One Thread Pulled: The Dance With Mr. Darcy (25 page)

From his cousin Lady Sefton, he was given the most helpful information, for as one of the great patronesses of Almack's, she was privy to the rumors and gossip of the
 
ton
, even though the London season was past. Some had linked his name, as he had suspected, to that of Caroline Bingley, although Lady Sefton stated that she did not believe the rumors to be legitimate. She informed him also that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had been in attendance at several functions in recent weeks, making similar inquiries about Miss Bingley and had made frequent references to her own daughter as her nephew's intended.

Last came the reply he had from Mrs. Annesley, Georgiana's companion. He had spoken to her personally when in London, for fear that someone in close proximity to his sister had gained access to her correspondence. From Mrs. Annesley, he learned that the lady's maid serving Georgiana was discovered to be related to an upper housemaid at Rosings and had, when questioned, confessed to sending her cousin letters containing confidences shared with her by young Miss Darcy. The maid, Mrs. Annesley informed him, had been discharged and replaced upon the discovery, much to Georgiana's dismay.

No one in any of the letters had ever heard of Mr. Collins, although Richard had generously offered to interrogate him once they had finished their business with Wickham. Darcy smiled to himself at the mental image, which rapidly evolved to a slightly more sinister thought.
I will interrogate Collins myself. He will feel as though he has been through the Inquisition before I am done, and then I shall let Richard have a go. That should chase that disturbing little man off for good.

The letters left him agitated. Georgiana would feel betrayed, a painful setback for his dear sister. If Wickham were not so close, and if Caroline Bingley had not become so aggressive in her pursuit of him, he would be tempted to bring his sister to Netherfield, but with the situation as it was, this course could not be considered.

At least there was the consolation that George Wickham was trapped. The cost of resigning his commission was too high, and it was not likely he would make such a personal sacrifice—so Darcy could patiently wait for Richard to come before he made any move there.

His aunt, he felt certain, would have difficulty tracing him, since it appeared that his measures to block her had thus far proved successful. She would be furious but no more so than he was for her ongoing insistence on advancing the lie that he was to marry Anne.

Darcy stopped to consider why he had felt compelled to refute the engagement rumor to Elizabeth Bennet. It would have served him much better to let it stand, for if she had noticed his struggles—and he was certain she could not have failed to—she would have an easy explanation as to why he had not made any move for her in spite of his obvious regard for her. It was a perfect foil to his potent emotions, which threatened to betray him at any moment. Why had he not simply allowed her to believe it?

This question he did not wish to face, for it did not reflect well upon his own character. He could assuage his guilt by claiming it was the lie he objected to, but he had let others believe it in the past when it had served to do so. No, the truth was more insidious. He wanted Elizabeth Bennet to see him as free of entanglements, as master of his own destiny. Why it mattered he did not examine more closely, for it became painful to acknowledge that what he wanted Elizabeth to believe of him was the lie, for free he was not, and his destiny was bound up in obligations and expectations enough to sink a ship.

As was hers. The more he thought of the entailment on Longbourn, the angrier he became at the trap that made Mr. Collins an eligible suitor for a woman such as Elizabeth. More tragic still was that she seemingly had no alternative.

Clarity struck Mr. Darcy, as it had done with increasing frequency of late. His aunt was stopped for the time being, Wickham would wait until Richard arrived. Georgiana was safe. When analyzing the troubles that preyed upon his mind, one alone was fixed as the urgent, immediate priority. Very soon, Elizabeth Bennet would be lost forever to Mr. Collins unless something was done to prevent it. This probability, he admitted to himself, threatened his own happiness severely, for it seemed as a deep abyss for the woman he secretly loved to fall so low and be doomed to a life of misery by circumstance. He could be satisfied, he told himself, if she were to marry a man who was worthy of her, but not Mr. Collins. He did not deserve her.

His plan to deal with Mr. Collins, which had been formulating in his mind from the moment he had become aware of Collins' intentions toward Elizabeth, must be put into play tomorrow!

Chapter Twenty-Five

Of Woodland Sprites & Mermaids

F
or the second night in a row, Elizabeth awoke from a dream in the pre-dawn hours. She lay still, as if her quietude would prevent the hazy remnants from departing. Most of the images escaped, released by her increasing consciousness, but the sweetness of the dream stayed with her. The impressions from the first part of the dream were gone, although there were vague memories of trees and a river and a fish, but in the end part, she could clearly remember an embrace, her head pressed against the broad expanse of a masculine chest, strong arms wrapped around her, a refuge of safety and security. She had heard his beating heart against her cheek, but upon awakening; she recognized it as the wild pounding of her own. In her dream, a gentle hand had lifted her face upward and familiar eyes had gazed into hers as a single finger traced her lips. He had descended slowly, his eyes never breaking away until his lips pressed against hers.

Elizabeth Bennet had never before been kissed by a man—not even in her dreams, and the shock woke her. Her lips still tingled from the kiss that had not happened, and she blushed in the darkness at the pleasure it wrought. She pressed her fingertips against her mouth as if to cool the heat that lingered.

Sleep would not return, and her mind would not remove itself from the man who had sheltered her in his arms and flaunted propriety when she could least resist him. He had taken liberties and compromised her, and to her chagrin, she had enjoyed it. She could not hold Mr. Darcy accountable for things he had not actually done, but neither could she easily forgive him for making her feel so weak and vulnerable in that very hour.

