She looked delightful.
Light, graceful, merry.
Every step accompanied with that little bounce. Every twirl accentuated with the swift and airy movement of her lavender dress. Every ray of the morning sun reflected so splendidly in her golden hair.
She looked delightful, and he could not take his eyes off of her.
Darcy let himself be lost in the magnificent image of Her for a moment longer, before dismounting from his horse and walking towards her in firm, long strides.
"Good morning, Miss Benetin." He bowed, then looked her straight in the eyes.
The only acknowledgement he received was a light nod.
And then they stood oddly, awkwardly, uncomfortably. Somewhat stiffly. Unsure.
She wanted to tell him off for the impropriety of almost kissing her the night before.
And he wanted to apologize for the same.
But then they caught each other's gaze, and remembered something: that they had kissed once before. And that it was her who had kissed him in that library at Netherfield Park what seemed like an eternity ago.
Darcy felt afloat with relief. There was no longer any need to apologize for his clumsiness. Instead of self-reproach at his complete loss of propriety, Darcy was now rewarded with the beautiful memory of her lips upon his, off their own accord.
And then he smiled.
Liza felt a tinge of nostalgia. She remembered the way she had kissed him. She remembered the way he had been: so inexperienced, so unsure, so tender, and so naïve. She recalled the way his soft, luscious lips felt under her own, as he surrendered to her impulsive kiss. As he surrendered to her. She could hardly believe that it had been the same man as the one who stood so stiffly before her now. Why was everything so very difference now?
And then she frowned.
'It's no use – thinking of him in that way,'
Liza shook her head almost ruefully, and continued on her walk.
Fitzwilliam followed her in silence. He noted the shoes she was wearing, white and so very petite, the bows on top matching her short white overcoat. And he wished it could be early autumn again, warm enough for her to take off her shoes and walk barefoot.
The way she stayed silent so stubbornly, and the way he was so lost for words, overwhelmed with her presence… it made him think of that walk near Netherfield Park. And how he wished he could go back there – where he could carry her in his arms.
Unconsciously, they both thought of how things could have been… should have been.
"I like this particular trail," Liza pronounced noncommittally. "I come here often in the mornings… on solitary walks."
It was a veiled hint, a quiet claim on the luscious trail. She thought that once he knew her preference for the walk, he would avoid it in future. After all, why would he want to see her any more than she did him?
But she was wrong. He was there early the following morning, almost as if awaiting her. And the morning after that too.
They did not speak, merely walked together in awkward silence all the way to the parsonage. Sometimes she would catch him staring at her intently, as if studying her, as if attempting to read her.
She gave up after two days. She abandoned her favorite trail. And at last she managed to get some peace. Although a part of her yearned to go back, to where she felt that he must be standing silently, waiting for her.
She managed not to see him for a full three days after that. And the disequilibrium of her person – the mood swings, the intermittent irritation and nostalgia, the occasional hastening of her heartbeat – finally ceased. But she thought of him, much to her own chagrin.
Fitzwilliam Darcy. Was that not the man she had dreamed about for years? And the real-life version surpassed all her dreams. Those thick brown curls – more luscious than she had ever imagined. Even now, when they were disheveled, too long, and appeared to be missing a patch: she still knew quite for certain that running her fingers through them would feel blissfully soft.
Those deep, large eyes that watched her so sternly. Those full, soft lips that –
'No, I will not continue that thought! And yet –"
He was a tall man, very well built. And she was experienced enough to note the occasional bulges in his form-fitting breeches on their solitary walks, or even at times in the Rosings Park drawing room. And somehow, Liza was sure that Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was as well-endowed as she had always fantasized him to be.
'No! I will not think about that man's penis!'
And yet how could she not? When every so often, in a fit of anger and sadness, she could not help but imagine what it would have been like to accept his proposal. Perhaps for only one night. What it would have been like to be the first woman to ever make love to this paragon of a male specimen…
She hated him for making her weak.
And yet was it hate that made her dress with care that evening before heading to Rosings Park?
A set of gorgeous white gold earrings with large sapphires dangling delicately next to her cheeks. Those cheeks raised and accentuated by an extra bit if blush.
