Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 13

~ Caroline ~

Caroline did not go down to breakfast the next morning. She did not leave her room, in fact.

She never should have had that third or fourth or fifth drink the other night. She never should have had the first one!

It was true that she felt much improved, but she had not been able to fall asleep early enough. She kept hearing odd noises. She even thought she heard Louisa cry out once or twice, but that was ridiculous. Whatever the case, it had been very late when she had finally slept. That, along with unpleasant dreams, had left her still exhausted upon waking. Well, she would stay right in her bed and nap as much as she liked!

In the afternoon, her maid gave her a note from Jane. Caroline suspected it had passed through Louisa's hands, for Jane must have been gone this hour or more. It had been that long since she had last heard any sounds that could be construed as preparations to leave. It would explain the delay if Louisa had offered to deliver the note, and the finger-shaped indentations on the sheet of paper seemed to prove it. It would be just like Louisa, having satisfied her curiosity, to go about with the note pressed tightly in her hand, distracted by several other things before recalling her errand.

Jane's note was sweet, just like its writer. It was also unexpectedly familiar. After expressing best wishes for Caroline's improved health, Jane went so far as to ask if there were any remedies Caroline found helpful. Was the girl only offering to ask Longbourn's housekeeper for some powders or special tea, or was Jane expecting to be on hand the next time she had a headache? With any luck, Caroline would not suffer another episode like this until well into the following year. She would be in London or Scarborough or perhaps even at Pemberley, and Jane Bennet would be at Longbourn, waiting for some other single man of fortune to lease Netherfield and offer hope to her and her dreadful sisters.

Jane's written sentiments were warmer than any thing Caroline had been used to hear from her own sister these last several years. It really was too bad such a pretty girl did not have a larger dowry or better connections.

She put thoughts of the Bennets aside. They were gone now, and she could fix her attention on Mr. Darcy and only Mr. Darcy.

That evening as Caroline went down to dinner, she passed her sister's room and heard Hurst's voice. If he had stayed back to help Louisa dress, as he did on occasion, they might not be seen for another hour. Why he thought his help was needed was a mystery. He was a fashionable fribble, true, but Louisa's maid was an excellent sort and always turned her mistress out creditably.

Well, those two could waste time over lace and jewellery if they wished, but she would not delay dinner for them. She was ravenous.

She descended the stairs slowly and carefully, not liking to make any quick movements after having been in bed so long and unwilling to do any thing to bring on another headache. She made barely any noise, therefore, which allowed the strange sound she heard to ring out that much more clearly.

Mr. Darcy was laughing. And on a Sunday evening at that!

A footman approached the door of the drawing-room to open it, but Caroline gestured for him to stand back. She crept closer, opened the door a tiny bit and waited, for the laughter was fading, and she wished to discover what had inspired it.

“I hope you keep your new sense of humour,” she heard Charles say. “It will make you much pleasanter as a brother. What did Lizzy do in just two days to work such a change in you?”

Mr. Darcy chuckled. “Oh, Elizabeth had been working changes in me far longer than that. She was simply unaware of it.”

“Can you believe we will begin the new year as brothers?”

Caroline let the door slip shut and felt her knees give way. The footman was at her side immediately. “G—Get—get me—” she gasped in a whisper while pointing to the stairs. She just wanted to flee. The man nearly lifted her into his arms as he hurried her back the way she had come.

She was on the landing and out of sight before she heard Charles and Mr. Darcy enter the hall. She was in her sitting room before she heard Hurst and Louisa leave the latter's room to go downstairs.

Tears of rage and despair welled in her eyes. She sank onto the sofa. Crying would not help. Her head was already beginning to pound. Where had she gone wrong? What more could she have done? She had tried everything she knew, every respectable thing, and she had failed! She had been an exemplary hostess. She had been fashionable and witty and smart. She had been lavish with her compliments and unrelenting in her attentions. Despite all this, she had been unable to turn Mr. Darcy's polite notice into something more. Their every tête-à tête had been full of Eliza Bennet for weeks, and Darcy's admiring gaze, which she had long craved, merely glanced past her to land squarely upon that woman.

She had thought herself indomitable, but she was coming to think she had been too sanguine in her estimation.

In half a minute she heard a quiet knock. Her maid had gone down to the kitchens and would not be back for an hour or two unless summoned. She was too shaken to think longer on it and answered, “Come in.”

