over him; and his soul, comprehending what his reason could not, rushed to claim, to embrace that other half of itself with a joyful recognition that made him light-headed and tempted him to commit unforgivable liberties. He wanted to smile, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to take her hand in his and draw it up to his lips. He wanted the soft, sweet dreams of her that had tormented him, waking and sleeping, at last to find resolution. With dizzying speed his dreams gathered power until, for a terrifying moment, Darcy feared he had lost all command of himself. Clearly, he saw himself advance upon her and, without hesitation, sweep her into an unrestrained embrace of body and soul. But — please God! — he had not moved, had he? He struggled to regain a cognizance of his own limbs, but even now, her lavender scent teased him as his lips sought the soft warmth of her brow and he reveled in the intimate beating of her heart against his.
Elizabeth curtsied. Dimly perceived as it was, it still called forth his answering bow, and the performance caused a wave of relief to wash over him. His limbs had not betrayed him; he’d done nothing untoward! “Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he murmured tightly. His lips pressed firmly together, Darcy held his breath as he rose in order to catch her first syllables to him, but there were none to receive. Her curtsy was all that was proper. He felt her eyes flick over him, but he received no further greeting before she turned to acknowledge his cousin. Such propriety, Darcy knew, he should bless; for it allowed him to recover himself. Instead, he experienced a moment of swift, keen-edged regret. What would it have been like to see joy of his arrival in those wonderful eyes? He looked quickly away. Conjecture was a fruitless exercise. He was here to fulfill the claims of politeness, he reminded himself, nothing more.
“Mrs. Collins, ma’am.” Fitzwilliam easily took the lead. “I can see you have been much at work in the short time of your marriage and residence. Hunsford never shone so under Rev. Satherthwaite’s rule, I assure you! Do you not agree, Darcy?” He cocked his head at his cousin, silently urging him to pick up the conversation.
Darcy stared back at him in confusion. “I do not believe I was ever…” Richard’s quick frown stopped him. “That is to say, I concur with Fitzwilliam, ma’am.” He turned to his hostess. “The house is much improved since Lady Catherine’s last rector resided here. The garden, particularly,” he added on inspiration. Elizabeth’s lips twitched at his compliment. What had he said that should arouse her to laughter, or was it scorn? He remembered their drawing room duels too well not to recognize her reaction as one or the other. Apparently, the ground was more uncertain than even he had supposed.
Giving up on his cousin, Fitzwilliam essayed again. “Hertfordshire is wonderful country, Miss Bennet. I am eager to know how you compare it with Kent.”
Finally, Elizabeth smiled. “Comparisons are a difficult business, Colonel Fitzwilliam. How shall they be compared? In geography, in great estates, in magnificent views, picturesque villages? Or perhaps it is the hunting you wish compared?” Ah, there was the Elizabeth Darcy looked for, her eyes sparkling in mischief. But that they did so for his cousin he found intolerable!
“In any way that suits you, Miss Elizabeth,” Fitzwilliam answered, “for I am convinced your opinion on any of those subjects is worth the hearing.” He paused and then grinned. “Excepting, if you will pardon me, the hunting. I can apply to Darcy for all of that, you know.”
“Do you ‘apply’ to him then too?” Her brow rose slightly. There it was again! That almost imperceptible lift of her shoulder, the fleeting purse of her lips. “But you are, of course, correct. I can compare hunting only by hearsay; whereas Mr. Darcy may do so with some authority. Of that, he has more share than most gentlemen.”
“But that is merely due to appearances, Miss Elizabeth.” Fitzwilliam’s forehead had crinkled a bit at her words, but he was smiling gamely. “The taller a gentleman, the more authority he is accorded, whether he truly has it or no. Have you not found that to be true? And the Darcys” — he smirked down into her laughing eyes as he led her to a window — “are a tall race.”
“Would you care to sit down?” Mrs. Collins’s invitation recalled Darcy to his manners. He pulled his eyes away from Elizabeth and focused upon the calm, collected aspect of his hostess. But even as he nodded his acceptance, his eyes wandered back to Elizabeth. The light from the window was caressing her hair in a wonderful manner, bringing out warm, lustrous hues and highlighting those delicate tendrils at her neck that had escaped her combs. He swallowed hard, trying vainly to calm the skip and surge of his blood as he observed her and his cousin conversing so easily together.
