Mrs. Bennet was the first to reach them, nearly tripping herself in her efforts to remove Elizabeth from the overly solicitous company of the wrong man before steering her toward the correct one, leaving Darcy gaping after her in shock as he found himself suddenly jolted back to reality. Unsurprisingly, her voice carried to half the room.
“What do you think you are doing, Miss Lizzy, leaving Mr. Collins alone while you scamper about? Why, if I were Mr. Collins, I would begin to think you did not care for me at all, and I would be quite put out by your ungenerous, unfeeling behavior, no matter how rich and disagreeable a man Mr. Darcy has shown himself to be!”
“Mama, please,” Elizabeth murmured most uncomfortably. “He is not at all disagreeable, and he will hear you.”
“And what should you care if he does?” her mother replied with indignation. “Mark my words; there is nothing for you in that quarter, so you had better concentrate your efforts for the rest of the night on securing Mr. Collins. Oh, selfish child! You have no compassion for my poor nerves!”
Elizabeth could do nothing but allow her mother to hand her over to the keeping of Mr. Collins and look miserably at Darcy from across the room as her father approached him.
“Well, well, Mr. Darcy, you look exactly like a young boy who has just had his favorite toy taken away from him.”
Darcy had no idea how to respond to such a statement by Elizabeth’s father, and so he wisely chose to remain silent.
“I have noticed your admiration for my daughter on several occasions, sir, but I must confess I was rather startled by your marked attentions to Elizabeth in such a public setting as this. I trust you have not failed to realize you were observed in your attentions by others, as well?” he asked.
Darcy swallowed. “No, sir. It has, by no means, escaped my notice.”
“I also trust I have been in company with you often enough to understand you are not the kind of man to trifle with a gentleman’s daughter, so I can only assume your intentions toward Elizabeth are honorable.”
“Yes, they are. You have my word, Mr. Bennet, as a gentleman.”
“Come see me tomorrow morning, Mr. Darcy, and we shall continue this discussion in a more appropriate environment.”
Chapter 8
The morning that followed the Netherfield ball would be a leisurely one for the five inhabitants of Netherfield Park and the four-and-twenty country families who had been their guests well into its early hours. As it was unlikely that calling at the usual time upon one’s neighbors would be expected after such a late night of stimulating company, joyous dancing, excellent food, and overconsumption of wine, it could only follow that more sedentary pursuits close to home would be the order of the day.
Though the Bingleys and the Hursts slept well past noon, Darcy rose at his usual hour, just after dawn. He had much on his mind—foremost, his conversation with Elizabeth’s father. Mr. Bennet had been generous with him by not demanding immediate satisfaction for the familiarity Darcy had been exercising with his favorite daughter in public. Darcy did not doubt he would probably do so once he reached Longbourn later that morning, but he was more than willing to comply with any demand in that quarter.
One of his greatest fears, however, was Elizabeth’s reaction to being forced into a marriage with him after she had turned him down just over a fortnight ago. His other fear was that his aunt’s sycophantic parson would somehow manage to manipulate a union between himself and Elizabeth before Darcy could manage to plead his own case.
Then there was the issue of what had led to Darcy’s overly familiar manner with Elizabeth in the first place. He knew he had no right to touch her—or to take any liberties with her at all, for that matter—but he could not for the life of him imagine how he was ever going to completely curb his ardor when he was in her company. True, he had been quite adept at the practice for several agonizing months, but that was before he had fully come to terms with his feelings for her. Now that Elizabeth was actually allowing him to court her, and knowing at last what it was to hold her in his arms and feel her lips upon his—not to mention the exquisite sensations that accompanied these tender exploits—how would he ever survive her intoxicating presence and maintain an appearance of composure?
Darcy breakfasted alone, thankful for the silence the unconscious household afforded. Within a quarter of an hour, he was out the door and astride his horse, ready for a good ride to clear his head and ease the tension that had settled in his body. There was a decided chill in the air, and the surrounding landscape was blanketed by frost. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air. It was invigorating. With no particular destination in mind, he urged his horse into a full gallop. Leaning low over his mount, Darcy guided his beast across the surrounding fields and far beyond, determined to lose himself temporarily in the thrill of a hard ride.
Like Darcy, Elizabeth had also risen early, and to a mercifully empty breakfast parlor. She sat sipping a cup of hot tea, pleased to see that the day promised to be especially clear. After donning her spencer and gloves and securing her bonnet, she set off at a brisk pace to enjoy her morning walk.
The crisp November air assaulted her senses, making her feel alive and rejuvenated. Elizabeth continued her energetic pace and soon found herself traveling through one of the many fields bordering her father’s estate. She stopped at the edge of a thicket to catch her breath, enjoying the magical, frosty transformation of the landscape. She discerned the pounding of approaching hooves and soon glimpsed a lone rider galloping toward her. As he neared, Elizabeth recognized his form, and a smile spread across her face.
Darcy reined in his horse and, in one fluid movement, leapt from the saddle to stand before her with one of his rare, devastating smiles. He labored to catch his breath, his chest heaving from the exertion of his long, hard ride, and brought her gloved hand to his lips. “Good morning, Elizabeth,” he said.
“Good morning, Fitzwilliam.” Her voice was warm, and she painted a tantalizing picture, her cheeks a most becoming shade of pink from her exposure to the morning chill. “You are certainly up early, considering the lateness of the hour we kept last night.”
“I could easily say the same for you,” Darcy quipped. He had not bothered to relinquish her hand. “I am often an early riser, but I confess I did not sleep very well last night.”
“Oh? And pray, why was that, sir?” she asked in a teasing voice.
“Something particular weighed heavily upon my mind, and I missed you terribly after our evening ended. I am afraid such a combination made repose impossible.”
A sympathetic smile played across Elizabeth’s mouth as a blush appeared on her face. She, too, had found it difficult to fall asleep once she had returned to Longbourn, her head overflowing with images of Darcy and memories of his lips upon hers and the warmth of his hands upon her body. What on earth is this hold he has over me? she wondered for what must have been the hundredth time. Elizabeth could hardly credit it. When Elizabeth was with him, she could think of very little beyond the exquisite pleasure his company afforded her—to say nothing of his touch, his mouth, even a penetrating look from his dark, expressive eyes. Even when alone, her thoughts were filled with Darcy.
But what distressed her most was how she could possibly feel such a powerful urge to abandon propriety, for that was very much what Elizabeth found herself wishing every time she observed Darcy’s intense gaze settle upon her. And Darcy’s gaze always came to rest upon her. This enigmatic power he seemed to have over her sensibilities disconcerted her greatly. It seemed so easy to surrender her body, but was she truly equal to completely surrendering her heart to such an overwhelming passion? Was she even worthy of such a love as he claimed to possess for her?