Mr. Darcy's Obsession (2 page)

They walked a short distance in silence, and then Darcy cleared his throat. "I was sorry to hear of your father's death. He was a man I would have liked to know better."

She fixed her eyes on the toes of her boots. "Thank you." If she did not say anything further, he might not notice her distress.

"My own father died six years ago. Life never seemed quite the same afterwards. I still miss him."

Mr. Darcy openly expressing such sentiments? Elizabeth could not have been more astonished had he suddenly started speaking Chinese. Still, she could see he was in earnest, so she tightened her hand on his arm. "There are some losses, I suppose, that one never forgets."

"Yes, I suppose so. But time moves on, and eventually other interests move to the fore."

Elizabeth was startled by the expression in his dark eyes. "I take comfort in that."

"The rest of your family, are they well? Your mother and sisters?"

"Tolerably well, I thank you." She looked out across the fields, grateful for a lightening in the conversation. She was not ready to discuss her losses with Mr. Darcy.

Chapter 2

One time. That was what Darcy had decided. He would meet with her one time, reassure himself of her well-being, and then leave. With any luck, he would discover that her magnetism had faded, dimmed with time, and that her fine eyes no longer cast a spell over him. Then he could forget her, forget the dream that had haunted him since that night at Rosings when he had briefly believed she could be his. One time.

Yet here he was again in Moorsfield just after dawn, waiting for her to appear. For five days he had fought the urge to return to her company, to feel that unique sense of being alive only she could create in him. He had not realized what was missing from his life until he met her, but every day had been the same for him, a repeat of all the other days of his life, wherever he might be, with whomever he might be. He moved through his days like an automaton, not unhappy, but caring about little. Until he met Elizabeth.

All she had to do was look up at him with her fine eyes, an arch smile gracing her tempting lips, each movement of her body light and pleasing. She made him want to respond to her teasing. Even the air around her seemed to sparkle, to taste new and intriguing. He wanted to know what she would say next, what she would do. He felt alive again with her, all of his senses awake and alert, as if he could fly, if he chose. Leaving her was like smothering in thick, murky air, weighed down forever.

He had no excuse this time. He simply could not stay away.

Elizabeth seemed startled to see him. As well she might, he thought. He greeted her, his heart in his throat.

"You are becoming quite a denizen of Moorsfield, Mr. Darcy." She smiled up at him, and his heart beat faster.

"It appears I am not the only one."

Elizabeth smoothed her kidskin gloves. "It is my habit to walk here most mornings. It is my hour of peace in the day."

"I hope, then, I am not disrupting you if I walk along with you."

She raised an eyebrow at him saucily. "So long as you do not continually ask me to read fairy tales and
Robinson Crusoe
aloud, insist on playing hide-and-seek through the house, or refuse to do your lessons, your company will be a pleasant change from my day."

He knew she had no idea how attractive the idea of playing anything with her was to him, but it was best to say nothing of that. "I believe I can oblige you, in that case."

They walked along in silence for some minutes until she asked after his aunt and cousin, and he reciprocated by asking whether all her sisters were still in Hertfordshire, not that he particularly cared what she said, as long as she said it to him.

"My two youngest sisters are still with my mother in Meryton. Mary has gone to care for an aged cousin in Oxford, and declares herself well suited to the situation. Jane is married, of course." Elizabeth fell silent, twirling her bonnet strings around her finger.

He could tell something was troubling her, and it was not difficult to guess what it was. "I imagine you and she are regular correspondents."

"Yes, when she has the time."

"She is busy?"

"Mr. Darcy, her husband is a milliner. She assists him as she can. He provides for my sister, but they are not well-to-do." She crossed her arms as if she were cold and then added with the shadow of a smile, "You may now decamp from my disgraceful company, if you wish."

"Because your family has fallen on hard times?"

She shot a look of surprise at him. "My family was beneath your notice even before my father's death."

She thought he had not noticed her? "Not at all. You and your sister were the most charming young ladies in the neighbourhood. I doubt that has changed. Nor does it make you any less accomplished or amiable."

