Elizabeth looked drawn and not a little anxious. Whether or not she regretted what had happened, he could not tell. For his part, he regretted placing them in a situation where they might be discovered, but he could not regret knowing that Elizabeth desired him. The memory of her soft and yielding body against his was something he could never lament. Now he faced either apologising to Elizabeth for what happened or telling her how happy it made him.
She looked sad and lonely, seated at the empty table amid the discarded tea things with overturned cups and half-eaten cakes strewn around her. Darcy knelt at her feet and clutched her hands within his. At this moment, he wished nothing more than to gather her in his arms and take her home to Pemberley.
“Elizabeth, dearest, I—”
“Now is not the time.” Elizabeth pulled her hands away and unsteadily rose. Darcy resisted the urge to embrace her again. “What are we to do? The dancing has ceased, and my mother will be looking for me.”
“Will your mother’s carriage be amongst the first called?”
Elizabeth gave a shaky laugh. “No, she is determined to give Mr Bingley ample time with Jane, and our party will be the last to depart so long as he remains.”
“Bingley will remain until he knows I am ready to leave, if not to stay with Jane. I will exit first and tell him that I wish to depart. If your mother is determined to keep them together, she will not be searching for you. You can return while she is focused on Bingley and Jane. There are people still about, and your absence might not be noticed yet.”
She nodded, and when Darcy bent to kiss her good-bye, she turned her head, and his lips landed on her cheek. He hated to leave things strained between them.
“Will you walk out tomorrow morning? Might I meet you on the walk toward Netherfield?”
Elizabeth gazed at the floor. “No, I think not, Mr Darcy. Mr Bingley intended to call on Jane tomorrow afternoon. You may call on us at Longbourn with him.” She smiled, but Darcy saw the tension in her eyes. Wounded at being summarily dismissed by a woman who had been so inviting not a moment ago, Darcy stiffly bowed and left the room.
ChapterThirteen
Elizabeth slept little that night and, in the morning, focused on the consequences of all that had passed with Fitzwilliam at the assembly. The knowledge of what she had done—and of what more she had wantedto do—plagued her. But she loved him, and did not think she could regret it.
What happened was wonderful; there was no other word to describe it.But my respectability is defined by my virtue, and Fitzwilliam must call it into question after last night.
Yet, if she did not fear his total loss of respect for her, she would do it again—and more—in a heartbeat. They would be married by the end of the summer, but had anyone seen them locked in a heated embrace, he would be mortified, as would she.
And she would be the one to bear the blame, not him.
For weeks, she had felt her loyalty shifting away from her parents and sisters toward Fitzwilliam. All she lacked was a ring on her finger, and in her own mind and heart, she felt more like Mrs Darcy than Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Her confession last night had provoked him to admit that he desired her just as desperately and led him to indulge in an intimate moment that he must now regret. Fitzwilliam was nothing if not an arbiter of proper behaviour.
But Fitzwilliam would never despise her. Perhaps his reproof would not be a scathing reprimand full of disappointment in her behaviour, but rather a gentle admonishment. She could promise not to be passionate and bold until after they were married. Hopefully he would not ask for an apology.How could she apologise for actions that not only did not feel wrong, but she would happily repeat if only he were willing?
The only thing to be done is to avoid any time alone with him until we are married.
Given their cool parting the night before, Elizabeth was surprised that Fitzwilliam, along with his friend, called at Longbourn as early as he did. She ventured one embarrassed glance at him and saw that he was watching her intently, as he often did. The last time he appeared so grave, and yet desperate to engage her in conversation, was in Charlotte’s drawing room the morning after his first proposal.
“Ladies, shall we all walk out on this fine day?” Mr Bingley asked with his usual good cheer.
Jane and Kitty agreed, and, predictably, Mary did not. Kitty wished to call on Maria Lucas and left with Jane to get their bonnets. Fitzwilliam rose and offered Elizabeth his hand. The memory of their embrace the last time they climbed the hill made her feel warm. A private moment would either be too enticing for her or allow him to express his disappointment in behaviour he must now, in a calmer moment, find offensive in a woman who was not yet his wife.
“I prefer to remain here. I have letters to write.”
He looked astonished, but he recovered and offered to stay with her, saying he had letters to write as well. Elizabeth had never been so pleased to sit with Mary; she was not prepared to be left alone with him. She was not equal to apologising for actions she could not fully regret, nor was she ready to hear his censure of that less-than-chaste behaviour. She could avoid it all while Mary sat near them making extracts fromFordyce’s Sermons.
“Are you well, Elizabeth?” he asked with concern as he sat next to her. “I do not know you to decline a walk.”
“I am busy, but you need not stay, Mr Darcy.”
“Elizabeth,” he murmured after seeing that Mary was preoccupied, “why do you avoid me?”
“I do not avoid you,” she whispered. “How can you say so when I am seated near you?” She checked to be sure that Mary had not heard them.
“You avoid me by refusing to walk out with me, you avoid me by not addressing me by my name, and you avoid me by not speaking plainly with me. And I do believe we have some things to speak of.”
Elizabeth hung her head and laid down her pen, but did not raise her eyes.I cannot avoid his criticism forever.
He heaved a resigned breath. “Very well—you need not speak now, but I leave for town soon to arrange the marriage articles, and we must speak before I do.” In a louder and more conversational tone, he asked, “To whom do you write?”
