Alone with Mr. Darcy: A Pride & Prejudice Variation (8 page)

At first he did not seem to understand,
and then he closed his eyes for several long moments that felt like an
eternity. His voice was low when he finally spoke. “You likely would have been
wiser not to say that – but I am remarkably glad you did.”

Afterwards, she was uncertain which of
them had moved first, or perhaps they had both shifted so their mouths could
meet. This was not the chaste pressure of his earlier kiss; this time she could
sense the uncontrolled passion behind it as his tongue teased her lips apart.
The sensation lit a fire within her, simultaneously shocking, intoxicating, and
disturbingly exciting as she instinctively met his invasion with a response
purely her own. How had her arms ended up wound around his neck?

He broke away, his breathing ragged. “I
hope this means you have changed your mind about marriage, because very soon it
is going to be too late.”

He could not have brought her back to
reality more painfully had he thrown her out into the storm. What had she done?
She clapped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. “I beg you,
stop asking me that. I cannot do it. You do not know what you are asking.”

She felt his chest move with each heavy
breath he took, his body now rigid. “Very well, madam, if that is what you
wish,” he said coldly. He pushed himself away, leaving his greatcoat covering
Elizabeth. “I will leave you alone.”

She opened her eyes. “Where are you
going?”

“To get more firewood.” His voice sounded
harsh even to his own ears.

“Then you will need your greatcoat.” She
began to remove it.

“No. I do not need it.” What he needed was
to be half-frozen to death. It was his best hope of quenching the hunger for
Elizabeth Bennet that was devouring him. 

He pulled at the latch on the door and
strode out into the frozen world. The cold slammed into him like a runaway
carriage, the fine linen of his shirtsleeves no protection from the icy wind.
He stood on the doorstep, letting the cold seep into him until his teeth
chattered. Still not enough; all he wanted was to make love to Elizabeth.

She did not realize what a dangerous
position they were in. Alone together, having discarded the rules that kept
them a safe distance apart, a long night ahead and attraction flaring between
them. She probably imagined they could share a few kisses and then stop, but he
knew better. It had always been obvious to him she was passionate by nature,
and now he had discovered how much pleasure she derived from physical
affection. One little spark and it would all be over. 

Or perhaps it would be for the best that
way. If he made her his, there would be none of this nonsense about not wanting
to marry him. Even if she remained skittish, he would have to insist. Devil
take it, why had he allowed these thoughts into his mind? Desire surged through
him again, icy wind notwithstanding.

Why was she so frightened by the idea of
marriage, anyway? She was far from timid by nature, but this question brought out
a side of her he had never seen. Had some man hurt her or frightened her? He
would not have thought so from the way she kissed him. Groaning at the
recollection of her tongue against his, he clapped the heels of his hands to
his temples. Why did she have to be so tempting?

Well, if she did not want to hear about
marriage, he would keep his thoughts on it to himself henceforth. But how was
he to control his own attraction to her?

A gust of wind whipped against him, icy
pellets stinging his face. If only it could blow away his desire so he could
act the part of the gentleman again!

Or perhaps that was part of the problem.
Elizabeth knew he wanted her; there was no point now in wasting his energy in a
vain attempt to keep up the appearance of indifference. Perhaps it was time to
stop the pretense. If he allowed himself to behave naturally, showing his
admiration and not trying to restrict every word that came out of his mouth,
then he might be able to focus on the critical matter of convincing his hands
to stay away from her clothing.

That was the answer. He would stop
guarding his expression and his words, and would say and do as he pleased
– as long as he did not touch her clothing. Unless, of course, she came
to her senses and agreed to marry him, in which case none of it mattered
anyway.

His teeth began to chatter uncontrollably.
A little more of this and he would develop frostbite. Perhaps that would take
his mind off Elizabeth!  But he could not stand out here forever. He had
told her he was fetching firewood, so he had best return with some. His legs
were stiff with cold, but he forced them to take the few steps to the woodpile.

As soon as the door closed behind him,
Elizabeth shook off his greatcoat and retreated to her earlier seat on the
hearth, her legs pulled up to her chest and the quilt covering her knees.
Huddling together had been warmer, but it would be better to freeze than to
have a repeat of what had just occurred. What had come over her? Simply being
close to a handsome gentleman was no excuse for kissing him. It was not as if
they were even getting along particularly well. For every conversation which
went well or joke they shared, there had been a misunderstanding or quarrel.

