Mr. Darcy's Refuge (8 page)

How could she look so innocent and yet so seductive at the same time? He drank in the sight of her. It was the first time all day he had felt able just to look at her, which had long been one of his greatest delights. She stirred in her slumber, half-smiling as if at something in a dream. If only he had the right to wake this sleeping princess with a kiss – but he did not, at least not yet.

He was sorely tempted to sit in the chair across from her and simply watch her sleep, letting his imagination go where his lips did not dare, but it was not right to take advantage of her vulnerability for his own pleasure. But he also could not leave her there where anyone could walk in and find her unable to defend herself. He would have to wake her so that she could go up to bed.

“Miss Bennet,” he said softly, and then repeated her name a little louder. There was no response, so he drew closer to her chair. It would always be
her
chair in his mind now, somehow imbued with her essence. “I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Elizabeth, but you cannot remain here. You must go upstairs to bed.” In his mind, he added,
preferably with me
. Just being in her presence had restored his sense of humor – and a few other senses as well.

She was obviously sound asleep. If she was half as tired as he, it was no surprise. He placed his hand on her shoulder, careful to touch only where the fabric of her sleeve covered it, despite the tempting expanse of warm skin just an inch away. He gave her arm a little shake, but though the corner of her mouth twitched, she did not open her eyes.

What now? He could not leave her and he could not stay. He could, of course, fetch Sally to stay with her, but he wanted to keep this moment private. No, what he
wanted
to do was to carry her up to her bed so that he could hold her sleeping form close to him for those few minutes. That, of course, was a good reason why he should not do so.

His gaze began to travel slowly down her body illuminated in the flickering firelight, from light to shadow, from draped fabric to tender skin, from her slender neck, past her gently rounded shoulders to the curves that he longed to cradle in his hands… no, this would
not
do. He had somehow managed to act the part of a gentleman with her all day despite extreme provocation. It would not be the end of the world for him to carry her upstairs, and it just might save him from worse, especially if his imagination kept going as it was.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he returned upstairs to place the candle in her room and turn down the covers of her bed, firmly not thinking of how she would sleep between those very sheets. No, he was
not
going to think of that, not at all. It was merely a bed like any other, a piece of furniture covered with a mattress and a few linens, not a shrine to the goddess he could not help worshipping. But those fortunate sheets were allowed to touch her all night long; how could he not be just a little envious, when he would give almost anything just to have her sleep in his arms? Not that it would stop with sleeping, but….Angrily he shook his head. He must
stop
this nonsensical thinking.

He returned to the sitting room, half fearing that she might have awakened while he was gone, but she had not moved. He drew near, then paused. Good God, was he actually
savoring
the moment of anticipation? He was further gone than he had thought. But savoring the moment could hardly injure her, and it was certainly giving him a great deal of pleasure.

He bent down, close enough to hear her even breathing, and slid one arm behind her shoulders. It was trickier finding a route for his other hand with her legs folded in the chair, and he kept a close eye on her face, ready to stop in an instant if she awoke. It also kept him from thinking about where his hand was, at least mostly. After all, he was supposed to be helping her, not enjoying her body. It was just that it was
such
an enjoyable body that it was hard not to notice it.

She made a little sound as he straightened, but settled into his arms like a dream. She fit there like a dream, too. Her natural warmth was augmented by her time in front of the fire. His arm was ensconced between her shoulders and the curtain of her hair which shifted with every step he took, showering him with the scent of honeysuckle and roses. Her chest moved with each sighing breath, and her head was a pleasurable weight on his shoulder. She was his Elizabeth, and that was all there was to it. Why could she not see it?

He started up the stairs, taking each step slowly to avoid jostling his precious burden, not that she seemed in any danger of waking. It was worse than that – she was shifting in her sleep, nestling ever closer to him, just as he had dreamed of her doing. His eyes widened slightly as he realized exactly which portions of her anatomy she was pressing against him as she nuzzled into his shoulder. What in heaven’s name had made him decide to wear a thick housecoat rather than just his shirtsleeves? He would be able to glory in her every movement then, but no, he had decided to be proper. Sometimes propriety was distinctly overrated.

Propriety was also distinctly hard to recall when his every instinct was telling him to explore her face with his lips, committing the feeling of it to memory before moving on to meet her own. He could barely think why that was such a bad idea, but he was quite sure he had been resolved on it. It was torture to do no more than to hold her in his arms, and yet he hoped it would never end.

All too soon he reached her room, dimly lit by the one candle. Good Lord, he was alone with Elizabeth in her bedroom, and she was nestled close to him – and he was supposed to put her down and walk away. He was going to be a candidate for sainthood by the time this was over. Crossing to the side of the bed, he lowered her gently until her back rested on the sheet, then slowly and reluctantly began to pull his arms out from beneath her.

