“I am not afraid of you,” he said, smiling down at her.
“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried his cousin. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”
“You shall hear then.” She deftly accepted his counterchallenge. “But prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball — and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances! I am sorry to pain you, but so it was. He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.” She looked up at him with a sweet daring sparkling in her eyes. Perhaps he had been too hasty in agreeing to swords. Her accusation was all too true, her complaint of him all too valid. But, deuce take it, how was he to know that a stupid country dance among strangers would come to figure in his life to this degree?
“I had not at the time the honor of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party,” he offered.
“True. And nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom.” She dismissed him and his defense. “Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”
Rankled by her reply, Darcy could not let it rest. “Perhaps I should have judged better had I sought an introduction; but I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”
“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” she inquired of Fitzwilliam, her eyes alight at Darcy’s tactical feint. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”
“Oh, there is no difficulty in that,” Fitzwilliam assured her. “I can answer your question without applying to him.” He smirked up at Darcy. “It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”
Just wait until you are in need of funds next quarter day, Darcy silently promised him. But what should he say? His only certainty was that he did not desire for things to stand in this manner. What would she do with the truth? Perhaps it was time to learn. He focused upon Elizabeth’s face, willing her to understand. “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess of conversing easily with those I have never seen before,” he confessed. “I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”
Returning his steady regard, Elizabeth took a breath. “My fingers do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault — because I would not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.”
Darcy stood very still as she spoke, astounded by her words. She was perfectly correct; he knew that immediately. But it was more than the accuracy of her perception that was causing his heart to beat so erratically and the blood to skip and surge through his veins. Before him sat Diana and Minerva, courage and wisdom together, perched like an enchanting muse upon his aunt’s piano bench! What a singular woman! Not only had she courageously taken apart his truth and shown him his self-delusion but she had done so with exquisite tact and grace. As he looked down into her magnificent, waiting eyes, he knew instinctively that any thought of control over his heart was a mere pretense and that he could no more suppress the smile that now spread over his face than he could deny her her due.
“You are perfectly right,” he said. “You have employed your time much better.” Then, looking as deeply as he dared into her eyes, he extended her metaphor. “No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”
That night, as Darcy lay in his aunt’s disagreeable guest bed, he was grateful for the discomfort, for it allowed him time to rehearse the tumultuous events of the evening. He must settle his mind and come to terms with his feelings for Miss Elizabeth Bennet! The candle beside him flickered, sending shadows dancing across the canopy above his head as he stretched out and stared into the darkness, his fingers laced beneath his head. Here, in the silent reaches of night, he could think clearly, see her clearly, without distraction. There had been little exchanged between them after she rose from the pianoforte save what was polite and expected, but each glance, each word that fell from her lips, each courtesy in which they engaged was etched upon his memory. He could see her still as she sat at the instrument, the flames of the candles upon it playing in the brilliancy of her eyes. He reveled in each smile, each thoughtful pull of her brow, each song she had sung. In every way she had shown herself wholly possessed of the poise, intelligence, wit, and grace he had cataloged under Georgiana’s insistent questioning. He knew Elizabeth Bennet to be compassionate and unfailingly loyal to those with the slightest claim upon her. To that, she had this night added forbearance and civility in the face of the unwarranted criticisms and insults of his aunt. And she had made him know himself.
What did he feel? Where did he ultimately stand in this agonizing tangle? The shadows flickered across the canopy, teasing him with the mystery of the effect this girl from Hertfordshire had exercised upon his life. It had been Georgiana, in her romantic innocence, who had first put it to him. Did he…love her? I hardly know had been his answer. At the time he had forestalled his sister and sought escape in abstractions upon the emotion, but now —! Now the truth was essential to his peace! Perhaps if he started from the beginning? He admired her, that was certain. He was impossibly attracted to her. Yes, every fiber in his body could testify to that. Her conversation and wit he found exciting, challenging, and intensely pleasurable. Fourthly, Darcy paused for a long moment. Fourthly? Laughter echoed in the silence of the bedchamber as he suddenly saw himself for the ridiculous man he was. What was he doing — acting the part of a miserly accountant, adding up the assets of his lady on one side of the ledger! Admit it, man. He watched the shadows dance to the flicker of his candle, giving himself just a little more time before committing himself to what would change his life forever. “You love her.” He whispered the words quietly to himself so he could hear them from his own lips. “You love her.” He spoke them again.
It was done. His life was never to be the same. How many months had he tormented himself, denying his feelings even as he imagined her at his side? What had he not done to cure himself of her, even going so far as to spend a horrifying visit at Sayre’s in a dangerous search for a woman who could banish her from his mind and soul? The quest had been a farce from the beginning, for even as he had vowed to forget her in the arms of another woman, he had been unable to consign her silken threads to the flames or even leave them behind. Oh yes, he had finally found the strength to release those threads to the winds, but what had it profited him? Immediately, the substance had slipped into their place, and he was entangled more firmly than before. He loved her and all the lovely things she was! And he wanted her. The sharpness of his desire for her soft comfort, her warm welcome, caused the breath to catch in his chest. Her presence at Hunsford and Rosings had given him a taste of the excitement that being daily near her would afford. The thought of returning to his previous existence, continuing to fight against this longing for her for the rest of his life, was insupportable! Greatly agitated, Darcy flung back the blankets and rolled out of the bed, his feet barely hitting the floor before he was striding back and forth across the room.