“I thank you for your compliment of the gardens, sir.” Mrs. Collins’s low, clear voice brought him back to the business of choosing a seat. There were several arranged companionably about a low table upon which rested a china vase filled to bursting with narcissi and spring ferns. Although he did not discount his hostess’s accomplishments, Darcy suspected it to be Elizabeth’s handiwork. Surely she had gathered them that morning, likely on her return from a solitary ramble about the near edges of the park. What might she create if given the freedom of Pemberley’s gardens? Something inside him smiled at the thought, and he moved to take the chair that put him in the best position to continue his observation.
The Collinses sat with him, looking at him expectantly. In a quandary as to what to say, he cast about for something other than the mundane but was spared the task by Mr. Collins, who was inspired to believe that he suffered an anxiety to know every plant, extant or potential, that lay in the beds surrounding the parsonage. Darcy settled in for the duration, but laughter from across the room brought his head up from the rector’s interminable discourse to see Fitzwilliam grinning hugely as he leaned down to catch some further words from Elizabeth’s lips. Richard was enchanted, of that there was no doubt. The unfeigned pleasure on his face clearly indicated that he was intrigued and delighted by his companion. How could he not be? Darcy’s gaze traveled esuriently from the curls crowning her head to the pale green slippers that peeped from beneath the sway of her frock. Confound it! If ever he was to bring himself to order, he must adopt a more temperate approach.
Narrowing his regard to that of an indifferent acquaintance, he began again. She was handsome, no doubt, but no one would put her down as a great beauty. Although the sunlight did marvelous things with her hair, chestnut curls and velvety brown eyes were not in fashion. Her gown was of no great design nor was the fabric costly, but the gauzy translucence of the simple sprigged muslin did befit her so that, upon consideration, he would not have traded it for the world. Well, perhaps for silk, but only the lightest — Great Heavens, what was he thinking! He tore his eyes away in alarm at the direction his unruly thoughts had so easily taken. Another line was desperately needed. He turned back to the Collinses. Was the man still nattering on about the blasted flower beds?
When it could conceivably be argued that Collins had paused for breath, Darcy hastened to intervene. “How do you find Hunsford, Mrs. Collins? I recall some complaint from its previous occupant that the chimneys do not draw sufficiently. As Her Ladyship’s adviser, I may make arrangements with Rosings’s workmen directly on that score or any other lack you may have found.” He measured his next words carefully. “Her Ladyship need not be troubled with the particulars. It would be my pleasure to see to the matter.” There, if he must be the object of Collins’s annoying flattery, at least let it be for some actual good he had done.
Collins’s response to his offer was all he feared, but the look of relief in his wife’s eyes was enough to confirm his suspicions that his aunt’s cheese-paring ways in regard to her dependents had occasioned some discomfort in the parsonage. If Elizabeth were to visit her friend often, such could not continue. Darcy assured his host again that it was his pleasure and then fell silent. Elizabeth…here at Rosings. Would she come often? Would she be always here when he made his yearly visit? He stole another glance at her.
She was looking up into Fitzwilliam’s face, considering whatever nonsense he was spouting to her with a pretended seriousness that failed to suppress the mirth tugging at her lips. Her cheeks were flush with pleasure as Richard valiantly attempted to keep pace with her wit, but Darcy guessed that her tally was the higher in their contest. Would she always be here? What an idiotic question! She would marry, soon or late. Darcy shifted uncomfortably, the thought so agitating he could barely sit still. He twisted his father’s ruby signet ring unmercifully. It was inevitable! Soon or late, some fellow, favored of Heaven and with no obligations to anything save his future happiness, would whisk her to the altar and know in truth what Darcy could only dream of knowing.
The laughter Elizabeth had struggled to contain behind those invitingly pursed lips burst forth in sweet cascades of delight, and Darcy’s heart faltered at the sound. That was the Elizabeth of the Meryton assembly, with the enigmatic smile and whispered laughter, the Elizabeth of the Netherfield ball, with her impudent curls and wistful gaze, the Elizabeth of Pemberley and Erewile House, whose imagined eyes spoke to him as he wandered the halls not quite alone. With growing irritation he watched Fitzwilliam bend to whisper something near her ear; and before Darcy could look away, she tilted her head, glancing over at him. Their eyes met, and he could no more pull away from their fascination than he could will his heart to stop beating. The answers to a thousand questions lay in
