Though Bingley was by now almost a daily visitor at Longbourn, no one in residence had either seen or heard anything from Darcy since the day of their fateful walk into Meryton. Five days had passed, and still, Elizabeth could not but recall—with striking clarity—the stricken expression upon his face as he had turned a tortured gaze upon her, his lips silently pronouncing her Christian name. Nor could she forget the shock she had felt at his completely forgetting himself in such a manner.
Though Darcy’s uncharacteristically violent behavior had managed to stun and upset Elizabeth, in actuality, it was his addressing her with such an intimate familiarity that had ultimately succeeded in making such an overwhelming and lasting impact upon her sensibilities. As a result, Elizabeth’s concern for what he might be suffering continued to increase over the days that followed. Again and again she continually turned the events of the past week over in her mind. It had taken much out of her.
She had always believed Darcy to be of a taciturn, disagreeable disposition, but she had now grown doubtful of her initial assessment of the nature of his character and found herself forced to rethink her opinion of him several times. Though she had told herself the slights Darcy had dealt her at the Meryton Assembly several months ago had not meant much to her, on further reflection, she discovered, in fact, they had. His thoughtless comments had wounded her vanity, as had his refusal to dance with her. Elizabeth had found herself so much affected by his rejection that, once Darcy had eventually come to express a desire for her society, she had returned his insult and slighted him, not once, but repeatedly, and in a most impertinent manner. She had held his bad behavior against him these several months and repaid him with worse. Elizabeth had always considered herself to be a fair and accurate judge of character, but in this case, she found herself slowly forced to concede she had erred greatly. She had clearly not known Darcy at all, for if she had, she would have recognized long ago his opinion of her had not been at all the same as her opinion of him. She was heartily ashamed of herself.
Jane had approached her the night before, and they had, once again, stayed up late discussing the incident in Meryton and, more particularly, Darcy, and Elizabeth’s new insights into his character.
Jane had finally seen him earlier that day at Netherfield, as she had been invited to dine with Bingley and his sisters. She could not fail to see he was clearly not himself. He was uncharacteristically sullen, distracted, and unbearably, almost painfully, quiet. It had always been Darcy’s habit to be out-of-doors as often as possible, but Bingley had confided to Jane that he had not left the house once since the day he had walked back from Meryton alone.
Well knowing it would be Elizabeth’s fervent wish to keep any public speculation and scrutiny regarding the true origins of his disgraceful altercation at bay, Darcy had chosen to keep to himself most of the painful and compromising details of his disturbing conversation with Wickham. After hearing Darcy’s abridged account of the events, corroborated explicitly by Bingley, Colonel Forster reassured Darcy his actions, though not exactly praiseworthy, were also not a cause for serious reproach, especially given the general nature of the circumstances. Darcy also admitted to having had some private dealings with Wickham in the past, which had been far from pleasant.
Though appreciated, Colonel Forster’s exoneration did very little to alleviate the shame and distress Darcy felt every time he closed his eyes and saw Elizabeth’s lovely face staring back at him in horror. As penance, Darcy sequestered himself within the confines of Netherfield’s library, spending his days avoiding the unwanted company of Bingley’s two sisters and his brother-in-law, who were also staying at Netherfield, and staring at the floor. He suspected it was obvious from the dark circles beneath his eyes that his nights were spent in much the same manner.
Bingley had a very good idea as to the deeper cause of Darcy’s sleeplessness but was at a loss as to what he should do about it, if anything. After Bingley consulted with Jane, who confided to him Elizabeth’s increasing concern for Darcy, the two of them decided the best course of action would be to invite Elizabeth to Netherfield as soon as possible, particularly since it seemed highly unlikely Darcy would be persuaded to leave the sanctuary of Netherfield to travel to Longbourn. Though Elizabeth showed initial reluctance to accept his invitation, when Bingley returned from Longbourn the following day, both sisters accompanied him.