The door opened enough to reveal the face of the footman that had assisted her up the stairs.

“What do you want?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse with unshed tears.

“Ma'am,” he said in a low, calming voice, “please forgive me the liberty, but when my ma has a megrim, my pa rubs her temples. Always seems to help.”

Caroline stared at him. She did not recall his name. He was a local hire, a very recent one. What presumption it was to offer her advice! Or was it worse? Was he offering to assist her in such an intimate manner? Yet she was miserable. Her headache was returning, and she wanted relief so badly.

“Is any one else near?” she asked him.

He looked over his shoulder and turned back to her. “No, ma'am” he said.

She waved him in, and he shut the door. “Are you trying to say you are willing to help me?”

He visibly relaxed. “It would be my honour, miss.”

In half an hour, Caroline lay back on the sofa with a pillow under her head and the memory of large, warm hands caressing her temples and deft, soothing fingers moving through her hair. It had helped. She could have let him go on forever, but she felt her vulnerability, unexpected as that was, and she could see the hint of attraction in his eyes. It would have been neither wise nor fair to prolong the interlude beyond its purpose. She could only be grateful for his kindness, however, and she decided he should have a little extra in his purse on Christmas Day.

As she waited for dinner to be brought to her room, she thought about her prospects for marriage. She sat up slowly, pleased to note that she felt tolerable now. She had wasted too much time in a useless endeavour. There was nothing for it but to start again, and she might as well do so by seeking a man with the qualities she so admired in her former object. Mr. Darcy was wealthy, well connected, handsome, and clever. He was also taciturn, not particularly attentive to her, and in love with someone else. The latter qualities she could do without. She nodded in decision. After to-day, she was also decidedly in favour of a man in possession of strong, gentle, talented hands and the desire to use them on her. She smiled at the thought.

No, all was not lost. She was still young, close in age to Jane and Eliza. She would pay off every arrear of civility to those two. What else was there to do? Jane would be her sister, and Eliza would be mistress of Mr. Darcy's homes. She did not wish to be separated from her family or banned from Pemberley. Between Charles and Mr. Darcy, they must know somebody that met her requirements for marital felicity. If it was not the case now, surely it would be so in future. Charles, at least, was forever making new acquaintance.

Until Caroline found this paragon, she would be sure to summon her new favourite footman—discreetly, of course—should her head give her the slightest trouble.

---

The End

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 12

~ Jane ~

“Reading in the library, Darcy? How unoriginal!”

Jane glanced at Bingley and laughed to herself. She loved his teasing manner with his friends and how easily they bore it.

Lizzy, of course, laughed aloud—that is, until she caught Mr. Darcy's eye, and then she looked embarrassed, but also pleased, happy even. They were sat rather close, those two, and Jane began to wonder. In fact, Jane was so distracted by Lizzy's manner with Mr. Darcy that she did not catch whatever it was that Charles next said to his friend—something about letters, she thought.

“What, have you put your guest to work?” Mr. Darcy said in reply. “Miss Bennet wrote your letters for you? I can imagine no other way in which they would be completed both quickly and legibly.”

Lizzy looked at her in enquiry and then in delighted surprise. Jane was sure the matter was plain on her face. She had rarely been able to hide anything from Lizzy, not that she often wished to do so. Beside her, she heard Charles huff in annoyance as Mr. Darcy continued to await his answer.

Lizzy laughed and turned to Mr. Darcy. “'Tact', my dear Darcy,” she said, “is a small but invaluable word.”

Jane was not certain how tactful it had been for Lizzy to have spoken so.

Mr. Darcy did not seem to mind it, however. “Such as 'love'?” he asked Lizzy, leaning towards her. “Or 'kiss'?”

Jane heard that last part, though Mr. Darcy had whispered it. She stared as her thoughts spun. Mr. Darcy? But...but....Was Mr. Darcy going to kiss Lizzy? Lizzy? In front of them all? And Lizzy had spoken so affectionately to him! Flustered, she turned away to find Charles's face very close to hers. “Come,” he said quietly. “Let us leave my impudent friend to your impertinent sister.” He grinned widely as he led her from the room and into another, and she followed, hardly knowing what she did.

“Charles,” she said when they were alone in the drawing-room, without knowing what she meant to say next. He gave her a surprised, searching look, and she covered her mouth as she realised she had called him Charles and not Mr Bingley!

