Page 8 of Until My Last Breath

Elizabeth looked at him over her shoulder. Her bright eyes met his and Darcy stopped, mesmerised by the sight in front of him. His heart raced wildly against his chest, and his whole body came alive. He swallowed hard a couple of times, and, all of a sudden, his cravat seemed tighter than usual. He fought back the urge to loosen it as his eyes perused every detail of her.

She was so full of life; so full of colour. The beauty of her long and dishevelled auburn tresses, dancing at the sunlight and falling over hershoulders and back, framed the modest décolletage of her pink dress; creamy milk skin contrasted with her honey-coloured eyes, rosy cheeks and heavenly strawberry-like lips, making him dizzy; all that covered in bewitching light dusting freckles, giving her heart shaped face its final touch. He never thought freckles could be so enchanting.

Delectable.

He balled his fists to fight the urge to touch her face and feel if under those freckles her skin was as soft as it looked.

God! He was in real trouble!

Noticing his reaction and silent staring, Elizabeth blushed all over again. She had shouted at him. What kind of lady does such a thing? She was almost behaving like her younger sister.

A quick breeze made one of her tresses tickle her nose. Lifting her hand, she noticed with some despair that her hair had escaped their pins, and she was not wearing her bonnet — as if she needed another reason to raise his censure.

Taking her eyes from him, she started looking around for the incriminating accessory.

Her brisk movements broke the spell over Darcy and following her eyes, he realised she had misunderstood his silence. Coming closer, he extended his hand and held her by the arm, stopping her before she could reach for her bonnet. “No, please.”

“I am sorry about my untidy appearance, Mr Darcy.” She lowered her eyes. “I was not expecting anyone venturing these parts of the meadow so early.”

Well, she was not expecting. Just hoping.

Clumsily, and suddenly shy, Elizabeth cursed that traitor thought and began rearranging her hair and brushing off the small pieces of grass attached to her dress, hoping there were not any blots of ink on her face.

“I am the one who should be sorry,” Darcy said hoarsely, releasing her arm. “I became… distracted by the astonishing sight of…”your beauty, “the flowers. You do not need to wear your bonnet on my account. I would not suspend any pleasure of yours.”

She smiled, amused by his choice of words. It seemed Mr Darcy was not so disagreeable as she had been inclined to believe. “Oh, do not apologise, sir. In fact, I am happy you are here—”

As soon as the words left her lips, her smile faded, a sad memory spoiling her contentment. Not only his harsh words about her not being handsome enough to tempt him, but also his judging eyes after that, especially on her mother and Lydia. If Mr Darcy could be so judgemental, cold even, then the way he had treated Mr Wickham was just the consequence of it. How could she enjoy the company of such a man?

She looked at him, and there he was. Frowning and staring at her. “I… mean,” she added, turning away from him. “I am happy you are her to… um, enjoy the flowers. They are indeed beautiful.”

She sighed. Why should life be like this? While Mr Darcy had been distracted observing ‘the flowers’, she had the opportunity to observe him. She blushed at her unladylike thoughts about his dashing figure, and what she would not give to be able to marry a man like him. His dark curly hair, hidden under his hat, prolonged in enticing sideburns, framed his well-shaved and strong jawline and neck. He was tall, and due to the perfect cut of his riding attire, she could see he had a slim but strong frame. But it was his eyes — dark and penetrating — that could really unsettle her. And to make things even worse, beneath that enchanting cover there was an intelligent and perceptive man.

What could be more infuriating than a handsome and secretive man? And, which man was the real Mr Darcy? The insensitive and proud man she saw at those first and last balls, or the gentle and clever one she had been meeting this last week?

“Good morning,” Darcy suddenly said, his expression softening into a smile.

Elizabeth startled, forgetting her musings. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said good morning, Miss Elizabeth. I just realised I had not greeted you properly when I arrived.” He also suspected that her sudden silence could be related to his staring at her and tried to remedy it.

His smile disarmed her. She bit her lips, raising one eyebrow,somehow, forgetting all about her displeasure. “Well, good morning to you too, sir. Are you enjoying your stay this time?”

Something was happening to him, and with an unexpected move, he took a step closer to her and then stopped. Stiffening his back and holding his hands behind him, he averted his eyes from her lips before his escalating need propelled him to take her in his arms and kiss her senselessly.

“Indeed, Miss Elizabeth, much better,” Darcy replied, turning from her. He cleared his throat. “Are you unaccompanied today?”

“Yes, I am,” she replied, oblivious to his struggles. “Charlotte and Maria went to town to buy some supplies with Mr Collins, but I begged them to leave me behind. I could not waste such a beautiful day inside a carriage.”

“I see,” Darcy said, feeling his heart skipping a couple of beats —again. He could not trust himself to be alone with Elizabeth. He respected her too much to take any liberty, but he could not vouch for his words — and he was only one step away from saying something he certainly would come to regret. “Well, I did not mean to interrupt your enjoyment. I bid you a good day.”

With that, he fled from her.

“Mr Darcy,” she called, the words escaping from her mouth. “Before you go, do you mind, um… holding my easel? I need to fetch more water, but as this painting is still fresh, I am afraid it would be ruined if the wind turns it.”

He looked down at the easel. For the first time since his arrival, he noticed what she had been doing. “You are painting a watercolour?”

“Surprised, sir? I know I am not exactly the epitome of accomplishment, but indeed I can paint watercolours, and the better part is that I really enjoy it. It is not like embroidering countless handkerchiefs. Do you know how many handkerchiefs I have with my initials?”

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