There had been no interruption. No hesitation. No retreat. She had met him – fully, willingly – without reserve.
He pressed his hand briefly against the back of a chair.
He frowned slightly. Had she regretted it? Or did she think of it as he did? Or – he allowed the thought only for a moment – did she feel that same restless want of his presence, which he could neither quiet nor ignore?
The question unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He turned toward the window and looked out at the relentless rain with open dissatisfaction.
He cursed the weather – silently, but with feeling. It had detained him at the very moment when everything seemed to have shifted between them. He believed – he dared to believe – that she now saw him differently. That she might even consider him, seriously, as a future husband. He prayed he was not mistaken.
Did she miss him?
Did she have any idea how entirelyhemissed her?
It seemed to him that, since he had given himself to pursuing his happiness with Elizabeth, her presence had become not just desirable, but necessary. Every meeting had deepened it, and every moment had confirmed it.
And now, he was denied even that.
He turned abruptly from the window.
He walked the length of the room, paused, returned, and began again. The same path, the same turn, the same restraint – repeated until even that restraint seemed in danger of failing him.
At length, Bingley, who had watched this progression with growing amusement, said lightly, “Fitzwilliam, if you continue in this manner, you will wear a path into the carpet, and Mrs. Nicholls will never forgive you. But, most importantly, you look like you have taken a dislike to your own company.”
Darcy stopped. “This weather is intolerable,” he said at last.
“It is only rain. I have heard you say yourself that the rain may inconvenience us, but it is good for the fields. Or have you forgotten?”
Darcy allowed a faint smile. “You are perfectly right. I should not feel as I do. It is only rain.” He seated himself. “Only,” he added after a moment, “I cannot help it. How are you so composed? If you feel for Miss Bennet half what I feel for Miss Elizabeth, you ought to be pacing the house with me.”
Bingley’s expression altered slightly. “Ah. I feel it. But I have only good things to anticipate. I am… content.”
Darcy just stared at him. “Content?” He leant back to consider that. After some time, he leant forward again. “Charles, as there has been no formal announcement, I take it you have not yet spoken to Mr. Bennet.”
Bingley blinked. “Spoken? No, not particularly.”
Darcy regarded him steadily. “You have shown his daughter very marked attention.”
Bingley coloured slightly. “I hope not improperly.”
“No,” Darcy said, “not improperly – but very decidedly. You have distinguished her above every other lady in the neighbourhood. Since you came back, you visit daily, and not briefly. You dine there constantly.”
Bingley did not deny it.
Darcy continued, “A gentleman does not persist in such conduct without explanation.”
Bingley’s expression sobered. “You think I ought…”
“I think,” Darcy said, “that it is time.”
“You mean that I should speak to her father.”
“I do.”
Bingley drew a breath.
Darcy observed him. “Do your sisters still attempt to dissuade you?”
