The Last Waltz: . . . another pride and prejudice journey of love (9 page)

With her afternoon tea with her aunt concluded, she sat in the parlour, waiting to see who might call upon her today, and there was soon a knock at the door. “There is a gentleman here to see you, Miss,” said Stivers. “He has no card, but begs that you might grant him the privilege of an introduction.”

“We have never been properly introduced?”

“No, Miss, and I fear it is far worse than that; the man is dressed in regimentals! Should I send him away?”

A furrow formed across her brow at the audacity of a gentleman not of her acquaintance calling upon her and one wearing regimentals at that!

“Did he not at least give his name?”

“No, Miss; he refused any further information but said he has heard much of your beauty and is most anxious to meet you.”

She gave the matter some thought and silently admitted she could not help but admire such daring. Despite her better judgment, curiosity and vanity eventually won out.

“Show the gentleman in, Stivers.”

CHAPTER
TWELVE

An early morning mist hovered as Elizabeth looked out across the meadow. It reminded her of a painting she once saw on a visit to a gallery with her aunt. Friedrich? Thomas Girtin? She could not recall. But whoever the artist, she was certain he had been inspired by such a morning.

With each outing, she allowed herself to walk a little farther than the day before, always starting with the path she and Mr. Darcy had taken on his first visit.

She had not seen him for several days, as he had not accompanied his friend on the occasion of his last two visits, and yesterday’s rains had curtailed even Mr. Bingley’s efforts. She was now beginning to wonder if he would
ever
return. She knew it was probably best if he did not, for sooner or later he would leave Hertfordshire, and she would be wise not to become accustomed to his company.

But certainly she was intelligent enough not to engage her emotions.
My emotions are not engaged.
Only a foolish schoolgirl would let that happen.
I am no foolish school girl.
She told herself her interest in Mr. Darcy was only curiosity. And what harm could it do to simply enjoy his company when he called again
? If he called again.

Over the past five years, he had never been far from her thoughts. Now that she had the opportunity, why should she not take pleasure in his company? It might be comforting to have some fond memories to think back upon once he was gone; some new, more vivid memories to warm her through the cold existence of the rest of her life bereft of his company.

My emotions are not engaged!

No doubt his offer of friendship was only to amuse himself while stuck in the country, and most likely he could not wait to return to London and the perfect, sophisticated women with whom he usually socialized. Perhaps it was a charitable gesture on his part to entertain her, but yes, she decided she saw no reason to deprive herself of his company if he was inclined to proffer it. And besides, if nothing else, his attendance upon her had fueled some highly arousing dreams. She sighed, recalling last night’s, in all its exquisite details . . .

We are in a lovely garden. I can hear the faint sounds emanating from a pianoforte somewhere in the distance. Mr. Darcy seems tentative or distracted, I cannot tell which.

“Is something wrong?” I ask as I notice his unease.

“As you are my only female friend, I’m afraid I have no frame of reference as to what would be considered appropriate behaviour between us,” he states.

I raise my head and look up into his eyes. “I imagine your conduct would be the same as with any of your male friends, Mr. Darcy.”

He gives me a dubious look. “I highly doubt that, Miss Bennet,” he replies, a grin on his face. “I have never had a desire to dance a waltz with Mr. Bingley.”

Of course, I blush at his words.

He looks at me intently, and he seems to be making up his mind about something. Then without a word, he takes me into his arms, and we begin to move in time with the music. Once again, my dream absolves me of all my imperfections, and I am confident and light on my feet.

He pulls me more tightly into his embrace, bringing us much closer than the dance might properly allow. He bows his head, and I feel his lips upon neck. His mouth slowly moves upwards as he places tiny kisses below my ear, and then across my cheek, stopping at the corner of my mouth. When our lips finally touch, I cannot breathe at all for his kiss has literally taken my breath away. I am lost in a magical place where air is not required, and I know there is nowhere else I would rather be than here in his arms.

