Darcy did not sleep well that night. Nor any of the nights that followed.
His dreams were continually consumed by desire, which only intensified with Miss Benetin's tantalizing proximity. His mind was driven to distraction with worry.
Slow, nagging worry at Miss Benetin's persistently cold treatment of him. He knew it was deserved – oh so very deserved – for the despicable way in which he had treated her. But could she not see that he was sincerely sorry? Did she not notice the proper, respectful, stately ways in which he now expressed his admiration? Could she not perceive that his opinions were now entirely favorable, and his intentions – no longer dishonorable? What those intentions were, however, he could not precisely tell - a part of him knew that he could never make an honorable offer to her, while another part could not stay away and bemoaned her indifferent treatment of him.
And acute, blindly jealous worry at Miss Benetin's flirtatious interactions with his roguish cousin. After that conversation with Richard in late Sir de Bourgh's study, Darcy could not get his cousin's troubling words out of his mind. Whether they were spoken in jest or earnest mattered little. It was painfully obvious that Richard was attracted to Miss Benetin. If it was nothing more than lust, then Richard would treat her no better than the butler's daughter. Darcy's blood boiled with rage as he envisaged his wayward cousin having his way with Miss Benetin, ravaging her body as if she were a common whore!
And yet – if Richard was serious about what he said that night in the study – if he truly intended to make Miss Benetin the mistress of not just his bed – then it was hardly any better. 'Richard does not deserve her!' Darcy thought bitterly. 'He doesn't even love her… can't she see? Why won't she see – that I am the one so ardently in love with her?'
'Perhaps it is because you have already broken her heart and squashed her dignity once, fool,' He answered himself bitterly. 'Even if Miss Benetin harbored any affection for me, she would not be so stupid as to let her guard down with a man who had once said she could never be more than his mistress! A man who, even know, could not in good consciences make her his wife...'
Fitzwilliam Darcy clenched his fists in frustration at his own former stupidity and current inability to resolve the complex situation he found himself in.
But regardless of the infeasibility of any proper match between them - and the absolute impossibility of anything improper after his performance in Hertfortshire - he was resolved to show her that he truly did respect and admire her, and desired her for more than just her sumptuous body.
And that was precisely what he was attempting to do when he rushed over to her intended chair one evening at dinner in Rosings Park. He pulled the chair out for her with a slight bow of his head, before Richard had a chance to do so.
Liza regarded him quizzically. 'What is this man about now?' She wondered. For the past several days, it seemed almost as if Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy went out of his way to be civil to her.
She let go of Colonel Fitzwilliam's arm, and thanked him for accompanying her to her place at the dinner table. She then lowered herself onto the chair that Darcy was still holding. As he pushed the chair gently back into place, she reclined her head back, and lightly brushed the top of her head against his lower chest.
She felt him stiffen immediately, and smiled softly to herself. Apparently, she still had an effect on this man. Whatever he was playing at, she had this one advantage: he was attracted to her.
She turned back with the most charming and innocent smile she could muster.
"Thank you, Mr. Darcy." And lowered her head almost demurely.
Her efforts paid off, as she saw Darcy swallow obviously, and stammer out a mumbled "You are welcome, madam," before retreating hastily to take his own seat.
Darcy was distracted for the entirety of the dinner. His short encounter with Miss Benetin replayed in his mind over and over again. How could this woman affect him so? She drove him purely insane, with nothing more than a soft touch of her luscious curls and a sweet smile! If only… if only she were his, he could get some relief. He would press her against the wall in a secluded part of the house, and press his lips demandingly against hers. He would scoop her up in his arms, and carry her up to his bedchamber, where he would –
Darcy blushed furiously at such improper products of his own imagination. He could not – he should not – think that way about her.
The fact that he was sat at his Aunt's dinner table, his dessert plate practically untouched, his mouth not yet opened to participate in the surrounding conversation, his groin pulsating with desire… Was that not painfully, shamefully humiliating?
And yet – so deliciously sweet.
