Disguise and pretence were foreign to his nature; he had always spoken plainly, with conviction. Now, however, he was obliged to assume a part—to encourage society to accept his future marriage to a young lady as yet unknown to them. At present, they were only acquaintances, and under the guidance of his aunt, he must first establish a friendship, and then something more, so that his return to happiness might be acknowledged by all.
“Yes, I think Miss Bennet is the lady I admire most. And we have met often enough for me to appreciate her character. I confess I am uneasy lest she should be sought by another before my divorce is granted.”
“If you will allow me to offer advice…” Bingley began, somewhat hesitantly.
“Most willingly.”
Encouraged, Bingley resolved to assist him in every way he could. He recalled how, upon his own engagement, Mrs Bennet had contrived to leave him alone with Jane, if only for a few minutes.
“I am certain,” he said in a lowered voice, glancing about, “that you might secure ten minutes alone with Elizabeth this evening.”
Darcy felt his heart quicken, though he preserved an appearance of calm. “You see the difficulty—what proposal could be made, when nothing may be concluded for a year?”
“You must not think of it so. A private understanding would suffice. If she feels for you as you hope, a year will pass quickly.”
Just before dinner, Charles and Jane left the rest of their party with Mrs Bennet and Mrs Gardiner to show Darcy and Elizabeth a newly acquired painting.
Thus it was arranged: they met again, alone, for the first time in a fortnight.
“Listen to me—listen,” he whispered, as he drew her into his arms with urgency.
“I am, my love.”
“Do not call me ‘my love’ unless you wish me to lose all command,” he said, as he caressed her face and neck.
“What shall I call you?” she asked, with playful submission.
“Sir…” he answered—and then he kissed her, compelling her to yield to him in the very manner she had imagined for weeks.
“Sir,” she whispered when his lips left hers for her neck and shoulders.
Breathing unevenly, he forced himself to pause, mindful of their limited time. “Tomorrow you will receive an invitation from my uncle and aunt.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“I have told Lady Eleanor nearly everything. She will present you to society.”
“Nearly everything?” she repeated, amused.
“As with the rest, they know only what we choose to reveal. You must appear as the discovery of the Season.”
“You intend me for a duke?” she teased.
He stopped at once and fixed her with a look of warning. “Do not jest on such a subject. I should not answer for myself if any man presumed—”
She saw the seriousness in his expression and thought it wiser not to continue.
“You will attend Lady Matlock and Lady Wharton. They will see you properly presented.”
“But—”
“No questions. Trust me. Fitzwilliam has secured an excellent property in Derbyshire, which will serve our purpose.”
They spoke in brief intervals, broken by quiet embraces and hurried kisses, content with even so little time together.
“We must have some place where we may meet without observation,” he said. “Darcy House will answer. I shall speak to Mr Bennet.”
Elizabeth might have objected or questioned him, but she refrained. She trusted him—not only with her affection, but with the direction of her future. London mattered to him; his family mattered. For herself, she desired only to be worthy of Pemberley.