Elizabeth could not help but wistfully smile at her romantic, yet preposterously foolish, dream. But then, that was what dreams were for, were they not? Dreams made it possible to indulge in those activities that would normally exclude her. It was only in her dreams that she was allowed to experience Mr. Darcy’s kisses. And it was only in her dreams that she danced so elegantly in his arms.

So lost in her thoughts of Mr. Darcy was she, that she had not realized how far she had walked. She knew she must turn back as she had overtaxed her leg, and she could feel it grow weaker.

As she was reprimanding herself, she looked up at the sound of thundering hoofs far afield. It was a horse, travelling at a steady gallop towards her. Even from this great distance, she could identify the rider, though his face was still obscure. He drew nearer, and she felt herself out of breath, her heart beating faster in anticipation.

Darcy’s thoughts were preoccupied as he rode the fields between Netherfield and Longbourn. He had found one reason or another to forego accompanying Bingley on his last two visits, making up excuses to himself as much as to his friend.

He knew Mrs. Bennet would now be prepared to have one of her other daughters at home and available to share chaperoning duties, and that prospect alone was enough to deter him.

But he knew the real reason he had been reluctant to accompany Bingley was due to his attraction towards the young lady in question. While his attentions towards Elizabeth might be bolstering her confidence, it was playing havoc with his usual self-control; never before had his restraint been put to such a test. She brought out a reckless abandon and boldness in him that he had never before experienced. And now he was much conflicted. He did not want to go back on his word to Mr. Bennet, but he also did not know how to curb his desire to know the gentleman’s daughter more intimately.

He entertained the thought of her lips once again and the appealing way they slightly twitched just after a tease escaped them. His imagination conjured up delightful ways of effectively silencing those teasing lips.

The note which Mr. Bennet had sent to Netherfield, enlightening him as to Elizabeth’s newly formed habit of walking early each morning, had attributed this new development to Darcy’s attentions towards her, and Mr. Bennet was now convinced his plan had merit.

Darcy had spoken the truth when he had confessed to her his lack of female friends; she had the distinction of being the only one of his acquaintance. She seemed to expect nothing from him other than his companionship, and he felt quite comfortable in her company. Usually he was ill at ease around young women, as it seemed they all spoke in double entendres or innuendoes and their actions were usually designed to tempt or entrap him in some way, but she was not like that at all. He could honestly say that he
liked
her.

He wondered how many gentlemen had denied themselves the pleasure of getting to know Elizabeth Bennet for no other reason than the unevenness of her gait.

Just then he saw her as she walked along the deserted path. He reminded himself that his attendance upon her was only to assist Mr. Bennet in his plan and not to form a romantic attachment.
Romantic attachment?
Where had that thought come from? He did not
form
romantic attachments.

As he reached her, Elizabeth stood perfectly still, staring up at him as if he were a mirage. It was almost as if her thoughts of him had summoned his presence; a knight in shining armor, blazing a trail across the meadow to rescue her.

He dismounted and bowed. “Good morning, Miss Bennet.”

She bowed her head in response. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy.” He looked so appealing that she stared at him quite blatantly.

There was silence for a few moments as Darcy, too, seemed unable to remove his steady gaze from her. It appeared neither of them was willing to speak, lest they betray any of the recent thoughts that were still lingering in their minds.

Darcy offered his left arm, and she was grateful for the much needed support. They began walking, both absorbed in the moment—the perfect morning, the colourful display of autumn, and the enjoyable companionship of each other.

He turned his head to study her profile; the rim of her bonnet hid her eyes, but allowed him to observe the glorious sight of her luscious, full mouth. She turned and met his gaze.

“I am happy to see you have continued your walks, Miss Bennet. Your eyes seem brightened by the exercise.”

“Are you always so gracious, Mr. Darcy? Someone who was less so, might describe my appearance as almost wild. Certainly my hair has been frazzled by the morning mist, and yesterday’s rain has rendered my petticoat at least six inches deep in mud.”

“You may believe me, Miss Bennet; you look quite charming.”

She gave him a cynical look. “I shall not argue the point, sir.”

