it was all his own fault. He had decided to take his man out to Stoke to procure some clothing and necessities for Elizabeth—especially since it had become clear thatFanny Ashwood had no intention of doing so. In that lady’s fortunate absence, he had interviewed Stoke’s housekeeper, who had been very glad to see that Elizabeth’s belongings were gathered, giving the maid specific instructions about what should be packed. The housekeeper was obviously quite fond of her former mistress, and his perception of Fanny Ashwood’s hatred of her had been, plainly, correct.
“I’ve been hoping for a way to send these over without the mistress knowing,” Mrs Heartly had told him bluntly, after he had reassured her that no one would discover it from him. “You never saw such a frightened tiny chick as when she came here for the first time—all eyes and feigned bravery, she was. Old Mr Ashwood was a good man, but I thought at the time, lord almighty, what have you done now? But come to find out, she is as steady and unshakeable as a person could be, right there beside him during every illness—and he had many. Smartest thing he ever done was to marry her, and ’tis a rotten shame how she’s treated now.”
Then, as if he had not learnt enough about the horrible state of affairs with the Ashwoods, she had escorted him to the dower house, Elizabeth’s abode; he had been appalled. “Is that even safe?” he had asked, and Mrs Heartly had sighed.
“She doesn’t use most of it,” was all she would say.
Well. There was nothing frightened or chick-like about Elizabeth any longer. He could not believe that every garment in that trunk would be this…enticing. Had she selected the dress most likely to capture Bingley’s eye? Her hair was styled more softly now—she had removed her usual lace cap, her tight bun loosened, tendrils floating around her face, putting images in a man’s head of how she might look lying upon his pillows. Had capturing a new, younger husband become her goal?
Bingley was naïve, but he was neither blind nor stupid. A man would have to be both to ignore the way Elizabeth Ashwood looked now, a tormenting angel framed by gilded afternoon sunlight and a cloud of red velvet.Damnation.
15
THE TRUTH WILL OUT
Elizabeth studied the meagre titles available to her in Netherfield’s library, weighing the merits between a mediocre history of Roman architecture or a Latin primer, when an odd, tingling feeling travelled up her spine—as if she were being watched. The library, seeming the least-used room in this entire house—this was her third visit, and it had always before been empty—it had not occurred to her to inspect it for the presence of others.
Slowly, she turned.
The person she most and least wanted to see in the world, Mr Darcy, sat upon the sofa nearest the fire like a king upon his throne, his expression brooding.Off with their heads, his countenance seemed to say. Her heart began thrumming a frantic beat, one not quite fear and not quite yearning.
“Mr Darcy! How you startled me!”
“Did I?” he replied.
The kindly, interested man of yesterday was gone as if he had never been.A man of mercurial temperament, she toldherself. A part of her mind protested this description, however, telling her it was nothing of the sort. This newly discovered, incomprehensible side of her responded to his dangerous looks with the urge to incite more of them. Clamping down on the unacceptable woman within, she seized the first book her hand fastened upon, without any idea of its title.
“I apologise for disturbing you,” she made herself say. “I will leave you to your reading.” Turning away from him, clutching the book to her breast with one hand, she beat a hasty retreat, reaching for the door, for flight, for safety.
