Page 43 of Knowing Mr. Darcy
That could not be.
She still could not breathe, except here and there, in sharp gusts. Mr. Bingley’s fingers were still toying with hers, still running haphazardly all over her fingers and hand and palm and wrist, and it was distracting. Almost pleasant, perhaps?But overwhelming and confusing. If she could barely breathe, she certainly couldn’t speak.
“Anyway, this business with his sister is taking on some kind of unwieldy shape,” said Mr. Bingley. “I told him I would help if he needed me to do so, but I… oh, dash everything, Miss Elizabeth, why are you so dazzling?”
She was not dazzling.
“I wonder if I speak to him, if he will not understand why it is that I can’t give you up after all,” said Bingley. “I think he might. I think he might understand very well.”
And then, as if by some awful twist of fate, he was there.
Mr. Darcy came through the room, his dark gaze fixed on the both of them.
Mr. Bingley took her hand again, firm, giving her fingers a squeeze she thought he probably meant to be reassuring. However, with her hand bare and tucked behind their bodies, she felt uncovered and vulnerable and as if she had done something wanton besides. She had allowed him this liberty.
Just my hand, just my hand,she cried internally.
But was it a horrid thing to have done? Did it say something about the state of her own virtue?
“Darcy,” said Bingley as Mr. Darcy stopped in front of them.
“You’re with her, of course,” said Mr. Darcy. “Still with her.”
“We shall need to talk at some point, Darcy,” said Mr. Bingley, and he gestured with his other hand, the one that wasn’t holding Elizabeth’s. Of course that hand had Elizabeth’s glove balled up in it, and Mr. Darcy saw it, and his eyes widened.
And Bingley cringed, blushing, and made to put it into one of his pockets.
But Elizabeth’d had enough of it, and she pulled her hand out of his and reached over with her gloved hand and snatched her glove back from him. She put it back on, feeling her face heat up, feeling mortified and shamed and awful.
She busied herself with the glove, and she supposed shedidn’t notice that they weren’t saying anything until she was done and she looked up to see the two men staring at each other, both quite still, the expressions writ on each of their countenances inscrutable.
Were they angry? Were they pained?
She clasped her gloved hands together.
“I am going home,” said Mr. Darcy, finally. “But I was hoping that you would not be so distracted that you could be counted upon to make sure Miss Bingley is not destroying my good name. If you are, I shall stay and keep my eye on her.”
“I shall obviously keep Caroline from doing anything rash,” said Bingley.
“Yes,” said Mr. Darcy. “While you’re over here doing heaven knows what with Miss Bennet’s glove.”
Bingley smiled, pleased with himself.
Elizabeth felt violated, as much from his obvious pleasure in it as from anything else.Why did I let him take it? Why didn’t I stop him? What is wrong with me?A desire to flee welled up inside her, but she didn’t see where she could go, or what she could do. This was what she wanted, to be loved by Mr. Bingley, to be desired by him, to have him wish to marry her.
Mr. Darcy’s gaze fell on her. His brows came together. “Whatever is the matter, Miss Bennet?”
Her jaw worked, but no sound came out. She shook her head.
“You needn’t worry that I shall censure you,” said Mr. Darcy. “What leg would I have to stand on with my sister’s story? It’s so much worse than a glove.”
But Elizabeth felt trapped and afraid.
There was nothing wrong with Mr. Bingley. He wasn’t a bad man, but he frightened her for some reason. She was not frightened that he would hurt her. That wasn’t it at all. It was only that the prospect of Mr. Bingley wanting her, physically wanting her, in the way that he clearly did, it was not appealing.
Her gaze settled on Mr. Darcy, though, and it wasdifferent. He was close, too, and she could see his stubble beneath his skin. It was darker than Mr. Bingley’s and more prominent, and he had a scent this close also, a scent she found oddly intoxicating. His shoulders were even broader than Mr. Bingley’s. By all rights, he should be more intimidating than Mr. Bingley, but he… the look of Mr. Darcy, the scent of Mr. Darcy, thepresenceof Mr. Darcy…
It wasn’t like Wickham, not like the dream and his breath, because she wanted Mr. Darcy more than she had ever wanted Mr. Wickham.