With a ragged breath, Darcy slumped forward in his chair by the fire, his eyes closed as he held his head in his hands. For countless weeks he had struggled against his ardent feelings for Elizabeth. His mind, so full of society’s prejudices and misguided expectations, constantly fought an ever-losing battle with his heart.
It was on the very first night of their acquaintance, Darcy remembered, that he had so arrogantly dismissed her as entirely unsuitable; yet it had taken only one further encounter for him to find her eyes and pleasing figure had captured his full attention. The potent physical attraction he had begun to feel for her—far more powerful than any he had ever experienced toward any other woman—soon possessed him, and the demanding, insistent passion he experienced every time he so much as thought of her rendered him incapable of focusing his attention on anything other than the bewitching woman who held him completely mesmerized by her charms.
Having been repeatedly thrown together at assemblies and private gatherings only made his delirious desire for her grow, for countless hours of attentive observation soon made it clear to Darcy that Elizabeth Bennet was not one of the insipid young women of the London ton. Her beauty, which he had very early withstood but which had fast become an object of his deepest admiration, almost paled in comparison to her quick wit and her lively intelligence. Darcy had begun to understand, far too late, that his house in Town, his grand estate of Pemberley, and his extensive fortune would not aid him in securing her affections. Indeed, he knew that, to Elizabeth, none of his worldly assets and, most particularly, his prominent position in the first circles of society would ever prove inducement enough to tempt her into accepting him.
He was so full of love for her, yet the ache in his breast—the wretched knowledge that his love was unrequited—consumed him. Along with the painful acknowledgment of this torture came a sobering epiphany: he needed Elizabeth Bennet. He needed her laughter, her love, and her passion for life more than he suspected he needed to draw breath. No matter what society would say or how they would censure him, Darcy now knew in his mind, as he always had in his heart, that he could no longer willingly sacrifice the sheer joy and complete fulfillment he knew only she was capable of bringing him—not for duty nor honor nor family nor friends.
He knew Elizabeth did not love him—Wickham had been right about that—and that knowledge alone was enough to leave a desolate ache of despair in his heart. He was devastated by her indifference to him, but, when he was forced to consider what she must certainly feel for him after witnessing his savage loss of control in the streets of Meryton, it made him want to weep with regret for what his shameful, rash actions had most assuredly cost him. So tortured was he by his thoughts, he failed to hear Elizabeth when she entered the room.
For several long minutes, Elizabeth quietly observed him, overwhelmed by the look of vulnerability about him and greatly distressed by his obvious misery. Never had she seen him thus, and it pained her to know she could likely be the cause of such acute suffering. With a pang of disappointment and regret, it suddenly occurred to her that, perhaps, her intrusion into such an intimate moment would not be met by Darcy with any degree of welcome.
Then, after detecting a faint scent of lavender, Darcy opened his eyes and looked up to see her standing before him, a vision of beauty bathed in the last rays of the afternoon sun. It took his breath away, until he finally collected himself enough to realize he was being rude by remaining seated. He quickly made to stand, but Elizabeth stopped him with a touch of her hand on his arm, which, in his current state of misery and confusion, threatened to discompose him completely. He was stunned when she knelt before him on the carpet and gave him a small, hesitant smile.
“I believe I owe you my thanks, Mr. Darcy, for your ardent defense of my good name.” Her voice was soft, yet with a tenderness in her tone, which, were she broaching any other topic, would have given him great pleasure to hear.
He looked away from her, ashamed to hear any reference to that horrible day. When he finally forced himself to speak, his voice was hoarse, both from the emotion he felt and from lack of use. “You owe me nothing, Miss Bennet, most particularly your thanks. My behavior was utterly barbaric. You cannot possibly know how it torments me, and I owe you my deepest apologies for behaving in such a reprehensible manner. Truly, it should be I sitting at your feet to beg your forgiveness for all my offenses, not merely for those of the last week, but those throughout our entire acquaintance.”
