Mr. Darcy's Obsession (11 page)

"I have none so fine. Mr. Browning says I can choose a new pair of gloves only twice a year. Can you believe that?"

"You are fortunate he allows you any."

"Nonsense. He is Jane's husband, after all. He has so many, and it would not hurt him to part with a few pairs!"

"It is his business." No wonder Mr. Darcy had hesitated to ally himself to her family. Elizabeth slammed the lid of the trunk closed. "I am going out, and when I return, I do not wish to hear another word from you."

She had to escape, even if only for a few minutes. She found her bonnet and tied it on with shaking fingers before hastening out the door and down the street. At first she had no goal beyond distance from Lydia, but soon she found her feet leading her towards Moorsfield. After all, why should she not go there now? Her uncle would understand this one disobedience.

The fields were green, no longer brown stubble as they had been last autumn when she met Mr. Darcy there. The first primroses bloomed in the hedgerows, casting a light fragrance on the air, but Elizabeth hardly noted it. She followed the path along the hedgerow until she reached the copse, the same one where Mr. Darcy had kissed her.

Out of breath, she leaned back against a sturdy oak tree. The rough bark pressed uncomfortably into her shoulders, but she did not care. If anything, the slight pain was a relief. She closed her eyes as a hot tear trickled down her face.

How could Lydia have been so reckless? To risk not only her own reputation, but that of her entire family! Foolish, foolish girl. Mr. Darcy had the right of it that day when he spoke of the objectionable behaviour of her family. Lydia had certainly met the worst of his expectations.

She shook her head slowly from side to side, trying to comprehend the new reality. Why did it have to be now, just when her hope had been raised again? A week earlier she would have been leaving a possible future with Mr. Griggs, a loss that seemed far more bearable. Now she would be fortunate if she had even that much to return to.

She needed to remember herself. She was not the only one affected; her aunt and uncle would be bearing a substantial burden for years to come because of Lydia's misbehaviour. Elizabeth would need to be strong for them. The least she could do was to make herself of use to them before she left. She could speak to Margaret and impress upon her the importance of helping her mother, of taking charge of the baby when the nurse was not available. She was old enough for that and knew enough of the world, child though she was. If and when Elizabeth returned to London, she could offer to take on more responsibility for the younger children, especially Lydia's baby. Her aunt would need all the assistance she could get.

Having a few plans made her feel better. As long as she avoided thoughts of Mr. Darcy, she would manage well enough. And she had spent many weeks thinking he was lost to her; this should be no different, she decided, refusing to acknowledge that then it was because of his choice, and now it was out of both of their hands.

***

It was foolish of Darcy to come to Moorsfield; he knew full well that Elizabeth's uncle had forbidden her to walk there alone. But at least this way he could know she was nearby; he could ride down Gracechurch Street and breathe the air she breathed every day. In Moorsfield it would be easy to imagine her hand pressing on his arm, to remember the silvery music of her laugh, to think about how they might walk that way again soon. He did not intend to wait this time. Mr. Gardiner would dine at his townhouse, and it would counteract his memories of their only meeting to date; then, the very next day, he would call on Mr. Gardiner and ask his permission to court his niece. No one would accuse him of doing it secretly this time.

He was so caught in his reveries that he almost thought the figure was his imagination, the figure standing by the old tree, in the place he thought of as theirs. He hesitated to look again lest he disturb the illusion and then shook his head firmly to rid it of such foolish fancies. It must be another woman wearing colours Elizabeth favoured, another woman her height, with a light and pleasing figure like hers. But his body recognized the truth, and almost without volition he hurried towards her.

It
was
her. Her eyes were closed as she leaned back against the tree, like a slumbering wood nymph. The tangle of wild roses just beyond her could neither touch her beauty nor draw him like a moth to the flame as only she did. Was she there because she was thinking of him?

Her eyes flew open as he approached and took on a look of surprise. "Mr. Darcy!" she exclaimed.

The mere sound of her voice speaking his name was enough to send a wash of feeling through him. "I had not dared hope to see you here today, Miss Bennet."

A delicate colour rose in her face. "I did not know you still visited Moorsfield, sir."

"I have not in some time, but today I felt an urge to come here." His eyes continued to drink in the sight before him.

Her lips twitched in a smile. "At least your source could not have told you of my presence this time, since I did not decide on a destination until I walked out the door."

"I had no knowledge of your whereabouts, except to hope you were nearby. Perhaps some greater power drew us both here." He could not believe he had spoken his thought aloud. It was like the day in Hyde Park all over again, when his mouth kept insisting on letting out a stream of words that should have been kept within. He half expected his forward behaviour would drive her away, but she did not seem troubled by it then or now and almost seemed as if she were laughing silently, sharing the joke with him.

With an arch look, she said, "Perhaps it was the power of springtime, or of early roses in bloom."

She had saved the moment neatly, and he should be grateful for that much. "The power of new beginnings, perhaps," he said. He tied his horse to a tree and held his arm out to her. She hesitated for a moment and then with a certain air of decision, she wrapped her hand inside his elbow.

He was astonished to see she was not wearing gloves. Astonished and delighted, since it meant he could feel her touch more through the layers of fabric, and he could hold her unprotected flesh against him. He had always loved to watch her hands, her tapering fingers always in motion, never still, as other women's so often were, but he rarely had opportunities to see them freely, unhidden by her gloves. As pretty as her kidskin gloves were--he could still see the pattern of embroidery on them, as he remembered so many details about her--they could not compare to the true beauty of her hands. He had seen them only when she played the pianoforte and when she removed her gloves to partake of refreshments, but he had studied them on those brief occasions, admiring the smooth curves of her skin, marked only by a tiny, crescent-shaped scar on the back of her forefinger. He had wondered, even back at Netherfield, what had caused that scar. Now he could see her hand closer than ever before, and he was flooded with a desire to kiss that small bit of puckered skin that only highlighted the perfection that was Elizabeth. But his sense of propriety won out, that and a fear of frightening her away. A moment too late he realized he should not be staring.

