Having said as little as civility allows, I venture another peek. Elizabeth is stunning, not only visually but also in the stupefying sense. I might as well have suffered a blow to the head, such is my inability to think or speak. Regrettably, she has been struck dumb by the same dread-bolted affliction; and during my summary scrutinies, fleeting impressions of surprise, pleasure, and embarrassment have all crossed her expressive face. She must wonder why I have returned if only to be tongue-tied, grave, cork-brained, and indifferent.
I force myself to not fidget with my signet ring as I stare at the floor. Gleaning no inspiration from the wood’s pockmarked patina, I find myself, in truth, at variance with its age and polish. I would not normally describe Fitzwilliam Darcy as immature and unsophisticated, but at this very moment I feel as green as a fresh sprout in a garden. Eureka! I clear my throat unnecessarily and say, “I trust Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner are faring well, Miss Elizabeth.”
“I thank you, yes, my aunt and uncle are very well.”
Her quick, confused glance and answer do nothing to quell the earth-vexing unease. I dearly wish the Gardiners were here now to act as intermediaries in this problematic reunion. The endearing couple make conversation virtually effortless, and I shall be very reluctant to sever our acquaintance should I be rejected yet again by their niece.
Will you forsake me, Elizabeth? Will you not, at the very least, raise those beloved eyes, beneath lashes so remarkably fine, and look upon me?
Apparently not. Reasonably certain she is embarrassed, I do not entirely trust my own instincts. Past success in discerning her expressions and emotions has been abysmal. Sadly, I am only a true proficient at misconstruing the woman’s reactions. You, my dear Elizabeth, are a glorious mixture of bounteousness, intelligence, and mettle. What justification can there possibly be for shamefacedness?
Fie upon it! Has my forcing Wickham down the throat of her family ruined the slim chance I visualized at Pemberley? I hold fast to the conviction those tender looks we exchanged were real and not another figment of my fecund fancy. I simply shall not permit that villainous, dissembling, motley-minded blackguard to come between us again. All I have accomplished regarding that rump-fed rats-bane was done with good intention. Of course, the road to hell is paved with good intentions; and I regret Lydia, that fool-born strumpet, had to become leg-shackled to a bawdy, bat-fowling codpiece.
Several droning, dismal-dreaming, fen-sucked moments elapse; and I curse my inability to think of anything inventive to say. I admit I am disappointed and angry with both of us for being so uncomfortable. My eagerness to please and surprise her with an improved manner has not been cast aside; I am simply reluctant to cause a display in front of her mother. Yet this turmoil and uncertainty must be conquered. Why else have I come here? Irresolution is not to be borne! Sudden recollection of Aunt Catherine’s interference and information give me renewed hope and a tentative voice.
“You must allow me to tell you how… nice you look this evening.”
Those magnificent brown eyes finally look into mine, and I stifle a gasp. There it is! That devilish twinkle I so adore. A frisson of excitement tingles my spine and other regions of my body. Beware, Darcy, here there be mischief.
“Very well, Mr. Darcy, you have my permission and may proceed.”
What… proceed? “I beg your pardon?”
“I am allowing you to say how nice I look this evening. You may continue to do so, sir.”
Nice? Did I truly just say she looks nice? By God, I am ninny-hammer! For clarity’s sake, why not just reiterate that ghastly utterance about being tolerable but not handsome enough for temptation? I wish to say something sensible but know not how. Care must be taken since there is, apparently, no viable connection between my brain and my unruly tongue whenever I deign to speak in her presence.
I wonder what would be Elizabeth’s reaction, though, if I spoke the truth aloud? Good God, woman, you look luscious enough to eat; and I am absolutely ravenous. Come, let me sample the delicious feel of you in my arms and the succulent flavour of your lips. Let me taste your flawless skin as I lick my way…
“… and Mr. Darcy, any friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome at Longbourn to be sure.”
Yow! Her mother’s voice, like a bucket of frigid water poured over my head, douses wayward thoughts. Thank you, madam, for successfully diverting a perilous proclivity.
“Thank you, madam. It would be my pleasure to visit Longbourn again.”
While Mrs. Bennet claims my divided attention, some dog-hearted rattle-pate slinks in and claims Elizabeth for the upcoming set. Gah! I am left to helplessly gawk as the currish, fly-bitten lout leads her away. What a gorbellied dunderhead! Whether I am referring to Elizabeth’s partner or myself, I cannot say.
As they take their place in line, I notice with satirical eye that Bingley and his angel amuse themselves by, respectively, making mooncalf and cow eyes at one another. Speaking of eyes, the gimlet variety is presently being cast in my direction by Mrs. Bennet. Oh. Perhaps now would be a good time to give consequence to young ladies who are being slighted by other men. It would certainly demonstrate to Elizabeth my lack of selfish disdain for the feelings of others. Yes, excellent stratagem. Miss Catty, the younger Bennet chit, is presently engaged with a partner; however, I doubt anyone has offered to stand up with her dowdy, priggish sister. I chide myself for such uncharitable judgments of Elizabeth’s beloved siblings. Woe betide any surly scut with the effrontery to disparage my own precious Georgiana.
Just as I step forward in search of Mary Bennet, Elizabeth turns and looks directly at me. It is a steady, contemplative gaze, eloquent and powerful enough to stop me mid-stride. We stare yearningly at one another, at least that is the way I regard her, until the rattle-pate reclaims her attention. As the dancers wait in line for the music to begin, I walk past with a pronounced bounce in my step. Recognition of a beknighted voice collapses the short-lived ebullience.
“What a handsome couple you and Miss Eliza make, Mr. Robinson. Oh, capital, capital! Then again, when so much beauty is before a man, how could he possibly resist the inducement of such a desirable partner?”
It still gets my goat to hear him refer to Elizabeth as a desirable partner. He speaks, of course, of dancing rather than any other sort of congress; but, gag a maggot, the goatish coxcomb exhibits an unhealthy fascination with Elizabeth. I must not, under any circumstance, give in to the temptation of planting the man a facer. I am trying to garner Elizabeth’s regard, not prove pugilistic prowess. Although pugilism has the advantage of being in vogue amongst polished societies, every savage can punch. I am not a barbarian. I close my eyes for a second of civilized respite before acknowledging the man.
“Good evening, Sir William.”
“Mr. Darcy, what a pleasure it is to see you again at our little assembly. Allow me to introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius Linville and their lovely daughter Elinor.”
I have already been introduced to more than enough countrified … more than enough strange … more than enough new people than I care for this evening. Whilst in the midst of a crucial judgment, it is not so pleasant to be making new acquaintances every minute. Yet I am here to exhibit improved manners; and for Elizabeth’s sake, I would do anything. I grit my teeth, smile, and wonder why Miss Linville flinches… until I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the pier glass between the windows. Bloody hell! My smile obviously requires a bit more practice. It will not do to be scaring away women and children (and perhaps even faint-hearted men) with such an onion-eyed, unchin-snouted grimace.