Elizabeth was surprised and more than a little saddened by his harsh admonishment of himself and his allusion to the awkwardness in their past. “I think, Mr. Darcy, you are far too severe upon yourself,” she said gently. “You have done nothing that is so unforgivable in my eyes that you should seek my absolution, and, as you are well aware, sir, Mr. Wickham is anything but a gentleman. Perhaps your actions in this case may have been impulsive and rash. Your purpose, though you may now deny it, was and will always be an honorable one. I must be permitted to commend you for that, at least, if for nothing else.” A smile of appreciation tugged at the corners of her mouth as she then said, “And if I may be allowed to say so, sir, I can think of no other method of persuasion than the one you employed, nor any other man beside yourself who would have been as successful in his endeavor of carrying his point with the likes of Mr. Wickham.”
“Do you make light of the fact I nearly strangled a man to death, Miss Bennet? Even one so worthless as Mr. Wickham?” he asked solemnly, his voice barely above a murmur.
Elizabeth’s mouth formed into a serious line. “No. I could never do that, nor would it ever be within my power to commend any action of such a nature. Indeed, I was very distressed by it, perhaps even more so after its occurrence. However, I have been very concerned about you and what you must now be suffering as a result of it. Truly, I cannot but be moved by the esteem you must have for me, Mr. Darcy, in order to do such an awful thing in defense of my honor.”
Upon her declaration of concern for him, he stared at her, surprise on his face. Indeed, after all that transpired, how could he not?
Seeing his astonishment and wishing to put him at ease, if only a little, Elizabeth extended her hand and laid it boldly upon his cheek. She heard his sharp intake of breath and then watched in awe as he closed his eyes and melted into her touch. After a moment, seemingly unable to resist such a temptation, Darcy covered her hand with his and slowly turned his head to place a kiss upon her palm. Elizabeth gasped as the sweet sensations from his lips, as well as the gesture itself, completely overwhelmed her senses.
“Mr. Darcy,” she whispered. She had intended her quiet words to serve as an admonishment, but discovered too late she was far from equal to such a task. In confusion and taking a shaky breath, she carefully withdrew her hand and rose.
The place where Elizabeth had touched him felt tantalizingly warm, and the sensation soon spread throughout his entire body. Darcy did not want her to remove her hand, to retreat from him, to leave him alone again—not now, not ever. Boldly, as he rose from his chair, he reached out to her and gently caught her hand. To his immense relief, Elizabeth did not pull away but remained frozen where she stood, her breathing as rapid as his heartbeat. Darcy drew closer to her, and she turned her lovely face upon him. Her eyes were dark and expressive, and in their depths, he saw something that made his heart swell with hope—a flicker of passion that had never before been present.
Pushing aside all rational thought, he proceeded to close the distance between their bodies with agonizing slowness, their fingers intimately intertwined, just as he had so fervently wished their hearts and lives someday to be. “Elizabeth,” he breathed in an almost inaudible whisper, “dearest Elizabeth…”
She closed her eyes. The surprising intimacy of hearing him utter her Christian name sent an ache of desire pulsing through her body. Darcy tilted his face down to hers, and his lips caressed with exquisite tenderness her cheek, her jaw, and, daringly, the curve of her neck. Elizabeth found his gentle ministrations intoxicating, and though well knowing such actions were highly improper, she soon found herself wanting nothing more than for him to do it again.
Darcy was equally affected by the intimacy of their encounter. He did not dare trust himself any further and reluctantly began to release her. At the last moment, however, he could not resist the urge to reclaim her hands and draw close to her once more. As he lifted her fingers to his lips, she drew an unsteady breath.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice quivering with the strength of his emotions, “please tell me I am not dreaming this.” His words caught in his throat, and he fought against an overwhelming yearning to enfold her in his arms and bury his face in her hair.
Darcy felt her hands gingerly squeeze his, a gesture he wanted desperately to interpret as one of affection and encouragement. Elizabeth’s reaction to him was, by far, more than he had ever dared to dream possible just an hour earlier, and he craved more—so much more—but his fear of alarming her with the fervency of his affections was great. She had not spoken since he had kissed her, and he was desperate to know her mind and her heart. He ached to have her for his own, even more so now that the gentle pressure her fingers were exerting against his continued to increase, and he silently prayed she would not reject him outright. He knew not how he would ever survive a future without her.