Ironically, it was his Liza's sparkling laughter that brought him back to reality.
"You did not!" Liza exclaimed, playfully. Darcy saw his cousin, laughing just as hard, nod his head. "But that was so cruel, Colonel! What a terribly wicked child you must have been! And I suppose you must have been punished severely for all your misdeeds?"
Laughing, Richard replied: "Ah yes, I was perennially reprimanded as a child. My parents hardly knew what to do with me. Nothing seemed to work – I did not pay heed to any of their warnings, or whippings, or pleadings."
And then, as she lowered her voice, all hint of hilarity left it, and Liza whispered only for the Colonel to hear: "You must be a very naughty boy, Colonel Fitzwilliam. And perhaps you might require more severe punishments than those that your elders were ready to bestow."
No one overheard those words, but Darcy, who was seated across Richard. He was so in tune with her entire being, so consumed by her, that he would not miss a single word spoken by her pretty lips, even if it was a word whispered privately to another man. He did not know enough about the ways of the world to understand fully what she was saying, but he got the gist of her meaning.
From the way the Colonel stopped laughing abruptly and instead pierced her with an intense gaze so akin to Darcy's own; a gaze of pure desire –
From the way the words had sounded so languid, so sultry on Miss Benetin's tantalizingly parted lips –
From the way his own heart skipped a beat from simultaneous desire at her sensual speech and rage of jealousy towards his cousin –
From all those things, Darcy could easily surmise that his cousin and Miss Benetin were no longer discussing Richard's childhood misadventures.
Unable to take any more of this torturous mockery, Fitzwilliam Darcy stood abruptly, and pronounced:
"I believe it is high time for some entertainment. Wouldn't you agree, Aunt?"
"Ah… yes, of course," Lady Catherine stammered out, too confused by her nephew's antics, and still mentally focused on her prior discussion of all the things Mr. Collins was doing wrong with respect to the management of his parsonage.
"But Darcy," Richard intercepted, as baffled as his aunt, but less obliging. "We have only just begun dessert. There's plenty of time yet – why not engage in some lively conversation?"
"I am in no mood for conversation, cousin," Darcy replied icily, giving Richard a scathing look, as if intimating that there was one conversation in particular that bothered him. "I would much rather hear some poetry." He then turned to Liza: "Miss Benetin, will you oblige us?"
The party was by that time heading into the parlor, and by some unearthly stroke of luck, Richard had just been called away to attend to a visitor from his regiment.
Thus, Darcy had managed somehow to commandeer Miss Benetin's arm.
"I am not in the mood, Mr. Darcy, pray excuse me," She answered hesitantly.
"Nonsense!" Darcy knew that he was being overly forceful, and that he was breaking his own vow to be as civil as he could with her. But he could not help it – he had to get the image of that sexually-charged conversation at the dinner table out of his head. "Few things have ever given me as much pleasure as hearing you recite, Miss Benetin," he added meaningfully, in a lowered voice. "Please, will you not humor me?"
"Yes, Miss Benetin, pray delight us," Chimed in his aunt, who was watching them with undisguised, and clearly displeased, interest.
"Very well," Liza conceded, sending Darcy a cold glare. She truly could not understand what was wrong with the man. But arguing was futile, lest she risk appearing uncivil to Lady Catherine. After the Lady, to Liza's great surprise, had issued her a written apology several days ago, the two women were attempting to maintain at least outward courtesy towards each other.
As Liza took her stance, reclining softly against the fireplace, she took a few deep breaths, willing her mind to relax. Bidding some poem to come off its own accord.
And it did. The words came, unbidden, and flowed quietly from her tongue.
Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.
There was wistfulness in her words, and a hint at something vast and infinite as she spoke the last line – as if she yearned to follow those ships, as if she wanted to see that bitter abyss.
À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux.
Why was it that every time Fitzwilliam heard her recite a poem, it caused him so much pain? Why did he willingly submit to this bittersweet torture again – why did he ask her to recite a poem when he knew full well that it would make him want nothing more than to engulf her in his arms and take away all of her pain?
Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!
As Liza's eyes darted around the room, her voice shaking slightly over the bitter words, Darcy wondered if that's what they all were to her – just selfish, cruel, insensitive sailors? He, and his aunt, and Mr. Collins, and Charles Bingley – had they all caused her as much pain as she expressed in this poem?
Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.
And this was the best verse yet. For it spoke volumes about Miss Benetin; it embodied her so completely! This confidence in a misfit, this sense of grandeur coupled with inferiority – it was her. She was the exiled poet misunderstood and mistreated, and yet who knew her own worth was far above that of her captors. She was the fallen woman who hunted the tempest and mocked the archer, despite all odds.
Unconsciously, he began to applaud, even before the rest of the room realized that the poem had come to a close.
She pierced him with a questioning look.
And in response he only smiled.
The silence was soon broken by idle conversation. Lady Catherine asked Miss Benetin to play the pianoforte. Liza politely demurred. Charlotte, at Collins' urging to please his grand patroness, took the seat instead.
Liza wondered quietly over to the window, and let her idle gaze scoop over the ornately ridiculous gardens of Rosings. She was feeling suddenly tired. Tired of Rosings, tired of Kent, tired of Collins, tired of Lady Catherine. Tired even of Richard and their mindless flirtations.
It had been fun, at first – flirting with the tall, attractive, and witty man. But the shallowness of their attraction was blatantly evident. He wanted her for nothing more than a little shag. And even the perfectly smooth way in which he complimented her and flirted with her was evidence to the superficiality of his intentions. No man truly in love would flirt quite so smoothly.
It had been entertaining to watch Collins' simpering, and Lady Catherine's self-indulgent speeches. But taking amusement from other people's stupidity could only be pleasant for so long. Eventually, it became taxing and simply irritating.
Now she was tired, and wanted to get away. Away from Rosings, from Kent... from the dark, incomprehensible, frustratingly handsome man who now made his way to her window spot.
"Bravo, Miss Benetin. That recital was brilliant."
"Thank you." She made a move to turn away, but it seemed that he was intent on making conversation.
"I have never heard this poem before. Pray, enlighten me – who is the author?"
She looked him straight in the eyes.
"Charles Baudelaire."
And she knew those magnificent green eyes of his well enough to notice the momentary darkness pass over them. And the smile of his mouth pressed into a tight line.
"That friend of yours," He stated bitterly, almost grounding the words through his teeth as he was reminded once again of his jealousy. And of her past. Of those other men who had held her in their arms, who had pressed kisses along her delicate jaw, the mesmerizing curve of her neck, her soft, pale bosom...
"You are friends with the author?" Liza and Darcy were both startled by those words pronounced by Lady Catherine. They had not realized that she had joined them.
"Y-yes," Liza stammered out, equally surprised by the lady's proximity as well as the unusual coldness of her eyes. Lady Catherine had never liked Miss Benetin, and Liza was all too aware of that. But never had she seen quite as much hatred in Her Ladyship's eyes.
"You are quite well connected, then, are you not?" Her Ladyship continued, with thinly veiled sarcasm. "The Russian Emperor, the French poet..."
"The Emperor?" Darcy repeated, confused.
"Ah yes, nephew, did you not know? Miss Benetin has been to the Winter Palace, and is personally acquainted with the Emperor."
Darcy's heart raced, his mind raged, as he processed this new piece of information.
Liza was acquainted with the Emperor back in Russia.
Liza was not a real lady. Liza was not a maiden – she was in fact a fallen woman.
Darcy shut his eyes tightly, and attempted to steady his breath, as he put these two facts together, and came to the only possible conclusion:
Liza was a courtesan.
He was in love with a courtesan.
"Pray excuse me," He bowed stiffly, and urgently left the room.
Liza followed him with her eyes, feeling annoyed in spite of herself. After all he had done, why did she still care about his opinions? Why did she still worry when he acted hot and cold towards her?