“Yes, Jane?” Charles said with warmth and a touch of amusement in his voice.

Jane was certain her heart had never felt as full. “I am so...happy!” she whispered between her fingers. 'Because of you,' she did not say but willed him to understand. She felt slow tongued and dull witted. Why could she think of nothing brilliant, nothing clever to say at this moment?

Just as she decided to make use of the uninspired phrase that had come to her, Charles startled her by kneeling.

After that, not much conversation was exchanged beyond a few crucial phrases (“hand in marriage” and “oh yes” among them), but Jane managed nonetheless to communicate her sentiments to Mr. Bingley.

Somewhere through the haze of delectable feeling floating about Jane's conscionsness came the notion that Mr. Darcy had been quite right. 'Kiss' was indeed one of those small but invaluable words.

---

Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 11

~ Hurst ~

(language mostly unintelligible and the rest not suitable for gently-bred audiences under the age of 102)

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Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 10

~ Louisa ~

Louisa roused herself reluctantly. As she listened to the comfortable sound of the bed linen shifting about her, a sudden thought arrested her movement. “Do you hear that?” she whispered to her husband.

“What?”

“Hush!”

“But I heard nothing.”

“Exactly!” she murmured. “Caroline must be asleep. We don't want to wake her. You know what a handful she would be in such a state.”

“I have no objection to a handful in certain circumstances,” Hurst drawled, filling his hand in a way that pleased them both.

“In that case, neither can I have any objection,” Louisa breathed out while her utterings were still intelligible.

---

Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 9

~ Elizabeth ~

What had she done to him? He was the one whispering sweet nothings not in her ear, but at her breast!

“I should have known Romeo and Juliet could not have performed its office.” Darcy said, sounding almost sad.

“What office was that?” Elizabeth asked, trying and failing not to enjoy—rather, luxuriate in—the sensations she was feeling.

“My aim was to talk, or read, myself out of being in love. I had suspected it to be a futile endeavour when I began, but I knew it to be so the moment I realised you were in the room. I should have known it would end in my determining that all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay^[1] if you would but take...not just any other^[2] name in place of your own, but my name.” He sighed. “If only you had some noble connections or a substantial dowry, preferably both, I daresay I should not have attempted to reason away love.”

Immediately taking offence, Elizabeth was tempted to push his head away, but she refrained. Had he just hinted at a proposal and insulted her in one breath? The sting of the latter pushed the former to the back of her mind. She tensed and sat up straighter, which Darcy noticed immediately. “If only you had been less proud and disagreeable,” she said, “you would never have had such a mean thought, much less expressed it to me!”

He gaped at her. “Mean?” he said. “The thought was a natural one!”

Was he really so lacking in understanding, or was he so hardened in his conceit that he did not care? “It is mean,” she countered, “to hold against someone those circumstances that they cannot help. Did not you learn that from the play of which you are so fond? It would be one thing to take exception to my impertinence and argumentativeness. Those traits I might be able to control, no matter how often your own behaviour provokes me to exhibit them.” She tried now to master her anger, for she meant to say all that she wished. “I am a gentleman's daughter, Mister Darcy. I cannot be held accountable for my parents' lack of sons to soften the entail's effect any more than for their surfeit of female offspring.”

With an aspect more stiff than contrite, he said, “I can see you are offended, and I am sorry for it.”

“Would not you be, in my place?”

“I do not blame you for your situation. I do realise that even without the entail, with four sisters, you would be unlikely to have more than a few thousand pounds each. Still, you must allow that society would look askance at such an unequal match.”

“And you care so much for what people would say? I cannot but think that if you did, you would have married long ago. It cannot be so difficult to find a tolerable heiress among society's darlings, or even a handsome one with titled relations. There must be rich tradesman's daughters everywhere in London.” She raised an eyebrow and snickered when he grimaced at her allusion to their hostess. “Are there no favourite prospects that have been put forward by your family? No rich cousins, or cousins of a sort by marriage?”

He made a quiet exclamatory sound. “You are prescient, I swear. My mother's family is full of such ideas. My aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, has long wished for me to marry her daughter. My uncle's wife has similar hopes for her own niece. Neither young lady interests me in the slightest as a potential bride.”

“Then why throw society's dictates in my face when you have spent years refusing to bow to them?”

His expression changed five times or more, and he kept his eyes on hers while the silence persisted.

