Truth about Mr. Darcy (4 page)

Though Bingley was by now almost a daily visitor at Longbourn, no one in residence had either seen or heard anything from Darcy since the day of their fateful walk into Meryton. Five days had passed, and still, Elizabeth could not but recall—with striking clarity—the stricken expression upon his face as he had turned a tortured gaze upon her, his lips silently pronouncing her Christian name. Nor could she forget the shock she had felt at his completely forgetting himself in such a manner.

Though Darcy’s uncharacteristically violent behavior had managed to stun and upset Elizabeth, in actuality, it was his addressing her with such an intimate familiarity that had ultimately succeeded in making such an overwhelming and lasting impact upon her sensibilities. As a result, Elizabeth’s concern for what he might be suffering continued to increase over the days that followed. Again and again she continually turned the events of the past week over in her mind. It had taken much out of her.

She had always believed Darcy to be of a taciturn, disagreeable disposition, but she had now grown doubtful of her initial assessment of the nature of his character and found herself forced to rethink her opinion of him several times. Though she had told herself the slights Darcy had dealt her at the Meryton Assembly several months ago had not meant much to her, on further reflection, she discovered, in fact, they had. His thoughtless comments had wounded her vanity, as had his refusal to dance with her. Elizabeth had found herself so much affected by his rejection that, once Darcy had eventually come to express a desire for her society, she had returned his insult and slighted him, not once, but repeatedly, and in a most impertinent manner. She had held his bad behavior against him these several months and repaid him with worse. Elizabeth had always considered herself to be a fair and accurate judge of character, but in this case, she found herself slowly forced to concede she had erred greatly. She had clearly not known Darcy at all, for if she had, she would have recognized long ago his opinion of her had not been at all the same as her opinion of him. She was heartily ashamed of herself.

Jane had approached her the night before, and they had, once again, stayed up late discussing the incident in Meryton and, more particularly, Darcy, and Elizabeth’s new insights into his character.

Jane had finally seen him earlier that day at Netherfield, as she had been invited to dine with Bingley and his sisters. She could not fail to see he was clearly not himself. He was uncharacteristically sullen, distracted, and unbearably, almost painfully, quiet. It had always been Darcy’s habit to be out-of-doors as often as possible, but Bingley had confided to Jane that he had not left the house once since the day he had walked back from Meryton alone.

Well knowing it would be Elizabeth’s fervent wish to keep any public speculation and scrutiny regarding the true origins of his disgraceful altercation at bay, Darcy had chosen to keep to himself most of the painful and compromising details of his disturbing conversation with Wickham. After hearing Darcy’s abridged account of the events, corroborated explicitly by Bingley, Colonel Forster reassured Darcy his actions, though not exactly praiseworthy, were also not a cause for serious reproach, especially given the general nature of the circumstances. Darcy also admitted to having had some private dealings with Wickham in the past, which had been far from pleasant.

Though appreciated, Colonel Forster’s exoneration did very little to alleviate the shame and distress Darcy felt every time he closed his eyes and saw Elizabeth’s lovely face staring back at him in horror. As penance, Darcy sequestered himself within the confines of Netherfield’s library, spending his days avoiding the unwanted company of Bingley’s two sisters and his brother-in-law, who were also staying at Netherfield, and staring at the floor. He suspected it was obvious from the dark circles beneath his eyes that his nights were spent in much the same manner.

Bingley had a very good idea as to the deeper cause of Darcy’s sleeplessness but was at a loss as to what he should do about it, if anything. After Bingley consulted with Jane, who confided to him Elizabeth’s increasing concern for Darcy, the two of them decided the best course of action would be to invite Elizabeth to Netherfield as soon as possible, particularly since it seemed highly unlikely Darcy would be persuaded to leave the sanctuary of Netherfield to travel to Longbourn. Though Elizabeth showed initial reluctance to accept his invitation, when Bingley returned from Longbourn the following day, both sisters accompanied him.

***

With a ragged breath, Darcy slumped forward in his chair by the fire, his eyes closed as he held his head in his hands. For countless weeks he had struggled against his ardent feelings for Elizabeth. His mind, so full of society’s prejudices and misguided expectations, constantly fought an ever-losing battle with his heart.