Her hair let loose in luscious waves over her slender shoulders. Those shoulders hugged sumptuously by the lace of her dress.
And the dress! Was it hate that made her dig through her wardrobe, and at last select the most sumptuous, the most scandalous dress at her disposal?
Dark, deep blue, strapless – under a layer of black lace that went all the way up to her neck, and descended in full-length sleeves to her miniature hands.
Charlotte gasped when she entered her friend's bedchamber to urge her to hasten, as Mr. Collins was quite uneasy about being late to a dinner at Rosings.
"Oh Liza! You look..." She could hardly find the words. "Magnificent."
Liza flashed her a brilliant smile. "Why, thank you, Charlotte." Then she gestured towards the bed. "Come, sit with me for a minute while I finish freshening up." And she turned back to her make-up.
Charlotte almost sat down. "I – I can't. Elizaveta, pray do hurry up. We are late, you know. Mr. Collins is quite distressed."
"Oh, is he now?" Liza repeated half-attentively.
"Oh, do come down!" Charlotte implored, beginning to turn anxious herself. Her courtship with Mr. Collins had been growing increasingly uneasy, as Lady Catherine's general discontent was beginning to temper his own attachment to Charlotte in particular. She did not wish to get into another fight.
"Very well," Liza conceded with a smile and took her friend's arm as the girls approached the drawing room.
"You look lovely, Miss Elizaveta," Sir Lucas complimented her graciously after customary greetings. "And you, Charlotte dearest, of course."
"Ah yes, Miss Benetin has outdone even herself this time! Delightful, magnificent! Such splendid attire is surely proper even for Rosings." Mr. Collins blabbered on, making Liza regret dressing up so much for nothing more than a simple dinner. "Charlotte, dear, why can't you follow your friend's example and wear something a little more handsome? That purple dress of yours really does nothing for your figure!"
Charlotte blanched. And the rest of the room went quiet.
Elizaveta glanced back and forth between her friend and her potential fiancé. It was not the first time Mr. Collins had been uncouth or uncivil towards Charlotte, but never before had it crossed into such blatant disrespect.
Fighting back her tears, and wanting to break the awkward silence in which she could feel all the attention on her own self, Charlotte spoke haltingly:
"Shall we not depart? Or else we may be late." And without waiting for her fiancé to offer his arm, she hastily left the house.
Liza shook her head and followed stead, before Mr. Collins had a chance to exacerbate the insult by offering her his arm.
Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, a handsome gentleman of eight-and-twenty and one of the most sought after bachelors in the country, was meanwhile having trouble for the first time in over a decade with something as simple as his cravat. The damn thing was simply refusing to yield to his fumbling, trembling fingers.
He would see her again in a mere half-hour. After three whole days without that pleasure, during which he could not help but think that she had been avoiding him on her walks.
And given that monumental fact, how could his long, strong, perfectly-sculpted and usually agile fingers not tremble?
When at last he conquered the stubborn cravat and descended to the sitting room, she was already there. Facing away from him, and wearing a deep blue dress that only covered half of her back. The other half was shielded by nothing more than decadent black lace and her golden hair. Ah, that was the worst -
She had left her hair down. Just as he would always imagine it when he would visualize her in his lonely bed.
'Damn that woman!' He thought desperately as she turned, the front of her dress no less open than the back.
She approached, and actually smiled. And then extended her hand. And that was his undoing.
Because as he bent down to kiss it, he came face to face with the tops of her perfect breasts, again covered by nothing more than black lace.
'Is she trying to torment me?'
Apparently yes, she was.
Perhaps it was her way of paying him back. For the humiliation she suffered when he had insulted her with his proposition. For the frustration she felt when, on occasion, he would invade, unbidden, her thoughts and dreams. But she actually took his arm that night, and not Richard's, as they walked to the dining room, and seated herself next to him for the duration of dinner. And spoke to him. And smiled at him. And flirted with him.
'Cruel woman!' He repeated over and over again, incapable of any other thought. But even as he mentally berated her, every fiber of his being was ablaze with desire – for her, only her.