He was almost free – what a terrible word that was, free, when applied to something so distasteful as separating himself from Elizabeth – when she stirred. Holding his breath, he watched as her eyes fluttered open for the merest second, then closed again. She shifted onto her side, facing toward him, and clasped his hand so that it was trapped between her cheek and the pillow. With a sound of contentment, she rubbed her face against his hand as she drifted back into a deep sleep.

Only his arm that had supported her legs was now free. What in God’s name was he supposed to do now? Did gentlemanly behavior really demand that he pull his hand from her grasp by force when the incredible silkiness of her cheek rested warmly against it? He had not sought out the position; she had definitely taken his hand, albeit without knowing to whom it belonged. Or perhaps on some level she
did
know, in some part of her that had never believed in George Wickham’s lies, that knew she belonged with
him.

But he could not stand there bending over her forever, so he lowered himself until he sat on the floor beside her bed, his hand still in hers. God help him, but he did not have the strength to pull himself free, not when it felt so unutterably right. He should not be watching her, though – she would not have given him permission to do that – so he closed his eyes against the temptation, resting his head against the side of the mattress, his entire being concentrated into that small part of him she held so close.

Chapter 6

Elizabeth’s dreamworld had taken her to the Netherfield ball, which for some reason was being held in the oversized dining room of Rosings Park, where a troupe of acrobats were performing. She was dancing with Mr. Darcy, but not in a country dance. Instead, she was in his arms for that scandalous London dance, the waltz. They whirled around the dining room, miraculously now empty except for an acrobat performing impossible feats of tumbling on a tightrope strung between the chandeliers. Somehow the acrobat transformed into a young child who fell from the tightrope, her body flipping in slow uncontrolled circles as she screamed and screamed….

Startled out of sleep, Elizabeth sat up abruptly in bed, her heart pounding. A child
was
screaming, “No! No! No!” And was that really Mr. Darcy’s back disappearing through the door of her room? No, she must have dreamed that part.

She threw off the counterpane and stood, reaching for a dressing gown that was not there. Of course it wasn’t; she was still wearing her dress. Her mind must still be fuzzy from the dream, she decided as she hurried into the passageway toward the source of the screams.

Jenny’s bedroom was only faintly illuminated by moonlight through the window. It was a moment before Elizabeth realized that Mr. Darcy was kneeling beside her bed, trying to speak to the girl. Jenny’s fists were in her mouth, but somehow not muffling her shrieks. She was staring at the woman in the other bed as if she were a creature out of nightmare.

Remembering the night terrors Lydia had suffered at a similar age, Elizabeth sat beside Jenny and gathered her into her arms. “Hush, Jenny. It was just a bad dream. It is over now. I won’t let anything happen to you. I am here and Mr. Darcy is here to keep you safe.” She continued in the same vein with soothing repetitions until Jenny’s screams subsided into sobs. She met Darcy’s eyes over the girl’s head.

He motioned to the woman. “Fetch us a light.”

Once she was gone, Jenny seemed a little calmer. Elizabeth pushed the girl’s hair behind her ears. “See? Everything is well, and you are safe in bed.”

Tears still running down her face, Jenny said, “Is it true, what she said?”

With some foreboding, Elizabeth said, “I don’t know. What
did
she say?”

“That my mama is… isn’t coming back.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes in sympathy with the girl’s pain. “No one can tell that for sure. It has been a whole day since anyone saw her. Could she swim?”

Jenny buried her head in Elizabeth’s shoulder. “N..No, but maybe she got to the other side somehow and can’t get back to us here.”

On the other side of the bed, Darcy was shaking his head. Elizabeth, surprisingly conscious of Darcy’s eyes on her, said, “I suppose it is possible.”

“She can’t be gone. She just can’t.” Jenny’s sobs began anew. “That means they’d all be gone, wouldn’t it?”

Having no consolation to offer, Elizabeth just stroked her hair. How terrible it must be for her to hear the news so unexpectedly in the middle of the night! She spared several uncharitable thoughts for the woman who was supposed to be taking care of her.

As if on cue, the woman returned, her hand cupped around the flame of a candle which she used to light the lamp by the bed. It provided little illumination in normal circumstances, but after sitting in the dark, the room seemed suddenly bright.

Elizabeth could see now that Darcy was still dressed as well, wearing one of Mr. Collins’s housecoats over his waistcoat and trousers. When had he returned to the parsonage? It must have been very late, since she had been in the sitting room eating her soup, and then… and then what? She must have fallen asleep, but then how had she come to be in her bed?

A lively doubt seized her. As her suspicious glance met Darcy’s, he flushed and turned away, rising to his feet and going to talk to the young woman in hushed tones.

That housecoat. It had not been her imagination. She had seen Darcy leaving her room when she was awakening, and he was wearing that housecoat. But what had he been doing in her bedroom while she slept? Had he only just brought her up to bed? That was a shocking enough thought, that he might have carried her in his arms. It was not as if it would be much more damning than riding with him that afternoon, but it felt more intimate somehow, especially when she remembered dancing in his arms in her dream. The timing of bringing her upstairs must have been remarkable to fit so closely with Jenny’s screams – or had it been?