“That is a good question,” he eventually said, looking away.

This was hardly their first argument and surely would not be their last. It had turned out better than she had anticipated. She did not think she had fully persuaded him to her opinion, but he had apologised, and he had remained civil. Perhaps the stiffness in his manner had been due to lack of practice? Elizabeth imagined Mr. Darcy did not often apologise or concede the point.

She was so close to him. She could make out his individual lashes, appreciate the fine quality of his clothing, feel his warmth and solidity.

She was close enough to be affected by his faults, too: the flash of distaste in his expression at the mention of unequal matches and natural feelings, his officiousness, his lack of concern for the effect of his words.

She had no complaints regarding his looks. He was quite handsome, and she personally found his features attractive. It was his arrogance, not his appearance, that had set her against him. Yet today he seemed willing to make amends, and he was more intricate than she had given him credit for. Yes, he was high-handed, but he was also gentle. He spoke without tempering his opinions, but he listened as well. Then there was the most significant part of the business: she was only considering him so closely because it was undeniable that he had a serious, if surprising, interest in her.

Had someone told her yesterday that she would be sat in the library on Mr. Darcy's lap, completely improper but perfectly safe, and quite willing to be there besides, she would have been diverted, offended, or both, but mostly she would have been unbelieving.

“What are you thinking of?” He was staring at her again.

She blinked and said, “You.”

He looked as if her answer had not told him enough, but she did not want to elaborate.

She wished she could have the advice of Mrs. Gardiner at this moment. Her aunt would be scandalised by her current behaviour, but Aunt Gardiner would know just how to help her sort through her conflicting thoughts.

Thinking of her aunt reminded her that Darcy was unacquainted with the Gardiners. “You have met most of my family,” she said. “You know what they are, and I shall not waste time trying to defend them to you, or to explain to you that they should require no defence. Yet before you disdain my connections en masse, let me assure you that my uncle and aunt in London are at first glance genteel and fashionable, at second glance intelligent and amiable, and at third, fourth, and fifth glances in possession of many other pleasant qualities besides. They are great favourites with me—with all of us, really—and well worth knowing.”

It felt like ages before he spoke.

“Do you know,” he said at length, “I recall having used similar words—having wasted words, to be frank—in an attempt last winter to recommend Bingley to Lady Catherine's acquaintance. My grandfather Fitzwilliam was an earl, and his eldest daughter's rank is of great importance to her. She is fond of saying one ought not to pursue intimate friendships outside one's sphere. In her opinion, my friend's family is not ancient enough, which according to her definition would require Bingley's father and grandfather and great-grandfather to have owned land. There is no changing her mind on the subject. Yet Bingley is not, to use one of his own phrases, 'one jot less agreeable' because of it, and my aunt, unfortunately, is not made one jot more agreeable by her prejudices.”

Darcy took a deep breath. There was no sign of distaste in his expression now. “When will you introduce me to these treasured relations of yours?” he asked her. “Shall I meet them before Christmas?”

Surprised by his questions, Elizabeth explained that her uncle often brought his family to Longbourn in December, and Darcy might make his acquaintance if he planned to remain in the country some weeks more.

He visibly relaxed. Then, to her shock, he appeared farcically incredulous and said, “All that aside, you have the undivided attention of a most eligible bachelor, and you choose to spend your time arguing with him? Your mother must despair of you.” He continued to watch her, uncertainty creeping into his looks as the seconds passed.

Elizabeth parted her lips to retort more than once. At last, she closed her mouth with some force.

Darcy's resultant smile stretched wide, seemingly with as much relief as happiness. Then with a gleam in his eye, he asked, “Do you bite your tongue at me, madam?”^[3]

Elizabeth furrowed her brow and then began to shake with silent laughter as she understood his meaning. “No, sir,” she said in clipped tones, suppressing a smile with great effort. “I do not bite my tongue at you, sir, but I bite my tongue, sir.”^[4]

“You leave me no choice but to bite back.” He shifted their positions a little and commenced to nibble tentatively at her ear. “Especially as there is no Benvolio to part us.” Despite their having just quarrelled, the feel of his mouth on her and the vibration of his voice against her skin portended a thousand delights.

Elizabeth concentrated hard to keep her wits about her. “Our B-Benvolio,” she said with a stammer that embarrassed her, “doth lie upstairs with a headache, I believe.”

