A/N: Thank you for all your kind and helpful comments! I so appreciate them! I ended up not being able to get to my computer all day yesterday, but I'll try to double up and post quite a few chapters today! I have tried to mark this story as NOT COMPLETE (yet), but it looks like the category designation might not have changed. If so, I apologize for any confusion - there are 19 chapters in this book, so we are just about at the half-way mark...
Chapter 9: Darcy
He was not able to speak with her after that. But he could not keep his eyes off of her.
And a confounding discovery: Darcy felt that as long as he could see Elizabeth Bennet—watch her face, discover her shades of emotion—then he felt calm.
Or, somewhat in control.
But once he could not see her, he became agitated. Wary and pacing.
It was like a beast had been unleashed inside of him.
After Mrs. Bennet had discovered them in the library, the older woman had vacillated between outright hostility toward him and confusion at her daughter. She had hustled Elizabeth to dinner, barely acknowledging him and refusing to walk close by. But for the first time, once they were all seated at the table, Darcy saw that it was not just Mr. Collins who pursued Elizabeth Bennet.
It was her mother who was pushing them together.
"Darcy, did you hear? We might go skating on the ice tomorrow!"
Darcy blinked and focused on Bingley at the head of the table. "Skating?"
Caroline, on his right, cleared her voice and said huskily, "Yes, Mr. Greene the butler says there are plenty of skating shoes in storage. How remarkable, to glide on ice? Oh, but I am simply terrified thinking of it. Would you help me tomorrow?"
Darcy forced himself to take a deep breath before he answered her. He did not want to hurt her or be curt, but he in no way wanted to encourage Caroline in her foolish pursuit of him.
Especially in front of Elizabeth Bennet.
He could not control himself. He looked up and sought Elizabeth's face. There were those deep, dark eyes staring at him. When had they begun to communicate without words? She stared at him as if encouraging him, as if saying, You can stand this. You can stand these fools.
No, he was the fool.
That was not what Elizabeth was saying to him. She probably simply wondered what in the blazes he had begun to tell her there, in the library. She was a curious, intelligent woman. She just wanted to know what…
He stopped thinking as she took a sip of wine, closing her eyes to luxuriate in the taste.
What would she taste like?
"Mr. Darcy?" Caroline spoke again, and he forced himself to attend to their conversation.
"Metal blades on shoes?" Mr. Hurst declared. "It sounds rather dangerous to me. We shan't be involved, Mrs. Hurst."
The rest of the table ignored him and discussed other activities they could plan for a second, snowy day.
Mr. Collins monopolized Miss Elizabeth's conversation, but Darcy saw clearly now that she loathed him. Of course, he had known she felt little affection for the man—but now that he saw how very little, it was heartening.
After dinner, the men retired to smoke and drink, while the ladies went to set up whist in the yellow parlor. Darcy could scarcely pay attention to Bingley, who spoke only of Jane and asked her father a million questions, from her favorite color to her favorite dessert. Mr. Bennet bore it all with the patience of a saint, though Mr. Hurst was asleep on the sofa within five minutes. Darcy finally stood and walked over to the window, staring out over the frozen night which was just as Elizabeth had described.
"Happy plans, happy plans," Mr. Collins said, sidling up to Darcy.
Darcy raised an eyebrow, trying to remember if he had ever seen this man at his aunt's estate before. If he had, he had blocked it from his memory.
"Mr. Bingley and cousin Jane," Mr. Collins explained. "It seems as if felicitations will soon be due to the happy couple."
"I know not of what you speak," Darcy said. He would not gossip.
"Ah, well, let me enlighten you!" the shorter man clapped his hands together gleefully. "I would not speak of it in mixed company, but it is a fact that the Bennets' estate, Longbourn, is entailed to me. Due to a disagreement between my father and his brother, Mr. Bennet, I had never actually visited that lovely place. But now that I am of age, and now that my gracious patron—your illustrious Aunt Catherine de Bourgh—has explained to me how very fitting it is for a man of my stature to be married…"
Darcy stared down at him, and tried to separate his innate dislike of Mr. Collins from his vast, searing loathing at the idea of this man even touching Elizabeth Bennet.
Mr. Collins cleared his throat. "I—I knew that the Bennetts had five daughters. I thought what a kindness—what a generosity!—for me to choose a wife from among those humble young ladies. Of course, I had been set on the idea of the eldest."
"Jane Bennett?" Darcy said, incredulously.
"Yes, but her mother informed me she already had an understanding with someone. I see now that it is Mr. Bingley."
Darcy stared at Bingley from across the room, and then at Mr. Bennet. "An understanding," he repeated.
"So naturally I looked for the next prettiest—er, eldest daughter."
"Miss Elizabeth?" Darcy felt his vision cloud with a red mist of rage. He had no right to feel this way. But he did. He could not deny it.
"Yes. I'm sure you saw us dancing at the ball." Mr. Collins leaned back and clasped his arms together. "Two dances, you know."
"Excuse me," Darcy found himself growling. He could not stand to be near that man one more minute.
He ignored Bingley's questioning look and stalked into the hallway, then down the long, shadowy corridor. He could not imagine Elizabeth Bennet with that obsequious fool.
You cannot imagine her with Collins or Wickham, because you want her for yourself.
He stopped then, because at the end of the hall stood Elizabeth herself. She was walking swiftly toward him. Once she saw him, she skidded to a stop.
"Mr. Darcy!"
"Miss Elizabeth."
"I was just fetching—"
"I was simply going—"
They both spoke at once, then abruptly stopped.
"My apologies. I was taking some air," he said, feeling like a fool.
"I was getting my mother a shawl. She was chilled."
They stared at each other, and Darcy knew that it wasn't Collins or Wickham or Bingley or any other man who was the greatest idiot in England—it was him.
For he wanted to stay there, on the cold marble—under that ridiculous painting of the sheep in a meadow—and just stare at her.
"You never finished your story, Mr. Darcy. I admit to having been kept in a state of great suspense."
Darcy glanced behind them. There was no one here, nothing but the moonlight coming in from the lone, recessed window.
Darcy could scarcely believe himself. He did not act like this. He did not usher young ladies into a hidden alcove, where they could stand opposite him and be bathed by moonlight. But that is exactly what he did.
And she followed.
"Mr. Darcy?" whispered Elizabeth, for already in his mind he called her that. Elizabeth. Lizzy. My…Elizabeth.
He shook his head, feeling torn between the weight of this impropriety and the weight of his desire to speak with her. To be near her. "I'm sorry. We can discuss this tomorrow. I will let you return to the ladies."
"Please, don't. It's torture."
"Not knowing the end of my tale?"
"No, playing vingt-et-un with my mother." She laughed then, startling him. The sound was like candlelight in the cold, dark night. "Of course your mysterious tale. But, I did not mean to jest. It sounds serious indeed."
"It is."
She turned to face the frozen vista outside. "And it involves a young woman? I hope she is well and there is a happy ending for her."
"It involves my sister, Georgiana."
Elizabeth turned and gasped. "Your sister!" She covered her mouth, and then her face. "I'm sorry. I meant…your sister."
"Please, I ask that you keep this in the strictest confidence. No one—not even Bingley—knows what I am about to tell you."
She dropped her hands and stared at him, her fine skin alabaster in the moonlight. He wanted to step closer to her, but instead he leaned back against the wall. By God, she was beautiful.
But he had to focus.
"I will tell no one. I swear it."
"Thank you." He cleared his throat, and then began to tell the story of Wickham and Georgiana.