Carefully, he cradled her face within his hands, holding her as if she were as fragile as glass. Slowly, so that she could pull away if she did not want this, he lowered his mouth tohers until their lips met softly; hers, tentatively. But he knew what he wanted, and he meant for it to be about her needs, not his. It was a kiss that told her all the words he had no permission, yet, to speak. It was a kiss inviting her to use him—use his strength, use his affection, use his body—to allow him to stand with her, for her. It was a kiss of sparks, not fire—or at least, that was the way it began. To his amazement, Elizabeth pulled him closer, a little mewling sound in her throat that roared through him like a firestorm. He had meant for her to use him; he had not realised that the smallest hint of her pleasure would consume every bit of strength he had.
At that stupid assembly where he had first seen her—a green flame against lesser pastels—he had felt the beginnings of a match to kindling. It had begun in the way she moved, the elegance of it, but also the confidence and the vigour of one who did not know the meaning of lethargy. But that was weeks ago, the tinder of his soul still drenched in the past, and his brain accustomed to ignoring heat and need. These last few days in her company had drained away reluctance and ennui; his heart had been set ablaze, a field of dry straw after the harvest. He moved to kiss the soft skin of her neck, the feel exquisite against lips caught in sensation, her body melting into his as if she was born to live in his arms.
“Does this mean,” he whispered roughly, struggling for control, “that you will consider my proposal?”
She drew back a few inches, not precisely trying to escape his hold, but definitely attempting to gather herself back from the precipice where they both had—recklessly—lingered. Her dark eyes were wide with an emotion that was definitely not fear.
“I deduce that the marriage bed would be a great dealdifferent with you,” she said at last, and once again, Darcy realised how different she was from the Season’s debutantes. For all her innocence, Elizabeth was no green girl. It was not any wonder he had thought her older than she was. “It does not mean that we would be compatible in other ways. It does not mean that you would be happy with me, or I would be happy with you, for the rest of our lives. We are both young, and marriage is permanent. It could be a long time to live in misery, if our affections grew unequal.”
“I believe I can make you happy,” he said, a little annoyed with her talk of misery. This marriage would cost him a great deal of trouble at home, not to mention gossip amongst theton.
To his surprise, she chuckled, a low, sultry sound he had never before heard from her. “Too often people think that happiness is a decision of the heart; it is not, I have learnt. Happiness takes the effort of a willing mind. It takes strength—one fights for it, strives for it, prays for it, insists upon it. I have never known a happy person who was inconsiderate or unpleasant to be with. You said I have been fighting for a long time, and you are right. I learnt, in my first marriage, that if I truly wanted peace, I had to-to fight my own feelings of melancholy. I had to be kind to a man who was a near stranger to me, for whom my natural instinct was to fear. Fortunately, he was no villain; he responded to my efforts with efforts of his own.”
“I am no evil villain, either,” he said, more irritated than ever.
“Of course you are not. No one is perfect. I had bad days and even weeks, when virtue was nowhere to be found in my thoughts or my actions. You are entitled to them as well. But good times or bad, finding tranquillity in my first marriagewas always, always an effort born of determination, of exertion. I—I am tired of forever having to fight to be happy. Sometimes, I want it to simply be. I do not know you well. Some of what I do know is very good. But also, you are a man accustomed to having your way in all things. You are a man whom other women will pursue, as relentlessly as does Miss Bingley.”
“This is a no?” he asked, disappointment, mixed with frustration that she believed him faithless, shredding his hopes. She bit her full lower lip, and his gaze fastened upon the small movement. How could he want her so much, after so short a time?
“I cannot help,” she began warily, “but hope for time—time to discover whether the effort of our mutual happiness would be an endless struggle, or only a constant one.” She ended her sentence on a smile, as if she laughed at herself just a little.
Time. The most reasonable request in the world.Darcy found himself utterly flummoxed by her—and humbled. Once again, he had fallen into the trap of thinking himself deserving of her for no good reason except his own desires. “You are right, as usual,” he said. “I have considered myself a happy man, up until last summer, when Georgiana was so cruelly betrayed. I fear that, caught up in my own regrets, I have not made those personal efforts well enough or often enough.”