Her insomniac mind became as a carriage with runaway horses, barreling through every moment spent in company with him, every word and every glance. He was always haughty—except when he was not. He was always disagreeable, although with time he was becoming less so. He frowned too much, but she had also seen him smile—a great improvement to his dour expression. He was too intense, too brooding for comfort, and yet she found her spirits oddly fed by his intensity, her curiosity piqued by his brooding. He was an interesting case for observation, she decided uneasily.

She thought upon the scene that had unfolded around her embroidery. Had Mr. Darcy somehow influenced her pattern for the handkerchief? She did not think so—it was an accident, a coincidence, for she had begun it nearly a month earlier when she had barely known him. Either way, he had not seemed upset by it, and she knew he had noticed it even though he did not openly concede it. Upon reflection, it almost seemed to please him. That was very strange—nothing pleased Mr. Darcy.

She had briefly considered altering the design, but she worried that she would ruin it in so doing, so she had, instead, worked by the light of her bedroom window that day to finish the stitching. Today she would sew on the trim, a piece of lace given to her by her Aunt Gardiner a few years previous. It had started as trim on a gown, but when Elizabeth's frame had become more womanly; the gown was passed to Mary, although not before Elizabeth had reclaimed the lace. It had been made, her aunt told her, in the village of Lambton in Derbyshire, where she had grown up, and because the lace was dear to her aunt, it was dear to Elizabeth.

Eventually, Elizabeth acknowledged to herself that she was fully awake, and although the hour was early, she rose and dressed, determined to clear her mind with a brisk walk in the mists of the early morn. She did not bother to dress her hair but left it in the thick plait she slept in. She would return and style it before the household was even awake.

~*~

Mr. Darcy was also awake, although no pleasant dream had beckoned him from slumber. His mind was a frenzy of thought as he paced the floor, churning through George Wickham, Mr. Collins, Caroline Bingley, Bingley and Jane Bennet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her handkerchief—and her eyes—and her laughter—and her ... mother. He thought of his aunt, Lady Catherine, and his cousin, Anne. He wondered when his other cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, would arrive.

He thought of Georgiana, and her pleasure at receiving his gift of the shawl, and he thought of the other shawl he had purchased, and wondered if its intended recipient would ever even see it. He stewed over what Wickham had done to Georgiana, then he thought of Miss Elizabeth again, of the way she raised her eyebrow at him, the way she pursed her lips when something displeased her and how he wanted to crush her mouth with his own when she did so.

He thought of Pemberley, of how empty it had felt when he was last there, and of how long it had been since the great estate had been graced with a mistress. He thought of Elizabeth, of her wit, her grace and composure, and the way that she had won his dog's heart with her wild kisses and petting and fetching games. Apollo whined and thumped his tail at mere mention of her name now. The dog's allegiance was not so constant as Elizabeth had promised it would be.

Eventually, Darcy acknowledged to himself that he would go mad before his five-day limit if he allowed himself to continue, so although the hour was early, he dressed, determined to clear his mind with an early morning ride through the rolling lands of Hertfordshire.

~*~

Elizabeth crept into the kitchen and took a crust of bread, wrapping it in a cloth before she pocketed it, along with an apple. She donned her least fashionable, but warmest, outer attire. Made of tightly woven wool, the hooded scarlet cloak would protect her from the damp air well. She pulled the hood over her head and quit the house noiselessly.

The sun was not yet up, but the faint traces of dawn were sufficient to light the path, and she ran toward Oakham Mount with the sureness of one who had taken the route many times. Alone, she could release her energies with a sweet freedom she did not know when scrutiny was upon her. She ran, and skipped, and hopped onto rocks, leaping from them as though, for an instant, she could fly, as her cloak billowed around her on the descent. The further she went, the better she felt. Her worries seemed smaller, the outlook, brighter and the day, more promising with every step.

When she arrived at the base of the mount where rising ground loomed ahead of her, she slowed her pace in order to make the climb without becoming winded. The sky along the horizon was now tinged with a rosy hue, an augur of the coming daybreak. Elizabeth rested for a moment on a boulder, preparing to begin the uphill climb and anticipating the beautiful view she knew awaited her. She felt steady now; her exercise had vanquished the tensions that had driven her from the house. It had also warmed her, and she pulled the hood off her head. The cool air felt good in her hair, which was now clinging to her neck, due to the dampness that collected as she ran. She pulled her braid out of the cloak and freed the strands, running her fingers through them to allow the light breeze to cool her further.

It was as she sat upon the rock, releasing her tresses from bondage, that Apollo came, bounding up to her excitedly. He barked once and turned in a happy circle, his tail wagging and his canine mouth turned up to resemble a smile.

Elizabeth knew now, as she had not in her first meeting with the hound, that his master would be near, and she felt a strange flutter in her stomach as she looked for him down the path. She could detect no sign of Mr. Darcy, so, after quickly re-braiding her hair, she turned her attentions to his dog, renewing their acquaintance in much the same manner as she had made it.

She did not know that Mr. Darcy had been following her red-cloaked figure at a distance for some time, intrigued with the abandon with which she traveled. He committed to memory her flying leaps, the little twirl she made in the path, and the joyous appearance of her taking a loping run down a descending slope with her hands in the air and her head thrown back in sheer delight.

When his path had merged with where she walked, there was no restraining his dog once he caught her scent, and Darcy sought cover in a copse of trees, reticent to be discovered. He had watched her, fascinated, as the lengths of her dark hair spilled across her shoulders. He had held his breath when she had searched for him, wondering if it was disappointment he witnessed before she welcomed his dog with all the enthusiasm he expected.