"I did not know you counted flattery among your skills, sir." Her words were sharp, but her tone was warmer.

He found his ability to reduce her distress to be a heady drug. "Your devotion to your sister when she was ill was touching, and I cannot help but wonder if you are concerned for her welfare now."

"Mr. Darcy, you do not hesitate to speak your mind!" She paused. "Yes, I am concerned for Jane's welfare, but there is little I can do about it. So let us speak of pleasant matters instead."

There it was again, that arch look that he could not resist. It was fortunate that she would never know how much it affected him.

***

The memories of her pleasant morning walk with Mr. Darcy stayed with Elizabeth through the rest of her otherwise unremarkable day. That afternoon, she found herself watching out the window in hopes that, despite all expectations to the contrary, he might come riding down Gracechurch Street, ready to share another hour of amiable conversation.

Her cousin Matthew pulled at her sleeve impatiently. "Lizzy, we need your help."

With a last longing glance out the window, Elizabeth followed him to the schoolroom table where his sister, Margaret, was frowning over their new wooden puzzle. Elizabeth picked up a piece and turned it first one way, then the other. The coast of France, or perhaps Sweden? The children had completed the frame of their puzzle, but she could not see where this piece belonged. She searched through the other pieces on the table for one that might match the border.

It was difficult to focus when her mind kept travelling back to Moorsfield and Mr. Darcy. He had been there yet again today, without even the pretence of an accidental meeting. She could come up with no explanation but that he enjoyed her company. They shared no common acquaintances apart from the Bingleys and did not move in the same circles. He was amused by her teasing, and even teased back on occasion, displaying a dry wit she had not realized he possessed.

Perhaps Charlotte had been correct when she suggested that Mr. Darcy admired Elizabeth. A not completely uncomfortable sensation pressed at her chest with the thought. Mr. Darcy interested in her, Elizabeth Bennet? She could not credit it. He did not act as a suitor might--he did not wish to meet her aunt and uncle, as she had discovered when she invited him in the previous day. No doubt a simple tradesman and his wife were so far beneath him as to make such an introduction unpalatable.

Elizabeth frowned, sorting through the puzzle pieces. Margaret held out a section to her. "Lizzy, where does this one go?"

She peered at it, rubbing her finger along the smooth edge. "Look here, can you see those letters?"

"L-i-s-b... Is the last one a C or an O? It is half cut off."

"What city would have those letters in it?"

"Lisbon!" Matthew, two years younger than his sister, produced the name triumphantly.

"And where is Lisbon?"

Matthew screwed up his face. "Spain?"

Margaret drew herself to her full height, looking down her nose at her younger brother. "No, Portugal, silly."

No, if Mr. Darcy had felt Jane was an unsuitable match for Mr. Bingley when they were still in possession of Longbourn, how much more unsuitable Elizabeth must be for him now that she was dependent upon the generosity of her uncle! But what then was his purpose in meeting her so frequently? He could not possibly imagine that she would agree to be his mistress. Then again, she had not forgotten how cruelly he had treated Mr. Wickham, though it seemed hard to reconcile the man she was coming to know and such behaviour. Perhaps there had been some sort of misunderstanding.

Margaret crowed with satisfaction as she fit in a piece showing northern England. Mr. Darcy's home would be somewhere on that piece, his much-admired Pemberley, but Elizabeth would never see it. Even if she ever had the opportunity to travel so far, she was not the sort of person he would invite to his home. No matter how much he might admire her, he had never suggested furthering their acquaintance in the society he frequented.

Blinking hard, she turned her attention to the puzzle, trying to make out the pattern, but she could not see the whole of it yet, just a jumble of unrecognizable pieces.

***

Darcy impatiently rapped on the carriage roof to signal the driver and was rewarded by the crack of a whip and the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones as the carriage jostled into motion, pulling away from White's. He tossed his hat on the seat opposite him with a scowl.