It was on the very first night of their acquaintance, Darcy remembered, that he had so arrogantly dismissed her as entirely unsuitable; yet it had taken only one further encounter for him to find her eyes and pleasing figure had captured his full attention. The potent physical attraction he had begun to feel for her—far more powerful than any he had ever experienced toward any other woman—soon possessed him, and the demanding, insistent passion he experienced every time he so much as thought of her rendered him incapable of focusing his attention on anything other than the bewitching woman who held him completely mesmerized by her charms.

Having been repeatedly thrown together at assemblies and private gatherings only made his delirious desire for her grow, for countless hours of attentive observation soon made it clear to Darcy that Elizabeth Bennet was not one of the insipid young women of the London
ton
. Her beauty, which he had very early withstood but which had fast become an object of his deepest admiration, almost paled in comparison to her quick wit and her lively intelligence. Darcy had begun to understand, far too late, that his house in Town, his grand estate of Pemberley, and his extensive fortune would not aid him in securing her affections. Indeed, he knew that, to Elizabeth, none of his worldly assets and, most particularly, his prominent position in the first circles of society would ever prove inducement enough to tempt her into accepting him.

He was so full of love for her, yet the ache in his breast—the wretched knowledge that his love was unrequited—consumed him. Along with the painful acknowledgment of this torture came a sobering epiphany: he needed Elizabeth Bennet. He needed her laughter, her love, and her passion for life more than he suspected he needed to draw breath. No matter what society would say or how they would censure him, Darcy now knew in his mind, as he always had in his heart, that he could no longer willingly sacrifice the sheer joy and complete fulfillment he knew only she was capable of bringing him—not for duty nor honor nor family nor friends.

He knew Elizabeth did not love him—Wickham had been right about that—and that knowledge alone was enough to leave a desolate ache of despair in his heart. He was devastated by her indifference to him, but, when he was forced to consider what she must certainly feel for him after witnessing his savage loss of control in the streets of Meryton, it made him want to weep with regret for what his shameful, rash actions had most assuredly cost him. So tortured was he by his thoughts, he failed to hear Elizabeth when she entered the room.

For several long minutes, Elizabeth quietly observed him, overwhelmed by the look of vulnerability about him and greatly distressed by his obvious misery. Never had she seen him thus, and it pained her to know
she
could likely be the cause of such acute suffering. With a pang of disappointment and regret, it suddenly occurred to her that, perhaps, her intrusion into such an intimate moment would not be met by Darcy with any degree of welcome.

Then, after detecting a faint scent of lavender, Darcy opened his eyes and looked up to see her standing before him, a vision of beauty bathed in the last rays of the afternoon sun. It took his breath away, until he finally collected himself enough to realize he was being rude by remaining seated. He quickly made to stand, but Elizabeth stopped him with a touch of her hand on his arm, which, in his current state of misery and confusion, threatened to discompose him completely. He was stunned when she knelt before him on the carpet and gave him a small, hesitant smile.

“I believe I owe you my thanks, Mr. Darcy, for your ardent defense of my good name.” Her voice was soft, yet with a tenderness in her tone, which, were she broaching any other topic, would have given him great pleasure to hear.

He looked away from her, ashamed to hear any reference to that horrible day. When he finally forced himself to speak, his voice was hoarse, both from the emotion he felt and from lack of use. “You owe me nothing, Miss Bennet, most particularly your thanks. My behavior was utterly barbaric. You cannot possibly know how it torments me, and I owe you my deepest apologies for behaving in such a reprehensible manner. Truly, it should be I sitting at your feet to beg your forgiveness for
all
my offenses, not merely for those of the last week, but those throughout our entire acquaintance.”