It was somewhere near the end of his barely touched dessert, that he felt a light touch descend on his knee. Her hand.
"Don't you agree, Darcy?" He heard his aunt ask. And blanched with the realization that he had absolutely no idea what she wanted him to agree with.
Luckily, he was saved by Collins, who readily chimed in:
"Oh, I agree most wholeheartedly! Very wisely spoken, your Ladyship! A lady should always be conscious of how she is perceived – and should never appear too independent. It is up to her husband to make the important decisions. While for the lady herself, the main virtues are the ways in which she can delicately take care of her home. I think in a parson's wife these qualities are especially important. She should be soft-spoken, and gentle, and obedient. That is why I chose my sweet Charlotte – perhaps not as handsome as some other ladies, but I do believe that her plainness actually makes me better suited in such a case."
Liza felt her blood boil over as she watched all color leave Charlotte's cheeks. 'Poor girl!' In a way, this is precisely what she had been hoping for when she suggested that Charlotte get to know Collins a bit better before committing to an engagement: that all his ludicrousness would be exposed. But to be thus humiliated in the middle of a dinner party! 'No, dear Charlotte does not deserve such insult!'
And somehow at that moment, she remembered her own humiliation and insult less than a month before, caused by a different man. She let her anger out at the culprit of her own misfortunes.
"Mr. Darcy, do you agree?" She asked with saccharine sweetness and a coy smile. While her hand traveled upwards from his knee towards the center of his desire.
"I – um - " No full sentence could possibly be formed when he could feel her hand only six – five – four – three inches away from where no woman's hand had ever been. "Excuse me."
He stood abruptly, and quickly left the room.
'Cruel woman!'
Concentrating fully on leveling his breathing, Darcy did not notice when another person entered the drawing room into which he had retreated.
"Interesting dress she wore tonight," he heard his aunt pronounce coolly.
Darcy shook from surprise, and turned towards her.
"I beg your pardon?" He asked indifferently, gathering as much composure as he could.
"I am merely discussing Miss Benetin's elaborate gown," Lady Catherine shrugged. "It was very – how do they call it? Risqué."
"I am not familiar with ladies' fashion."
"Ah, but you must have noted her gown. You are a man, after all, nephew." There was a brief pause before she continued noncommittally: "I've made some inquiries, by the way. Asked a few of my acquaintances who have been to the Russian court in the last few years about this enchanting Miss Benetin."
Here, Darcy could no longer hide his interest: "And?"
"Or should I say Mademoiselle de Nurois?"
"What do you mean?" Darcy's heart was racing. Judging from the slyly satisfied smile on his aunt's face, the news could not be good.
"Wavy golden hair, large hazel eyes, petite, extremely beautiful," she pronounced the last two words as if they were an insult. "Disappeared some two or three months ago. There was only one such lady close to the Emperor. Mademoiselle de Nurois, a courtesan from France and most recently the Emperor's particular companion."
Darcy swallowed hard, and turned away.
"But I see that I am boring you with all this gossip – I shall return to my guests. Do join us shortly, nephew."
Darcy did not hear her leave. He stood numbly, attempting with all his might not to believe his aunt's words. 'She is merely attempting to bad-mouth Miss Benetin! She must have noticed my regard for the lady, and realized that it would foil her own wish for me to marry Anne.'
And yet, there was something about his aunt's words – about the unusually calm certainly in her voice – that made it difficult not to believe them.
When at last Darcy turned to where his aunt had stood, he saw several pieces of paper left carelessly on the side table, obviously there for him to notice. Gingerly, with anxious anticipation, he lifted them up and glanced through.
There, in the unmistakable hands of some of the most prominent English aristocracy – Ladies, Duchesses, a Baroness – was Miss Benetin's condemnation.
Mademoiselle de Nurois. Alexander I's mistress.
What he had dismissed a week before as merely a paranoid conjecture on his part turned out to be nothing less than the truth.
'So I was right!' Darcy thought bitterly, deriving absolutely no satisfaction from the proof of his own correct intuition.