To Elizabeth, it was truly beyond her, the vast array of feelings and emotions this one man was able to elicit from her body with only the slightest of touches. Until a week ago, she had never even suspected the proud and haughty master of Pemberley could ever be so humbled by the depth of his feelings about anything, most especially, feelings for her. Even though, she suddenly recalled, Jane and Charlotte had long since believed Darcy to be enamored of her.
She had been shocked by the sensations that coursed through her when his lips had first met her flesh, and she had reveled in the contentment and warmth she felt as he reached for her a second time. Though it was now apparent—to her—that Darcy seemed to know his desires quite well, Elizabeth still remained confused and doubtful as to her own.
There was most definitely an attraction between them; she could no longer deny that. But how much of it was purely physical, especially on her part? In a relatively short amount of time—for, to her, it seemed a very short amount of time—Darcy had somehow come to feel a great deal for her, and in light of her recent insights into his character, Elizabeth suddenly found herself wondering how difficult it might be to put all her ill-appointed past prejudices and misgivings aside, and get to know Darcy on a far more personal level, perhaps even intimately. Could she ever grow to love him? Did she even wish it? Her head was clouded with endless questions as her body traitorously cried out, Yes, to each and every one.
The possible answer to one particular question, however, disconcerted Elizabeth greatly, for if she were to allow herself to fall in love with a man like Darcy, could her heart survive the disappointment she suspected she would experience should he ever change his mind about his feelings for her? She needed to think coherently and knew she could not expect to do so while in such close proximity to him, especially while his large, gentle hands held fast to hers, his thumbs tracing circles upon the backs of them. While such a tender action felt heavenly and reassuring, it was not at all conducive to inspiring rational thought, and in an effort to put some distance between them, she gently tugged her fingers from his grasp and turned away.
Darcy felt the loss acutely and could not repress a moment of alarm when Elizabeth withdrew from him and walked quickly toward the fire. His throat felt so tight and his mouth so parched, he was unable to speak, and as he had on so many occasions, so many he could no longer count, he simply swallowed his pride and watched her, drinking in her beauty, his love for her, he suspected, brimming in his eyes. With hesitant steps, he came forward to stand just behind her.
In spite of the blazing fire, Elizabeth was wholly conscious of the heat radiating from Darcy’s body, and she felt a deep blush spread across her face, her torso, and all her most intimate places. Daringly, he placed his hand upon her shoulder. When she did not object, he slid unsteady fingers along the muslin of her gown until he reached her delicate skin. His heart beat wildly, and his breath caressed her cheek. There was no mistaking her gasp, but he had to strain to hear her voice over the pounding of blood rushing through his ears.
“What exactly is it you would like from me, Mr. Darcy?”
His voice was hoarse as he answered honestly, “Everything. Anything.”
Elizabeth turned to face him, and he recaptured her hands and looked at her with a penetrating gaze full of love and anguish.
“Do not turn me away,” he said. “I beg you. Say you will allow me the chance to love you as you deserve to be loved—as I have already loved you these many, many weeks—most ardently and with a passionate admiration and regard I can no longer conceal from the rest of the world.”
She stared at him in astonishment, but he had not done. “If you will consent to be my wife, I promise I will do everything within my power to make you happy. Marry me, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. Relieve my suffering, and grant me the opportunity to know what it is to be content every day of my life, for without you, I fear I shall never truly know.”
Elizabeth could not immediately speak, so startled and moved was she by his heartfelt and unexpected declaration. How am I to answer him? How can he expect me to accept a proposal of marriage when, until now, ours has been such a tenuous acquaintance? Certainly, even he must see such a union between us at this point would simply be nonsensical, to say the least? But, oh! To be held in those strong arms for the rest of my days and kissed by those lips each night! She took several deep breaths to calm herself.
