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.