Page 44 of Knowing Mr. Darcy
She looked down, hunching up her shoulders, wishing she could disappear.
Oh, Lord in heaven, protect me,she thought.This cannot be happening.
She thought aboutMr. Darcytaking off her glove and her body reacted in a shameful way. She needed to leave now, because she didn’t know exactly what to do with herself in this moment.
She looked up again. She did not know what infernal desire within her urged her action. Her gaze met Mr. Darcy’s, and his dark eyes locked onto hers, and somethinghappened, something instant and powerful. It was brief, but she knew he felt it, knew because of the way his expression changed.
For her part, it was as if the entire room went silent and fell away. There was nothing but Mr. Darcy, nothing at all. His eyes, his features, his—ah, goodness—hislips.
Mr. Darcy jerked his gaze away. “Bloody hell,” he said distinctly. Then, “Heavens, forgive my vulgarity. I am out of sorts and it has been a rather awful evening. I need to take my leave. Bingley, we shall speak. I shall visit you on the morrow. Good night, both of you. Please excuse me.” He turned without waiting for a response from either of them and stalked off, his movements stiff.
She was tingling all over, tingling from that moment where they’d gazed into each other’s eyes, and she felt as if her entire soul had been crushed in that moment. She wanted to sob. She wanted to wail. She wanted to run out infront of a carriage and get crushed to death.
Well, that was dramatic. Far too dramatic.
However, whatever it was that had just passed between her and Mr. Darcywasdramatic.
“Miss Bennet?” said Mr. Bingley.
She turned to look at him. “Hmm?”
He gave her a little smile. “You’re all right, then? I’m sorry. I promise never to remove your glove surreptitiously again. Please tell me that if you can forgive the fact I abandoned you months ago, that you can forgive that I am mad with wanting to feel my skin on yours.”
She wanted to turn and look after Mr. Darcy. “Of course I can forgive you, sir,” she said faintly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MR. DARCY WENThome and composed a letter to his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, who was in France. He did not know if Richard had any ability to get away, but he did know that Richard was also Georgiana’s guardian. If Georgiana was in danger, Richard would wish to know of it.
They’d spoken before of measures they might take if necessary, if Wickham started telling tales. Mr. Darcy hadn’t wished to carry out any of the measures, which was why none of them had been implemented. But if he had to, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for his sister.
He’d consider speaking to his aunt, Lady Matlock, if necessary, also. He thought that if the Bingleys thought to spread rumors, there were ways to silence them, and his aunt would know all of those ways. He hadn’t gone to her with this before because he rather knew what she’d say. She would wish to marry Georgiana off at once, and she would make a match that would protect Georgiana’s reputation but that would do little to ensure her happiness. His aunt was not one to value love. She’d had a number of not-very-hidden affairs herself, but then, so had his uncle. They were of that generation who had seen marriage as something one does for children and duty, and love as a fleeting thing that is found with extramarital escapades. Love was petty and brief to that way of thinking. It had nothing to do with marriage.
Mr. Darcy was no bleeding heart romantic himself, he supposed. He had seen firsthand how fickle lovers could be, how quickly the tide turned from love to hate or even to indifference.
As a young man, he’d once nearly gotten himself into an affair with a married woman, Lady Traifal. She was nearly ten years his senior but still a remarkably beautiful and poised woman. He enjoyed her company, and he liked the look of her, and he’d been tempted, quite tempted.
Her husband wasn’t even remotely interested in his wife’s activities, since he was devoted to his mistress—so devoted that they had seven children and that he essentially lived with her all the time in some country house in Devonshire.
There was something about Lady Traifal, a certain sadness that seemed to gather around her. She had everything she could have wanted. The respect that befit her station and the dresses and the status and the husband who appeared when she needed him to host a ball or accompany her to various events.
But she didn’t have love.
And he had watched her go through a slew of men like him, young men, some not even yet twenty. She paraded them about and they strutted like peacocks and then—
Well, it was fickle and brief, love. She would tire of the young man or the young man would tire of her. Lady Traifal seemed sadder still in the wake of each of these affairs.
He had a conversation with her once at the intermission during an opera. The conversation started out airy and casual.
“Yes, that was the end ofthatone. I suppose he got quite tired of looking into my lined and ancient face,” Lady Traifal had said, laughing, leaning in and setting up his compliment.
He was supposed to tell her that she didn’t look old. Instead, he said, “I think when one is accustomed to a person’s visage, even the imperfections become beloved.”
She had looked away, that sadness of hers writ on her countenance too sharply for just a moment. “You wouldn’tstay long enough to become accustomed. Young men want a young woman, eventually.”
You, she had said.You. Not a theoretical question, then, but a true negotiation, and they were hashing out the end of this affair before it had even begun.
“I don’t know what all young men want,” he said. “I only know that I want…” He drew in a breath and fixed his gaze on her, very pointedly. “You wouldn’t be mine.”