When she finally spoke, it was quietly, but not without proper feeling. “You honor me, sir, with such a beautiful proposal, but I am afraid you will think me the greatest simpleton when I confess you have caught me quite off guard. I am moved, flattered, stunned that you have come to hold me in such a tender regard, and honored beyond words by your offer. As much as I do not wish to be the cause of any further distress to you, I am very sorry, Mr. Darcy, but I am afraid I cannot possibly give you the answer you wish to hear, at least not at this time. To be completely honest, sir, after spending so many weeks in your company, I am ashamed to say it has been only very recently I have begun to develop a better understanding of, and a true appreciation for, your admirable character, and it pains me to now say that, until a few days ago, I truly had no inkling of your deep regard for me.”
“I see.” His disappointment was extreme, but Darcy would not be so easily dissuaded after such an honest speech—or such a positive physical response to his caresses. “Will you allow me, then, the honor of courting you, Miss Bennet?” he asked in a painfully quiet voice. “It will give you an opportunity to know me better. It will be a chance for both of us to know each other on a far more personal level. I promise I will not press for anything more in the near future, but please, if you cannot at this time agree to be my wife, I fervently hope you can, at least, find it within your heart to allow me this much.”
Elizabeth could not see any polite way to refuse such a reasonable request, especially given her difficulty in resisting the look of hopeful longing in his eyes as he gazed upon her. It obviously meant a great deal to him, and once she had begun to consider the idea, she had to agree that knowing him better could only serve to benefit them both. Finally, she gave him a small, almost shy smile and said, “I will agree to a courtship, Mr. Darcy. I do believe the prospect of knowing you better, sir, is one I shall welcome wholeheartedly.”
His smile was nothing short of radiant, and Elizabeth realized then she had never before seen him smile as he did at that moment, with his full self, as though illuminated from within. Though her answer to his proposal was not what he could have hoped for, the sheer pleasure her concession brought him was apparent, and it made her smile warmly in return. “Thank you,” he breathed as he gazed at her, his features full of rapture and love.
His expression was soon to grow serious, however. In the next moment, before either of them could possibly know what they were about, Elizabeth found Darcy leaning in to brush her lips so tenderly with his. She could not have prevented the shiver of pleasure she received even had she tried. Placing her hands against his chest, she became distracted by the gentle pressure of his lips as his fingertips lingered along the neckline at the back of her gown, caressing her shoulders and the nape of her neck in the most tantalizing manner.
As he noted Elizabeth’s continued responsiveness to his ministrations, Darcy felt an unadulterated thrill travel through his body and, with it, the last fragments of his self-control. With a wrenching determination, he pulled away and caressed the softness of her cheek with an unsteady hand, one thought predominant in his mind: If it is the last thing I do, I shall win her heart and make her my wife!
That evening at Netherfield there was a noticeable difference in Darcy. The sullenness and despair that had consumed him for the past week now seemed to be nothing more than an unpleasant memory. Hope reigned in his heart with the pure elation he felt since kissing Elizabeth. Each time Darcy’s gaze fell upon her lovely face, he was flooded with a warmth that truly became him, which brought relief and joy to Jane and Bingley, and a flush of feeling to Elizabeth.
To Miss Bingley, who was hardly blind to his marked preference for Elizabeth, it was nothing short of infuriating. She had tried for days to draw him out—and for years to interest him. Damn Charles for ever coming into Hertfordshire! What could have inspired him to settle in such an odious place? All her efforts would be for naught if Darcy ended up paying his addresses to Elizabeth Bennet.
Miss Bingley glared as Darcy’s gaze followed Elizabeth to the pianoforte with a half-drugged look of desire in his eyes. Intolerable! How could he even think of throwing himself away over an impertinent little nobody? And Charles is no better, following Jane Bennet around the countryside like a lap dog. Something needed to be done before any more time elapsed. Perhaps they could remove to Town before Christmas? London was far enough away from the charms and allurements of the Bennet sisters, and though she and Darcy would no longer share the distinction of residing together in the same house, the trip to Town would at least provide the relief of far more superior society for her brother.