Lady Catherine arched one eyebrow. She did not know why the knowledge of Miss Benetin's acquaintance with the Emperor upset her nephew so much. But she rejoiced that it did – somehow, she had managed to accomplish her purpose and draw Darcy away from Miss Benetin, even if only temporarily. What she had observed of her nephew's behavior over the past few days had unnerved her greatly. It was evident that he was at the very least greatly attracted to the undeserving Russian Miss.
But now there was hope. From Darcy's reaction to it, perhaps Miss Benetin's connection to the Emperor was not as positive as it had seemed. Indeed, perhaps the Russian Miss was not as perfect as she tried to portray herself... there could even be some ghastly secrets in her past.
Darcy collapsed in a chair in the adjacent room, but then stood back up immediately. He could not sit, he could not even stand still, in his anxious state. Instead, he began to pace feverishly.
He needed to process this new piece of information. He needed to come up with a plan of action.
After some deliberation, he determined that the knowledge of Liza's past as a courtesan did not much alter the state of affairs. He had already known that she was not a virgin – it did not really matter whom she had slept with, or under what circumstances.
But the fact that the Emperor himself had shown interest in her sumptuous body – now that was something to be reckoned with. 'And I had stupidly said that the position of my mistress was the most she could have! Ha, as if! She could easily have any monarch on the continent!' He laughed bitterly at his own former naiveté.
No, if Miss Benetin looked for a man to support her, Darcy was only a meager contestant. But perhaps, maybe – if he offered her more?
It was painfully obvious that he could not live without her – he did not even try to avoid her... now that he was expressing his admiration so openly, after she rejected his base proposition, was there any other course of action?
No, of course not. He would offer for her. Despite her past deeds in Alexander I's bed. Although the mere thought of them made him want to rage war against all of Russia.
Yes, he would offer for her – and immediately. She was a woman of the world; she would not wait for him.
He would have to act fast.
Walking in quick strides back to the drawing room, he saw Miss Benetin stepping out.
"Mr. Darcy," she greeted, somewhat uncertainly.
"Miss Benetin." He bowed deeply, and made his way quickly towards her.
"I was just making my way to the library to fetch a book," She explained, in response to the unworded question in his eyes.
"I will accompany you," He stated firmly, and began walking in step with her.
Liza was annoyed that rather than ask for permission, as was demanded by propriety, he simply decided to accompany her. But there was something in his manner that almost intimidated her, so she decided to remain silent.
Inside the library, Liza felt somewhat uneasy – alone with this imposing man, who confused her so, and produced in her such strong emotions of hatred at yet... attraction? So she picked the first book that came to her attention, and turned back towards the door.
She gasped lightly when her path was blocked but Mr. Darcy.
"Miss Benetin..." He whispered, huskily, coming far too close for her comfort. "Liza..." He murmured, with infinite tenderness, as he lowered his head so that his nose brushed against the soft tendrils of hair just above her forehead.
He breathed in deep, raveling in the smell of her hair. Every fiber of his body was alert and aroused, nearly pulsating with such aching, such desperate need. His jealousy, his love, his pain – all channeled into this one feeling of desire and longing.
He wanted to press her firmly against the wall, and kiss those lips of hers until she, too, would utter his name with reverence. But he willed himself to savor the moment, one little step at a time.
First the wisp of air imbued with the smell of her gorgeous hair.
Then, he raised his hand tenderly to cup her left cheek.
Then, he lowered himself slowly to kiss her –
Except it was at that moment that she suddenly bolted out of the room.
Darcy raked his hand through his dark curls, letting out a frustrated groan. 'By Jove! What on earth was I thinking?! Why can't I think rationally – why can't I act properly – why do I have to be driven to this state by her?'
Annoyed with Liza for foiling his delicious advances, and angry with himself for falling so far from the ideals of propriety he had striven to maintain his entire life, Darcy headed back to the drawing room.
As he walked back in, he saw that Richard had returned to the room and once again monopolized Miss Benetin's conversation.
Yes, he would have to act fast.