Elizabeth was surprised and more than a little saddened by his harsh admonishment of himself and his allusion to the awkwardness in their past. “I think, Mr. Darcy, you are far too severe upon yourself,” she said gently. “You have done nothing that is so unforgivable in my eyes that you should seek my absolution, and, as you are well aware, sir, Mr. Wickham is anything but a gentleman. Perhaps your actions in this case may have been impulsive and rash. Your purpose, though you may now deny it, was and will always be an honorable one. I must be permitted to commend you for that, at least, if for nothing else.” A smile of appreciation tugged at the corners of her mouth as she then said, “And if I may be allowed to say so, sir, I can think of no other method of persuasion than the one you employed, nor any other man beside yourself who would have been as successful in his endeavor of carrying his point with the likes of Mr. Wickham.”

“Do you make light of the fact I nearly strangled a man to death, Miss Bennet? Even one so worthless as Mr. Wickham?” he asked solemnly, his voice barely above a murmur.

Elizabeth’s mouth formed into a serious line. “No. I could never do that, nor would it ever be within my power to commend any action of such a nature. Indeed, I was very distressed by it, perhaps even more so after its occurrence. However, I have been very concerned about you and what you must now be suffering as a result of it. Truly, I cannot but be moved by the esteem you must have for me, Mr. Darcy, in order to do such an awful thing in defense of my honor.”

Upon her declaration of concern for him, he stared at her, surprise on his face. Indeed, after all that transpired, how could he not?

Seeing his astonishment and wishing to put him at ease, if only a little, Elizabeth extended her hand and laid it boldly upon his cheek. She heard his sharp intake of breath and then watched in awe as he closed his eyes and melted into her touch. After a moment, seemingly unable to resist such a temptation, Darcy covered her hand with his and slowly turned his head to place a kiss upon her palm. Elizabeth gasped as the sweet sensations from his lips, as well as the gesture itself, completely overwhelmed her senses.

“Mr. Darcy,” she whispered. She had intended her quiet words to serve as an admonishment, but discovered too late she was far from equal to such a task. In confusion and taking a shaky breath, she carefully withdrew her hand and rose.

The place where Elizabeth had touched him felt tantalizingly warm, and the sensation soon spread throughout his entire body. Darcy did not want her to remove her hand, to retreat from him, to leave him alone again—not now, not ever. Boldly, as he rose from his chair, he reached out to her and gently caught her hand. To his immense relief, Elizabeth did not pull away but remained frozen where she stood, her breathing as rapid as his heartbeat. Darcy drew closer to her, and she turned her lovely face upon him. Her eyes were dark and expressive, and in their depths, he saw something that made his heart swell with hope—a flicker of passion that had never before been present.

Pushing aside all rational thought, he proceeded to close the distance between their bodies with agonizing slowness, their fingers intimately intertwined, just as he had so fervently wished their hearts and lives someday to be. “Elizabeth,” he breathed in an almost inaudible whisper, “dearest Elizabeth…”

She closed her eyes. The surprising intimacy of hearing him utter her Christian name sent an ache of desire pulsing through her body. Darcy tilted his face down to hers, and his lips caressed with exquisite tenderness her cheek, her jaw, and, daringly, the curve of her neck. Elizabeth found his gentle ministrations intoxicating, and though well knowing such actions were highly improper, she soon found herself wanting nothing more than for him to do it again.

Darcy was equally affected by the intimacy of their encounter. He did not dare trust himself any further and reluctantly began to release her. At the last moment, however, he could not resist the urge to reclaim her hands and draw close to her once more. As he lifted her fingers to his lips, she drew an unsteady breath.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice quivering with the strength of his emotions, “please tell me I am not dreaming this.” His words caught in his throat, and he fought against an overwhelming yearning to enfold her in his arms and bury his face in her hair.

Darcy felt her hands gingerly squeeze his, a gesture he wanted desperately to interpret as one of affection and encouragement. Elizabeth’s reaction to him was, by far, more than he had ever dared to dream possible just an hour earlier, and he craved more—so much more—but his fear of alarming her with the fervency of his affections was great. She had not spoken since he had kissed her, and he was desperate to know her mind and her heart. He ached to have her for his own, even more so now that the gentle pressure her fingers were exerting against his continued to increase, and he silently prayed she would not reject him outright. He knew not how he would ever survive a future without her.