Mr Darcy was silent for a moment, and when he answered there was none of the hauteur she had expected. "Your anger towards me was understandable and the urge to win equally so.I myself have shown less than gentlemanly behaviour on the cricket field."
She laughed, but it was a small, muted sound. "Then perhaps we might agree to leave the matter here. We need not allow every contest to become a quarrel between us. I should like us to go on upon better terms, even if we remain determined to defeat one another."
"I should like that too."
Elizabeth smiled and held out her hand. "A truce, then?"
Darcy took it. His fingers closed warmly around hers, and the contact affected her with startling force. She had expected a brief shake and an immediate release, but neither occurred. He stood very near her, his expression no longer stern but uncertain, and she became suddenly conscious of the beating of her heart. In a slow, tender movement, he gathered her hand to his chest.
She ought to have stepped away, but she found herself unable to move, her gaze locked with his. Mr Darcy lifted his other hand slowly, giving her every opportunity to object, and touched his fingertips to her cheek. His eyes searched hers for a moment before he bent towards her, and when his lips met hers there was none of the abruptness she might have expected from so astonishing an act. The kiss was gentle, hesitant, and for one suspended instant Elizabeth could think of nothing at all other than the glorious sensation of his lips on hers.
Then his hand moved softly against her cheek and she answered him. She rose towards him without thinking, her free hand coming to rest against the front of his coat as the kiss deepened. There was something wonderfully warm in the way he held her, careful even in his urgency, as though she were both desired and precious. The discovery sent a rush of feeling through her and she shivered against him.
It was Elizabeth who remembered herself first. She pulled away, her hand remaining upon his coat for one mortifying moment before she snatched it back. "What have we done?"
Mr Darcy looked as shaken as she felt. "Miss Elizabeth, I—"
"So it seems that both you and your cousin are rakes of the first order," she said bitterly, although she knew as she said the words they were untrue.
"Richard is not," he said immediately. "Whatever his feelings for Miss Bennet, they are sincere."
"And yours?" The question escaped before she could prevent it. Mr Darcy stared at her, and the look in his eyes made her heart beat harder despite her anger.
"I have no excuse for taking such a liberty," he said at last. "I… I can only apologise." He clamped both hands behind his back, schooling his features into the stern mask he so often wore.
Elizabeth turned away, pressing her fingers briefly against her lips which still seemed to hold the warmth of his. Her anger was directed as much at herself as at him. He had kissed her, but she had not resisted. She had returned it with enthusiasm. Her mother would have called her a wanton, and she would not be wrong.
"We should go back inside before our absence is noticed."
Darcy offered his arm, but she pretended not to see it and walked ahead of him through the open doors.
The chess match was still underway. Elizabeth resumed her place amongst the ladies, though she could not have said what position remained upon the board or how Clara had gained the advantage. She was conscious only of Mr Darcy’s presence on the other side of the room and the imprint of his mouth on hers.
Clara, fortunately, required no assistance from her captain. She had allowed Sir Geoffrey to advance confidently across the board while quietly closing every path of retreat. When he finally recognised the danger, it was already too late. After several increasingly desperate moves, Clara shifted her queen into position and looked up.
"Checkmate."
For a moment Sir Geoffrey just stared at the board. Then, to his credit, he gave a rueful laugh and turned his king on its side. "Well played, Miss Sitcombe."
The ladies broke into applause, with Harriet cheering loudly enough for Clara to turn red. Mr Pritchard waited for the excitement to settle before opening the great ledger and entering the result. "Two points to the ladies," he announced. "At the close of the first day, the score stands: Ladies, four. Gentlemen, four."
Lady Hortensia beamed. "Excellent. A dead heat. I cannot think of a more encouraging beginning."
Chapter Twelve
Darcy had not undressed. He had dismissed Burke with a grunt and his valet knew him well enough to understand when to retreat. Now, his coat lay across the back of a chair and his cravat had been abandoned in a heap of crumpled linen. He wandered the length of the chamber in his shirtsleeves, crossing from the fireplace to the window and back again without seeing the room around him.
No amount of pacing altered the fact he had kissed Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He had engaged his honour with a most unsuitable woman. But he could not bring himself to regret it—not fully.
He had been surprised by her apology, and relieved by it. If they could part upon better terms, the remaining days at Chaffley Hall might pass in comfort rather than constant disagreement. But then she had placed her hand in his. She had been standing so close that he could see the fine strands of auburn hair the evening breeze had lifted about her face, and in the dim light her usually pale green eyes had deepened to something dark and sultry. Before he understood what he was doing, he had drawn her towards him. The desire to kiss her had come upon him so suddenly and with such force that everyprinciple by which he had governed himself simply ceased to exist.
The memory of the kiss refused to fade. He could still feel the softness of her lips beneath his own, still remember the brief, almost hesitant pressure with which she had answered him. It had lasted only a moment, no more than two heartbeats, yet in that fleeting instant every sensible consideration had disappeared. There had been only Elizabeth.
Then she had stiffened. Delight had given way to astonishment, astonishment to mortification. She had stepped back from him so quickly that the cool evening air rushed between them where a moment before there had been scarcely an inch.
'So it seems that both you and your cousin are rakes of the first order.'
He winced.