She felt a puff of air on her face at Darcy's quick laugh. “Ah,” he said. His nips turned to light kisses as he continued along her jawline. “A convenient thing it is that she is offstage, for I could imagine her declaring us fools and approaching with a paper knife or any other suitably sharp implement to hand.”

“That,” Elizabeth said in a breathy whisper, “would be unfortunate.”

“Indeed.” Darcy reached her lips at last and pressed his own against them, manoeuvring and gently parting them. And with this intimacy, those thousand delights burst upon them both.

---

1. Text in italics from Act II Scene II of William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet
2. Text in italics from Act II Scene II of William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet
3. Text in italics from Act I Scene I of William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet
4. Text in italics from Act I Scene I of William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet

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Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 8

~ Darcy ~

Darcy's eyes opened wide. Elizabeth's eyes were shut tight.

It was his fault, and well he knew it. He ought to feel ashamed of himself for what he had begun. He had wished their closeness to exist, physically exist, outside his imagination. He had wished for more than a fleeting brush of cloth upon cloth at a crowded dinner party.

He should have known an independent young woman like Elizabeth Bennet would never tolerate the man's having things all his own way. She would make her own move rather than stand—or, in this case, sit—idly by. Yet he had quite literally limited her possible moves by putting her in this position.

So if he was left wishing they had progressed past all this to the part of their lives where they were cosily situated on a sofa not at Netherfield but at Pemberley, where it would not signify in the least how boldly Elizabeth's hand roamed his lap, he had no one to blame but himself.

She looked so beautiful.

There were several ladies he had met who would be considered more beautiful than Elizabeth Bennet, the eldest Miss Bennet included. However, Darcy had never encountered one that appealed to him in all the ways Elizabeth did. With each meeting, each newly glimpsed facet of her character, she had somehow become dearer, and that fact had cast its own immutable charm over her already pleasing features.

He pulled her hand from between them, placed it on her knee, and briefly pressed it. Then he gently shifted her to the side so that her legs were draped across his own, and he could better see her face. He reached over to caress her at the waist. He would have let his hand rest there, but she was not composed. Her eyes remained closed, her lips parted, and she took shallow breaths.

He knew his intentions were not nefarious, but did she? Her eyes would tell him. He reached up and touched her face, running a thumb across her cheek.

Elizabeth did open her eyes then, and he knew. She was afraid, but he would swear there was no fear of him in her look. She was afraid of herself.

“I am shocked by my behaviour,” she said very quietly, confirming his thoughts. “I do not know what to say.” Her eyes glistened.

“Oh, my dear,” he said. He had almost called her his love. He wanted to tell her not to cry. His experience in saying that to Georgiana in moments of distress, however, had long ago impressed upon him the futility of the command. He could handle a few tears. As for his own feelings, he felt like grinning. Unsure whether he would be able to keep a smile from breaking out, he decided not even to try to suppress his feelings. “If,” he asked, “I were to assume from your words that you do not often find yourself in situations like this, that perhaps you have never found yourself in a situation like this before, would I be correct?”

She swallowed and said, “You would.”

He said, “Then maybe you will believe me when I tell you this is a rarity for me as well.” He wiped one of her tears. “Your eyes are pretty even when you cry.”

“You must say that to all the ladies who sit on your lap in libraries.”

“Yes, all one of them.” He lifted an eyebrow and watched her blush. “I have less experience in these matters than you might think. Bingley is always going on about my fastidiousness. He is not wrong.”

“You make me curious.”

“As long as I do not make you uncomfortable.” His voice had gone up at the end, making it more question than statement.

“Not in an unpleasant way,” she replied after a palpable silence. She regarded him with a serious, steady look, as though waiting for more. “I am still curious,” she said at length.

He never talked to people about his private business, but this was Elizabeth, the woman who was very quickly becoming his private business. And he liked talking to her. “Do you truly wish to know?” he asked.

She nodded.

“When I came of age, my cousins grew weary of merely teasing me about my innocence and decided to introduce me to an acquaintance who might...relieve me of it.”

“Oh.”

“Things did not go according to plan that evening. In the strictest sense, I returned home as innocent as I had been when I arrived. I found, despite adequate temptation, that I did not wish to share a woman with one of my cousins. I did not even know if my cousin was still in the habit of visiting her. When I admitted this to the lady, she was kind. She agreed to explain certain matters to me and even answered my awkward questions so that my time would not be wasted.”