"What, Mr. Darcy, are you such a stranger to the sight of a woman's hands that it creates such amazement? Or perhaps it is shock and dismay at being found in the company of such an inelegant and immodest lady?" she asked tartly.

Only Elizabeth would have spoken to him so. Any other woman of his acquaintance would have blushed and pretended nothing had happened, but not Elizabeth, and he loved her all the more for it. He thought for a moment before responding gravely, "Perhaps I am struck dumb by the loveliness of a particular hand."

She laughed as if he had made a particularly good joke. "Oh, well done, sir; a fine recovery. As for a lady's protestations of immodesty, it is wisest to pretend you did not hear them, is it not?"

"Elizabeth, it would bring me nothing but delight if you never again wore gloves in my presence." He could tell by her sudden interest in the grass that he had gone too far. Her sparkling eyes had seduced him once again into saying what he should not. She had not reprimanded him for calling her by name, though, and surely that must be a good sign. But he must not press his luck too far. With a quick movement he stripped off his own gloves and stuffed them in his pocket. "There, Miss Bennet, now we are equals, and you may think as ill of me as you choose."

It must have been the right thing to do, because she looked up at him, really looked at him, as if she could see all the way to his soul. "You need not fear, sir; I shall tell no one of the gross impropriety of your behaviour. Your reputation will remain unsullied."

He would have laughed, if he were not held captive by the depth of her dark eyes. "You are all kindness, Miss Bennet. I am glad to know I can rely on your discretion."

Her face lit up with amusement at his words, sending a flush of happiness up his spine. If he did not break her gaze, he would not be able to stop himself from kissing her. Somehow he managed to tear his gaze away, but he felt the loss so keenly that, with great daring, he placed his own bare hand on top of hers.

She gave a smothered gasp, but said nothing, which was just as well, since he could not have possibly heard anything over the sound of blood rushing through his ears. Elizabeth's warm skin against his palm was like an electric sensation, and he was elated at her lack of protest. Beyond elated, especially when their fingers, as if under their own power, intertwined.

He could not misunderstand this signal. Flooded with exultation and anticipation that, after all they had been through, she would someday be his, he almost blurted out the words of a proposal. For once, good sense stopped him, or perhaps it was the memory of last time he spoke those words to her without thinking. No, he would do it properly this time. There would be no mistake as to his intentions, but nothing, not even those dark memories, could dim the euphoria he felt.

Although she said nothing, the pressure of her fingers clasping his was all the reassurance and happiness he needed. It was a moment too precious for words, in any case. He wondered what she was thinking. This touch must be more intimate than she would have received from a gentleman before. Her cheeks were flushed, and he had no doubt his were the same.

Elizabeth wished the moment would never end, but she knew it was unfair to raise Darcy's hopes any further. Still, finding the strength to say what she must was a Herculean labour, especially when she was so exquisitely aware of his fingers clasping hers. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, though, while her courage was high.

"Mr. Darcy, as much as I would not wish this interlude to end, there is something I must tell you, something you may not be happy to hear."

His face grew pale, and his grip on her hand tightened. "Are you already promised to someone else?"

His question was so unexpected that she might have laughed, but for the gravity of the situation. "No, it is nothing of that sort. I travel to Hertfordshire in the morning, and I do not know when, or if, I shall return."

His pallor turned to a look of concern. "Is someone ill?"

"No, but there is dreadful news, and I cannot conceal it from you." She took a deep breath. "My youngest sister has compromised herself in an unmistakable manner, one which will have lasting consequences. She will take my place at my uncle's house, in hopes that gossip will not follow. But Meryton is a small town, and secrecy there is impossible."

"I am grieved--shocked," Darcy replied in a low voice. "But what of the man responsible for her state? Is it certain he will not do the proper thing?"

Tears welled to her eyes as she imagined what he must think of her. "I do not know the particulars, save that he denies knowledge of her. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him. She is lost forever."

"What has been done, what has been attempted, to preserve her honour?"

With a hollow feeling deep inside, Elizabeth withdrew her hand from his arm. The least
she
could do to preserve the family's honour was avoid causing any further embarrassment. "Nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked upon? Who could defend her honour? My uncle, with five children of his own? My brother, Mr. Browning, who has never held a weapon in his life? It is in every way horrible."

Darcy's lips thinned. "What is his name?"

Horror washed through her. She had not thought he might take her words as a reproach. Even if she could never be his wife, she could not bear it if he were hurt or killed. "No! You must promise me you will not! Promise me!"

"Do not fear for me. Though I would be willing, there are more powerful tools at my disposal than a pistol. Is he in the militia? A word with his commanding officer--"

She shook her head, guilty for the relief that he would be safe. "I do not know his name or his situation." She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, although the day was warm.

His voice softened. "Come, you are not well. Allow me to escort you to your uncle's house."

She knew what that meant. He must have finally recognized the impossibility of their situation. "Very well," she said quietly.

To her surprise, he held out his arm, a challenging look on his face. She hesitated. Nothing good could come from more intimacy. They were destined to part when they reached Gracechurch Street, but if a few minutes more was all she could have of him, she would make the most of it. Deliberately she took his arm and was rewarded by a smile on his lips and a promise in his eyes. His warm hand once again found hers as he drew her closer to his side.