Darcy sat in the library at Netherfield, a book open before him. He had been reading – or attempting to read – for some time, though he could not have said what he had read. The same page had held his attention far longer than it deserved.
At length, he closed the book. It was useless. His thoughts, despite every effort to command them otherwise, returned again and again to the morning.
He had gone to Longbourn early – earlier, perhaps, than strict propriety might have recommended – and had been receivedwith a readiness which, though not remarked upon by others, had not escaped him.
He had joined them at breakfast.
Mrs. Bennet had been all civility – if somewhat disordered in her attentions; Kitty and Lydia lively; Jane composed and gentle as ever. Yet it was not the room, nor the conversation, that occupied him.
It was Elizabeth.
She had met him with a composure that was not entirely steady – nor, he thought, entirely assumed.
Afterwards, they had walked.
The morning had been mild, the grounds quiet, and for some time their conversation had been easy – light even – though beneath it there was something else, less easily defined.
He had not intended…
Darcy rose, then sat again.
No. That was not true. He had not intended it at first.
But there had come a moment – unexpected, unguarded – when she had laughed.
It was not merely the sound of it, though that alone had been enough to arrest him. It was the way she had looked at him afterwards – her eyes radiant, unguarded, and fixed upon his in a manner that admitted of no indifference.
He had forgotten himself.
There had been no calculation in it. Only certainty.
He had paused – only a moment – and said, more quietly than he had ever spoken, “I hope you will not be offended…”
She had not answered. She had only looked at him.
And that had been answer enough. He had bent toward her…
Darcy turned away slightly, as though even the memory required restraint.
He had kissed her.
Not hastily – nor with the uncertainty of a man unsure of his reception – but with a steadiness that surprised even himself.
For one brief moment, the world had narrowed entirely to that single point.
And then…
A sound. Sudden. Near.
They had both drawn back at once.
Elizabeth had turned – quickly – her colour heightened; and Darcy, instinctively alert, had stepped away, his attention fixed beyond the hedge.
There had been something – he was certain of it. A movement. A flash of colour – red, perhaps – half-seen, half-imagined.
He had gone at once to the place. There had been no one. Only stillness. He had remained there a moment longer than was necessary. Then returned.
Darcy drew a slow breath. Even now, he could not determine whether he had been mistaken. But the interruption – ill-timed as it was – had not wholly displeased him.