He clenched his fists tight, and felt as if he were on fire. Images of the woman he loved – desired – adored – in the arms of the Russian monarch wrecking havoc in his over-taxed mind. Never had the normally cool and composed Fitzwilliam Darcy felt such overwhelming fury.
So he was right: she was nothing more than a courtesan. Even worth: an imposter. Nothing more than a common –
"Whore," He grit out through his teeth.
But he instantly regretted it, as he remembered the look on her pained face when he had propositioned her. She had seemed back then to firmly believe that what he was offering her was somehow beneath what those other men had offered. She had seemed genuinely convinced that at least some of them had intended to marry her. Poor naïve, kind-hearted girl.
And as he began slowly to steady his breathing, Darcy reminded himself of all the reasons why he loved Miss Benetin: her kindness towards Jane, Charlotte, Bingley.
'It would not do to let my desire overpower my love once again,' He told himself sternly, and attempted to think rationally.
True, Miss Benetin was a mere courtesan, a fallen woman with a fake identity, a small little slip of a girl who could never match his status, his wealth, or his impeccable reputation.
True, she could not give him anything. Even less than some plain, poor country miss, who could at least offer her virtue.
True, a match between the two of them was the most preposterous thing he had ever heard of, especially now that he had such unequivocal confirmation of her fallen status.
But could he live without her?
As if on cue, the place on his thigh where her hand had rested less than a half hour before, burned with renewed desire. "No," he whispered quite determinedly. "I must have her!"
Yes, he would have her – and he would make an honest woman out of her. He would restore her reputation, he would give her everything while taking nothing in return. He would be her savior, her benefactor, her husband, her lover, her all. She would never again need to sell herself to the highest bidder. She would instead have a man who would love her, protect her, care for her.
Fitzwilliam Darcy at last smiled broadly, brightly, confidently.
The guests were, meanwhile, already departing form Rosings Park.
After her interlude with her nephew, which she hoped had accomplished all she desired – namely, to cure her virile nephew of his lust for the tempting Miss Benetin – Lady Catherine had no wish to further entertain. Charlotte, still mortified from her intended fiancé's slights and gaffes, was all too eager to leave. And Elizaveta, deeply displeased with Darcy for departing so abruptly and never coming back – and even more dissatisfied with herself for touching him inappropriately and thus exposing herself to his shunning and ridicule – wanted nothing more than to travel as far from the infuriating man as possible.
"I often think it does one good to walk after a filling meal," Lady Catherine remarked airily, dismissing her guests with nothing more than a wave of her hand. It was the first time she did not offer them a carriage on their way back to the parsonage. But she quite frankly could not care less: now that she knew what she did about Miss Benetin, the girl posed no danger. As for the rest of the company – they were all nobodies.
"What brilliant insight, your Ladyship!" Collins chimed in, even though everyone knew that he absolutely detested walking. As the rest of the somewhat baffled and insulted company headed away from Rosings, he literally skipped over to Liza, leering quite obviously at the décolleté under her lace. "Miss Benetin, may I have the honor of escorting you?"
"I –" Liza was quite lost for words. 'Surely,' she had thought, 'he cannot insult poor Charlotte again!' She took a step back. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Collins. I must have misunderstood –of course, you meant that you shall escort Miss Lucas?" She hoped the hint was enough.
"Oh no, quite the opposite. I will get to spend enough time with dear Charlotte in years to come. But it will be rare that I will have an opportunity to spend time with such a truly remarkable, intelligent, and absolutely stunning lady…" And then he quite plainly grabbed her hand.
Mortified, Liza threw a half-questioning, half-apologetic look toward Charlotte, who, in an attempt to rescue what little she had left of her dignity, declared:
"Indeed, Mr. Collins is quite correct. For I actually wanted a few words with Papa." And taking her father's arm, with Maria on the other side, she hurried ahead of Liza and her formerly intended fiancé.
'Perhaps Elizaveta is right,' she could not help but think. 'Can I truly suffer a lifetime of embarrassment with this man?'
She drew a deep breath, and let it out in a wistful sigh. 'No, I cannot.'