Darcy was quiet then, remembering the woman who had neither ridiculed nor resented him when he was vulnerable, and who had apparently been so discreet that his cousin never knew a thing.

“And after?” Elizabeth asked.

“There was no after. I had fleeting thoughts of finding another widow, someone unacquainted with my family, but I never did. My father fell ill. Instead of spending my money on mistresses, I spent it travelling between London and Pemberley. Rumours of my father's health circulated, and I withdrew from society to a degree. I did not have the time or patience to fend off fortune hunters. I had a sister to care for.”

“What of your mother?”

“She had died years before.”

In an inkling, he was lost in memories: the late Lady Anne Darcy—Mother—a woman with an almost regal bearing and a distant air, who nevertheless conveyed warmth and affection when she smiled at him; escapades at Pemberley in his youth; carriage rides with his parents and baby sister; the great pleasure his maternal grandfather took in calling him Fitzwilliam and treating him as if he were his heir simply because he bore the family name; riding to the far reaches of the estate with his father; visits to Rosings and the inevitable, lingering pity for Anne, whose mother was not nearly as pleasant as his own.

He was brought out of his musings by the gentle touch of Elizabeth's hand on his face. He looked into her eyes. Why had he ever thought he would be able to forget her? Those eyes of hers would always have drawn him back. He had felt his danger this morning, but now he was entirely lost. There was nothing for it.

His uncle would rant. His aunts would be in high dudgeon. Lady Catherine, in particular, would spew her fiery anger like an ill-bred volcano.

He was going to have relations in trade, near Cheapside.

He would be brother to those giggling geese, Misses Catherine and Lydia Bennet.

He could not bring himself to care about any of those things, and that fact astonished him.

Darcy looked at the woman with whom he wanted to share not just the remainder of this day, but as many days as possible for many years to come. He leaned into her and nestled his head against her bosom. “Sweet Elizabeth,” he whispered. “What have you done to me?”

---

Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 7

~ Elizabeth ~

When Elizabeth entered the library, she was unaware she was not alone. Her ignorance did not last long.

A familiar voice emanating from the corner of the room murmured a barely comprehensible string of words. The experience was frustrating for three reasons: the voice belonged to Mr. Darcy; the voice had a rather appealing tone despite the unfortunate identity of its owner; and the volume was too low for Elizabeth to make sense of what was being said.

She came to a stop near him. He was so absorbed in his reading that he had not heard her at all, apparently. She feigned a delicate cough, and he started and rose. Muted greetings were exchanged.

Just after she had taken up a book and sat down, Elizabeth heard Mr. Darcy's voice again. She waited a moment for it to quieten. When it did not, she interrupted him. “Do you enjoy reading aloud?” she asked, drawing attention to the fact that she, too, held a book and hoping the expression on her face eloquently conveyed her feelings.

“I often find myself alone here,” he offered as an excuse.

“You are not alone now.”

“Pardon me, madam. I shall endeavour to contain my literary enthusiasm.”

Elizabeth smirked.

A few minutes later, she heard his voice again. This time it ceased quickly, and once more she immersed herself in her own book.

After checking her laughter for the third or fourth time, well entertained by Shakespeare's whimsy, Elizabeth stole a glance at Mr. Darcy and wondered how he would tolerate a taste of his own medicine, She read a line loudly enough for him to hear and was not disappointed with the result.

“I thought you did not approve of reading aloud in company.”

Elizabeth looked up. “Oh, did I ever say that, sir? Besides, when I do it, it does not keep me from concentrating on the words before me. Would you like me to endeavour to contain my literary enthusiasm?”

Mr. Darcy glared at her.

Elizabeth thought she heard a mumble that sounded suspiciously like “Exasperating woman!”

“Did you say something, sir?”

He did not answer.

“Is that your yes glare or your no glare?”

Mr. Darcy still said nothing, but the glare changed. Elizabeth could not determine what the change meant.

After a moment, Mr. Darcy lowered his eyes to his book.

They had been silent for some minutes when Mr. Darcy yet again lapsed into reading aloud. Elizabeth looked up in annoyance to find him already looking at her. So he had caught himself at it; all the better. She thought he would resume reading, perhaps quietly this time, but instead he got up and walked over to her.

“The only solution to this quandary,” he said, “is for us to read the same book.”