“If you doubt it, I am sure I would be able to find ways to convince you.”

Her response was a blush, and even Darcy’s complexion seemed heightened by his reply.
Careful, Darcy.

“I had presumed the morning was designed for me alone; I had not anticipated sharing it with anyone. Are you in the habit of riding so early?” she asked.

“I did not mean to interrupt your solitary reverie. I found myself awake before the dawn and had a desire to ride in the meadows. Would you not grant me my share of this beautiful morning?”

“I do believe the morning holds enough beauty that we both may enjoy it,” she said, giving him a smile that was irresistible.

“Can I also hope to enjoy your company on Saturday?”

“I assume you speak of the ball at Netherfield. It was not my intention to attend; as you are well aware, I do not dance.”

“Splendid! It will give me an excuse to sit out a set or two without Bingley scowling at me. We may spend our sets conversing or perhaps taking a turn about the room. May I reserve your company for the supper set and perhaps the last set as well?”

She could not deny she was pleased by his request. With her concentration devoted to his eyes, she took a misstep, and her weakened leg buckled. Darcy quickly secured his arm around her waist, averting her fall.

“I’m afraid I have walked too far today, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her confidence suddenly deserting her. “I was just about to turn back when you approached.”

She took another step, but her leg was not sturdy enough to support her.

“We can
ride
back, Miss Bennet,” he said with concern in his voice. “Allow me to help you.”

“Oh, I cannot ride . . . I . . . I am not dressed properly . . . my skirts will not accommodate . . .” As she spoke, she tried again to take another step, but she knew her leg was far too weak to carry her all the way back to Longbourn. She heaved a sigh and gave him a look of resignation.

“I am sure we will not encounter anyone this early,” he said reassuringly.

He steadied his mount, then secured his hands around her waist. As he lifted her onto the saddle the ribbon from her garter fluttered to the ground releasing the stocking it had held in place. Then just as she had feared, her skirts rose, and her now bare leg was exposed. As Darcy instinctively bent to retrieve the ribbon, he saw the scars.

The first one started just below her knee, and the sight of it took him by surprise. His fingers slowly moved towards it, and he could not resist the urge to trace it upwards.

Elizabeth inhaled a slight gasp as she looked down and watched his fingers gently stroke the length of the delineated mark that marred her skin. He followed its course upward to where it met the second scar, this one thicker and more recently acquired. He looked up at her, and their eyes met.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” he whispered, compassion pouring from his heart.

But she had witnessed his initial look of dismay.

“Mr. Darcy, please. Please don’t. I cannot bear your pity, sir,” she said as she tried to push her skirts down to hide her disfigurement from him.

But he would not have it. “Let me . . . let me see them, Elizabeth,” he said softly but in a manner that told her he would brook no refusal.

She inhaled a shallow breath, and her hand stilled. She looked down at him and was lost in the depth of the deep brown pools of his eyes; the eyes that for years had haunted her, sustained her, and inspired her to go on when hope had all but been abandoned.

Slowly she withdrew her hand as he moved her skirts to again reveal her scars. Elizabeth closed her eyes, and an audible sigh escaped her as she felt the heat of his breath upon her leg. Then the warmth of his lips were upon her skin as they now followed the path of his fingers, gently placing a slow trail of kisses along the evidence of the painful ordeal she had endured.

With each kiss he bestowed, Elizabeth found it more difficult to breathe. She longed to touch him, to feel the softness of his hair through her fingers as his mouth placed tender kisses upon her skin, but she forced her hands to remain still.

All the fantasies she had imagined over the years regarding his lips paled in comparison to the feelings she now experienced as they pressed so intimately against her leg. Her heart was overruling all propriety, and she struggled between begging him to stop and begging him not to.

He moved her skirts higher, tracking the scar until he reached its end as it cambered toward her outer thigh. As he bestowed the last of his kisses there, he breathed in her tantalizing scent. Elizabeth’s eyes remained closed as she grasped the pommel to steady herself. The warm sensuous feel of his mouth upon her skin was a pleasure beyond any she had ever known.