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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