“My mother is…” She paused, trying to be fair. “For one thing, Mama and I are as unalike as it is possible for two people to be. She has not ever understood, for instance, how I can get caught up reading a book and forget time utterly, or why in the world I would prefer to walk through the woods instead of spending those same hours in the shops selecting ribbons. She has been unhappy with me since birth—she was utterly convinced I would be a boy, you see, and as our estate was entailed upon Mr Collins, she never forgave me for my sex.”
“But she forgave all your other sisters for theirs?”
She smiled grimly. “I believe she adjusted her expectations afterwards, at least to a certain degree. I was the first disappointment. Besides, I was not an easy child, forever asking questions or jumping in puddles and muddying my hems. Especially in comparison to Jane, who is the most biddable creature in the world; to Mama, I seemed a punishment.”
He squeezed the arm he held. “I would prefer a little girl, I think, who would come to her mama and papa with her questions, who wished to ramble through Pemberley’s woods with me, and who would not cry about a little mud.”
Her smile grew real.
“I am certain you are a rarity amongst gentlemen,” she replied. “Papa did not mind my questions, but he was not much for rambling through forests. He much preferred his book-room.”
“That is where your love of reading comes from,” he observed.
“I suppose it is.”
“What was your mother’s complaint today?”
“She is convinced that the unmarried women of the neighbourhood are on the prowl for the notice of Mr Collins while his foolish wife is languishing, not trying hard enough to recover…and perhaps that Jane is also attempting to earn the attentions of Mr Bingley. Mama claims she is losing the respect of her peers and the affections of her husband with every moment she lies abed at Netherfield.”
He could not disguise his surprise at these conclusions, and Elizabeth could not blame him.
“I find it highly unlikely that anyone could seriously undermine Mr Collins’s obvious affections for his wife. As for the other, while I admit that Bingley’s partiality for Mrs Collins is excessive, your sister I have also watched. Her look and manners have been open, cheerful, and engaging, but without any symptom of peculiar regard. I remained convinced that although she seems to receive his attentions with pleasure, she does not invite them by any participation of sentiment.”
“I agree with you. But Mama will not listen to me. Sheconsiders I have failed at my marriage by failing to produce a child, and thus my opinions are meaningless.” It hurt to say it aloud, but it was truthful. “Consider, sir, as Miss Bingley has pointed out—what a charming mother-in-law she would make you.”
“I would gladly see it happen, were you to agree to wed me.”
“Yet another inequality between us. You have already met my brother Collins, and I cannot believe he has impressed you. I have confessed to you Jane’s worst moments, and you have heard rumours of my youngest sister’s frivolous behaviour. Pray, sir, what have I to recommend me?” She said this lightly, as if she was not embarrassed and appalled; naturally, she was, but they were still her family, and she loved them all—even her frustrating, pig-headed mother, who listened to far too much gossip and let her anxieties rule her sense.
“You have yourself, and it is more than enough.”
She halted along the gravelled path, looking up at him. “How can you mean this? Your family would be scandalised by mine.”
Instead of answering her, he bent to press his lips to hers. He moved slowly, giving her time to look away if she did not want it—and yet, she did not. Their mouths clung together, wordlessly revealing all the intensity of the connexion they somehow shared. He stepped even closer, surrounding her with strong arms and heat, a shield not only from the cold, but from all in her life that was difficult. Before she knew it, her hands were in the thick mink of his hair and his were in hers, pulling out pins with ruthless disregard until it tumbled down her shoulders and her hat fell unheeded to the ground.
“Great gads, Elizabeth, your hair. It is so extraordinary. I have longed to see it this way.”
He kissed her again, and she nearly lost herself in the flames of desire. It was not only the feel of him, the strength of him, the passion of him—although those were each delicious on their own. It was the idea thatshecould experience this building blaze of sensation, instead of fear and revulsion. She had long ago abandoned such notions, and to embrace them now was astounding. It was Darcy who broke away, who turned his back, who exercised a restraint she could not seem to muster.
“I am sorry,” he said, from a few feet away. “I beg your forgiveness.”
“You have it,” she replied, but her voice sounded low and trembling and not at all like her own. To her surprise, he removed his gloves, bent down and gathered up the pins he had so carelessly discarded. Then he stood, turned her, and with confident hands, she felt him gathering her tresses, working with them.
“Are you braiding my hair?” she asked incredulously, unable to fathom how he would even know such a skill.
“’Tis easier to pin up that way,” he replied nonchalantly.
Amazement filled her, and something else too—incredulity. She certainly had never met anyone like him. “I cannot believe you would…you can do this,” she murmured.
“Long ago, when Georgiana was very young and our mother was dying, she would throw awful fits about permitting her hair to be brushed,” he explained. “Her nurses despaired of it becoming anything except a rat’s nest. When I was down from school, I had the idea of trying my hand at it, and to my surprise, she allowed it. I managed a simple braid or two. In time, I became rather adept.”
It was a kindness such as Elizabeth had never imagined from a young man, and her heart ached a little, hearing of it. It was not long until her appearance was repaired and he pinned her hat again in place; she felt his lips touch a particularly sensitive point where her neck met her shoulder, and she shivered. Turning, she faced him.
“You make an astonishingly excellent lady’s maid,” she said, grinning up at him.
“Do not give me more ideas,” he said, his voice roughening. “Believe me when I say, the pleasure was all mine.”
They had resolved nothing; her family was still a tangle, her investments in disorder, his proposal a reckless disregard for their inequalities. Nevertheless, she took his arm, preparing to return to the house, her heart lighter than it had been in years.