“I have seen a different man at Netherfield than I did upon the occasion of our first meeting. First impressions are not always truthful.”
He gave her a wry glance. “I had, just that day of the assembly, received a letter from my cousin Fitzwilliam—Georgiana’s other guardian—giving me further news of herunhappiness and anger. I ought not to have attended that night and inflicted my mood upon others. I owe you an apology.”
“No, you do not. You did not bruise my feelings. I did not think you truly saw me, or meant anything personal by it if you did. But now…if you were to slight me again, itwouldhurt, I think.”
He shook his head, angry with himself. “I am not in the habit of slighting those I care for. But how could you know that? How can you believe that I am to be trusted with your heart, that I would be loyal, with such callous behaviour of mine as you have witnessed?”
To his surprise, Elizabeth moved back into his arms, resting her head upon his chest. He held her as tightly as he dared.
“I want to believe you,” she said. “And…and now, in this moment, Iamtruly, utterly happy. I wish to rest here in it for just a few minutes. I was not expecting this, and it is a gift.”
He tilted up her head, kissing her again, but rather than passion’s conflagration, he offered only the sweetness she ought to have had as a maiden girl—kisses that she, married too young to a man too old, had never had the chance to receive. He made himself stop before desire could heat his blood into forgetfulness once more.
He would dream of her tonight, however. And if these were the only kisses she ever allowed, he would be dreaming of her, only her, for the rest of his life.
18
BYGONES
Elizabeth returned upstairs to Jane after what might be the mostmomentoushour of her life. As she sat beside her sister’s bedside, she realised something: the pain was gone.
The recollection of Jane’s rejection was there, of course; there was no way toun-hear it. But the constant little injury its memory made in her heart seemed scarred over, sealed off…healed, its power to wound her, diminished into nothingness. Jane did not love Elizabeth the way Elizabeth loved Jane—but then, she never had. Her love had never before been tested, not until their father had demanded a choice. Neither man had been a very desirable selection as husband, that was true—but one of them had meant retaining Longbourn, safety, familiarity, and family. Jane had chosen… chosen herself.
It does not mean that Jane is an ‘evil villain’…only that my capacity for love is greater, in some fashion, than hers.And despiteher Fanny-inspired fears, Jane had made herself say all the right things and welcome her sister home after Mr Ashwood’s death. She had never meant for Elizabeth to overhear them.
Had we drawn straws to choose husbands in the beginning, I may have drawn Mr Collins, and even now be married to him. Mr Darcy would have visited, and I would never have allowed myself to even look at him, much less be held within his arms and share kisses both sweet and passionate.She would never have known love, not really, for how could she love someone whose sensibilities she could not respect?I may never yet know it—but the hope is there now, after all this time.
Mrs Hurst chose that moment to look in on their patient; seeing Jane’s slumbering countenance, she only spoke a few quiet words to Elizabeth and then took her leave. As usual, Miss Bingley was nowhere to be seen—but that did not trouble Elizabeth in the least. Truthfully, what she wanted most was quiet—quiet and peace in which to recall every moment with Mr Darcy, and, possibly, to begin to contemplate a different future than the one she had planned for so long. It was both a heady notion and a terrifying one.
Gradually, however, she realised something else, as she sat pondering at the bedside: Jane was only feigning sleep. Her breaths were too even, her eyes hidden beneath an outstretched arm. Suddenly, it all seemed rather silly.
“Jane, you need not pretend. If you do not wish to talk to me, you do not have to. If you wish to be alone, I shall go. If you desire my absence entirely, I will go home. I came here to help you if I could, not be a burden to you.”
For a few moments, her sister did not move and Elizabeth thought she might maintain the pretence. But then sheswiped her arm away, her pretty face appearing chagrined, and she sighed. “Of course I do not wish you to leave.”