“Are you saying your solution must be the only solution?” Elizabeth retorted. “Why am I not surprised?”

“The other way is for one of us to leave, but on that point I fear you may be as stubborn as I.”

“If you think you will force me to leave because I would rather not admit to stubbornness, you are mistaken, You shall not be rid of me so easily as that.” Elizabeth was determined he would not chase her away. Let him leave if he felt separation necessary.

“As I thought.”

Elizabeth sat still, unwillingly enthralled. How could a man's smirk be repulsive and attractive at the same time?

Mr. Darcy opened his volume to the first page and held it out to her. “Will you not begin?”

Elizabeth continued to stare at him.

He hmphed, stared, and at last sighed and commenced reading aloud. Then he put the book into her hand and waited.

Elizabeth set the book down and picked up her own, turning to the beginning and reading the first lines of Twelfth Night.

“I wonder if I should bother to ask,” Mr. Darcy said, holding out his hand for her book when she stopped.

She gave it to him. “Had you not left for me the lines of that villainous Tybalt, I might have complied. You have read the best part of the play—that is, the prologue—with the exception of Mercutio's speeches. As for Romeo, I have no patience for him. First he loves Rosaline, and then he loves her cousin Juliet. It is a rather flimsy love that can be overthrown by one glimpse of a thirteen-year-old girl, in my opinion.”

“Perchance his was a...what did you call it? A thin sort of inclination, starved away by Romeo's own iambic pentameter.”

She watched the edge of his mouth twitch. She was hard-pressed not to laugh at his jest herself, and she imagined her eyes gave away her amusement.

His look softened. “Your choice is more entertaining.” He took a moment to find the place where she had stopped, and he continued from there, walking as he did so. Then he handed the book back to her.

She read more. They took turns, walking and stopping, eventually drifting over to the sofa.

The last scene of the first act was long. They decided to split it. With each turn, they lingered nearer after handing the book off. They went on that way, back and forth, through more of the play. Eventually they sat quite close, heads bent over the volume.

It was quite sensible what they were doing, Elizabeth thought. The words had been penned to be spoken before an audience. A full cast might have been ideal, but she and Mr. Darcy were acquitting themselves well enough. He even made each character's voice different—not dramatically so, but one could tell he had the talent for it. She could picture him reading to his young sister by the fire. Perhaps this was one of his accomplishments, a certain something in his manner of reading. She laughed, and he looked up at her and smiled before going on.

Spending time with Mr. Darcy in this way was far less unpleasant than Elizabeth would have imagined. In truth, it was not at all unpleasant.

It was lovely.

Elizabeth was pondering this revelation during one of their pauses when Mr. Darcy, instead of reading the next part, hesitantly said, “Miss Bennet, would you mind standing up just a little?”

The sofa was very accommodating. Elizabeth wondered why he needed her to move, but she did not question him. She began to rise and suddenly felt him sliding under her—and then he pulled her to himself until she was partially on his lap and in his embrace!

“Much better,” he murmured. He held the book in front of them both and began reading his part as if it were the most natural thing in the world for them to be pressed up against each other.

That sonorous, mellifluous voice, so close to her ear, made her shiver.

Was she mad? Was he? This was Mr. Darcy, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire! The tall, proud man who insulted her at their first meeting, who looked at all her acquaintance to find fault, held her close as if he had every right to do so.

She ought to object. She knew she ought. To her bewilderment, she realised she had no wish to do so. When her mind insisted that this...arrangement was improper, that she ought to remove herself from this situation, her body insisted just as vehemently that she had better stay right where she was.

His body seemed to agree. She detected less tension in him now than in all the time they had spent together in the library so far this day.

Elizabeth could not be at ease. In her nervousness, she reached behind her to smooth her skirt. As she ran her hand along the fabric, and by necessity between her person and that of Mr. Darcy, she heard a hiss. She turned quickly to look at him.

“Elizabeth!” Darcy whispered, releasing the book and grasping her arm carefully but firmly to stay her movement. “Take care.”

Later, Elizabeth would wonder what she had been thinking. In the moment, however, whether impelled by curiosity, defiance, or something she could not name, she simply moved a part of her that she could move. Her arm stayed where it was, but she slid her hand back and forth a little and heard Darcy's breathing change.

She did not know how she was going to look him in the eye ever again, but she knew she must.

Just not yet.

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