Darcy stalked through the park with long, impatient strides. His eyes were blind to the well-manicured lawns and carefully trimmed foliage; there was but one image he could see and that was Elizabeth scuttling across the drawing room floor, her face a mask of horror and a bright trickle of blood rolling down her neck. It was an image that would haunt him for the rest of his long existence.
Elizabeth was disgusted by him. She had not uttered the words aloud, of course, but there was no need; the revulsion on her face revealed all. In truth, Darcy did not blame the lady. He was more disgusted with himself than she could ever be.
What on God's green Earth had possessed him to lay hands on her? To kiss her? To...
Monster. Savage. Daemon.
His conscious taunted him, delighting in the agony that tore through him. The monster in him preened; it had claimed Elizabeth for its own, at long last. It called to mind the sweet taste of her blood on his tongue, the delicate sent of rose that clung to her skin, the feel of her skin beneath his lips...
No!
The events that had transpired the day previous proved that Darcy could not be trusted alone with Miss Bennet. He would not allow it to happen again. Ever. Though it nigh on broke his heart, Darcy vowed that he would remove himself from Elizabeth's society, never to return again.
Almost the moment he thought it, he caught her scent on the wind.
His fingers tightened reflexively on the letter he carried. Darcy had promised Miss Bennet an explanation, so an explanation she would have - but not from his lips. He dared not trust himself to be in her presence long enough to tell her his sad tale, to bare his dark soul to her, to lay open the truth of his failures and await her judgement.
Darcy had laboured long over the narrative, destroying more than a few drafts that had become clumsy in their haste to be written. He was not a little grateful, perhaps for the first time that he could recall, that his curse left him restless through the night; the brief hours of sleep he'd managed to steal around dawn were not much less than he usually had.
Closing his eyes, Darcy sifted through the cacophony of noise that surrounded him. The chorus of birds and insects were of no interest to him - and less so were the mating rituals of the squirrels in the tree nearby. Distantly, he could make out the incessant ramblings of Mr. Collins; rehearsing, no doubt, some new flattery for Her Ladyship.
The fool must be on his way to Rosings, Darcy mused, for his daily dose of condescension.
Though he fancied an encounter with the clergyman only slightly more than a shaft of wood through his heart, Darcy took comfort in the fact that he was nearby, should a situation arise where Miss Bennet found herself in need of an ally.
God, but I pray that is not the case.
Surely Darcy could control himself long enough to pass the lady a letter - could he not? The answer was not as quick in coming as he would have liked.
I will die the ultimate death before I hurt Elizabeth, Darcy swore.
You have already hurt her, his conscious reminded him cruelly.
A startled gasp stopped Darcy from becoming embroiled in an argument with himself that he could not hope to win. He knew that the sound came from Elizabeth, even before he turned to find her staring at him, one gloved hand pressed against her lips.
Curses! He should not have allowed his attention to wander to her lips; he could not help but remember the taste of them... of their softness as they yielded to him, parting to allow him...
For a moment that stretched too long, Darcy struggled to force his attention away from Elizabeth's lips, only to find his gaze drawn to the slender column of her throat. The high lapels of her spencer did nothing to hide the twin wounds that marred the once perfect flesh there.
The darker part of Darcy crowed that she had made no real effort to cover his mark. The rational part of him despaired; one look from the wrong person – one who knew at least of the creature he had become, if not that he, personally, had become one – would be his undoing. That was to say nothing of the anguish he felt at physical reminder of the pain that he had inflicted upon Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
"Mr. Darcy," that fine lady said, breaking their prologued silence. Darcy marvelled that there was only the slightest hint of a tremor in her voice. Elizabeth was, indeed, a strong woman.
Not strong enough to survive you.
"Miss Bennet."
Uncomfortable silence threatened to stretch between them once more. Darcy forcefully reminded himself that the longer it took to deliver his communication, the longer Elizabeth would be in danger.
Do the deed and be gone, he schooled himself.
The letter he carried seemed to grow in weight, becoming an anchor that held him firmly in place. For the first time since penning his story, it occurred to Darcy that it could be the cause of his ruin. What if Miss Bennet chose to use the information it contained against him? Was it not in his own handwriting? He had even, perhaps foolishly, signed his name.
If he gave Elizabeth the letter, he would also be giving the lady a tremendous amount of power over him.
That, I gave her the moment she claimed my heart.
"I-" he began, cursing his lack of easy discourse, which so many of his social equals seemed blessed with. "I have been walking the grove some time, in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading this letter?"
Before he could change his mind, Darcy thrust it forward. Elizabeth, wearing a look of trepidation normally reserved for bedlamites and poisonous animals, cautiously took the proffered letter.
Not waiting for a response to his query, and not daring to meet Elizabeth's eye, Darcy turned sharply on his heel and strode away with all possible haste. He was, he told himself, doing an honourable deed by removing the threat of his presence, and not – most certainly not – running away like a base coward.