The day had started auspiciously, a sunny morning with a smiling Elizabeth in Moorsfield. Miss Bennet. He needed to remember to use that name in his mind, or sooner or later he would slip and call her by name to her face. Miss Bennet. Their conversation about Byron and Napoleon was almost as stimulating as Elizab... Miss Bennet's fine eyes, eyes he would never tire of looking into. She had bade him a cheerful farewell at the end, more cheerful than he had felt. After all, once she left him, there would be no chance to see her again before the following morning. And he should not go to Moorsfield even then, lest it raise her expectations. He should wait a few days, if he could last that long.

His club had served as a passable distraction at first. He had played cards with Viscount St. James and Lord Sinclair until he tired of the latter's coarse jokes, and then he engaged in a heated political discussion that resulted in a large bet between two of the members being recorded in the betting book as to the outcome of the next debate in the House of Lords. Darcy stood as witness to the bet and then joined in the traditional round of the finest brandy that followed such bets. He had just taken the first sip when Addington, with a slight sneer, told him the news about Bingley.

What could Bingley have been thinking? After all the months of lobbying Darcy had done to get Bingley a membership at White's, all the favours he had called in on his friend's behalf, he had
resigned
his membership? No one ever resigned from White's. Sometimes they might disappear for years at a time, but they did not resign. What crazy idea did Bingley have in his head this time?

He would find out soon enough. He peered out the window to discover they were almost to Bingley's townhouse. It was not as exclusive an area as Brook Street, but it was stylish nonetheless. The carriage drew to a halt. Darcy opened the side door without waiting for the driver's assistance, strode up the steps to Bingley's front door, and rapped on it sharply.

He was taken aback when Bingley himself answered the door. Bingley's servants always managed to take advantage of him, but this was ridiculous. Bingley stepped back hastily at the sight of Darcy. Something was clearly wrong.

"Darcy. Do you want to come in?" Bingley sounded nervous, and well he might.

"That was my general purpose in calling," Darcy said. "Are you well? I have not heard from you since you left Pemberley."

Bingley ushered him into a sitting room. "I am well enough."

Normally Bingley bore the burden of conversation between them, but today he seemed to be waiting for something. Darcy tried again. "I was concerned for you. I was informed you resigned your membership at White's."

"Oh. That."

"Yes, that! Bingley, whatever is the matter? You are not yourself."

Bingley clasped his hands together, and Darcy could see his knuckles were white. "No, now I
am
myself again. I am no longer trying to pass myself off as the gentleman I will never be."

Darcy felt like rolling his eyes, but controlled the impulse, lest it intimidate Bingley even more. "Bingley, would you please calm yourself and tell me what is troubling you?"

Bingley stood stock still for a moment, and then he heaved a sigh and flopped down into a chair. "I am sorry. I have been avoiding you because I did not want to have this conversation."

Had his friend discovered his complicity in disguising Jane Bennet's presence in London? "This sounds unpleasant. Have I offended you in some way?"

"Not you, at least not in particular." Bingley sprung to his feet again and paced over to the fireplace. "I am leaving."

"Leaving?"

"Leaving London. Leaving the
ton
. Leaving the Season. Leaving it all."

So this was nothing more than one of Bingley's dramatic impulses. Darcy expected he could soothe him out of whatever was bothering him this time, just like always. "Is something wrong? Where are you going?"

"Back to Scarborough. My father's business is still there, and I plan to return to it."

Comprehension dawned in Darcy, along with concern. "A financial reversal? Is there any way in which I could assist? You know you only have to ask."

Bingley snorted. "My finances are as solid as ever. Money cannot buy what I want."

"And that is?" He waited with some dread for Bingley's answer.

"I think you know." Bingley turned to face him, a resolute look on his face. "Have you ever looked around you, Darcy? Really looked?"

"What do you mean?" Darcy helped himself to a chair, since it did not seem Bingley would invite him to sit.

"Our lives. Whiled away at clubs with fortunes lost and won. All the drinking, gluttony, gambling, led by none other than Prinny and the finest of his set. Beau Brummell spending four hours tying his cravat. Then, to show off our privilege, slumming in the rookeries, watching cockfights, and worse, laughing at the ignorant peasants around us. Not to mention the brothels."