Her opinion of him was better than it had
been before the storm, but he was so difficult to understand. Admittedly, their
situation was an unusual one and they had spoken with remarkable frankness, but
she had never met a man of as many moods as Mr. Darcy, and only rarely did
those moods make sense to her. Nor did her own reactions. What had happened to
her vaunted ability to laugh at foolishness? She could not laugh at his sulks;
instead, they made
her
unhappy. And none of it,
none
of it, was
any excuse to kiss him!

How could she blame him for making the assumption
she would marry him when she behaved so improperly? The storm must have
affected her wits somehow, for her usual common sense to have deserted her so
badly. She would have to make certain to keep her distance from him, since
apparently she could not trust herself.

She lowered her head onto her knees. It
was only a snowstorm. He was only a man. The storm would certainly end soon,
and they would be able to leave this tiny room tomorrow. There was no reason to
panic – except that she had never had such powerful feelings about a man
before, and she did not understand him at all. 

The door opened, bringing with it a blast
of icy air, but Elizabeth did not raise her head. She could not ignore him
forever, but it was so much easier not to look at him, not to see his
expression, not to attempt to guess his mood as he slammed the door shut again.
His feet shuffled against the straw on the floor, then the sound was replaced
by the clatter of wood being dropped and restacked. The poker scraped along the
hearth, followed by the soft crash of a log breaking and an increase in the
crackling and popping of the fire. What good did it do not to look at him when
she followed his every movement by the sounds he made?

Raising her head just an inch, she peered
over her knees at him. He was squatted in front of the hearth, closer to the
flames than could possibly be comfortable. Even in the ruddy firelight she
could see his face was pale, and his hand, where he held the poker, was almost
blue. Had he gone out without his gloves? He must have. He had removed them
when they ate the soup.

He must be half frozen, but he had not
touched his greatcoat where it lay over the stool. Instead he remained as
unmoving as a statue, his gaze fixed on the fire. Perhaps he was avoiding looking
at her just as she had done with him.

The situation was embarrassing –
mortifying, if truth be told – but there was no reason for him to suffer.
On impulse, she took the quilt from over her legs and draped it over his
shoulders, then pulled back into the position she had just left. Her legs felt
the chill more now, but her heart was more at peace.

“I thank you.” He drew the quilt around
him more tightly.

Apparently he did not intend to say
anything about what had passed between them. That would make it much easier.
“Has the snow eased at all yet?”

“A little, perhaps. It is mixed with sleet
now.”

“How deep is it?”

He tilted his head to one side as if
considering the matter, but he kept watching the fire. “That is hard to say.
There are some drifts which look quite deep. Outside the door, it reaches my
knees. It will be hard work to break a path tomorrow.”

At least he seemed to think they would be
able to leave by then. Surely they would be able to depart in the morning. She
had never heard of a storm lasting as long as this one already had. “Once we
had snow too deep for me to walk through, but as I was perhaps five years of
age then, that did not necessarily mean it was very deep. I remember it melted
after only two days, and I was heartbroken because I thought it was so
beautiful.”

“I imagine it will take longer than that
for this to disappear, unless the weather is unusually warm. That would
disappoint the people of London; it has been cold enough they are hoping for a
Frost Fair. The Thames has not frozen over in almost twenty years, but they
think it might this year.”

She managed a smile. “I have seen pictures
of Frost Fairs, and always hoped I could go to one someday, but I cannot say
the idea of spending a day on a frozen river has any appeal at the moment.”

“Perhaps another year, then, when this is
but a distant memory.”

“Perhaps.” She could not imagine a time
these days would fade into the past.

He said nothing more, but at least the
atmosphere seemed peaceful, which was a great improvement. Perhaps a lack of
trouble was the best they could hope for at this point. Obviously, they could
not return to where they had been, no matter how pleasant it had been to sit
pressed up against him under his greatcoat and to laugh with him. She rested
her cheek on her knees, avoiding looking directly at him, but she could still
see him out of the corner of her eyes. There was something comforting about
keeping him in sight. 

After a time, he roused himself to ask if
she would prefer to have the quilt back or would rather wear his greatcoat, his
question making clear he was not offering to share them. 

“The quilt works well.” It would be too
hard to face the intimacy of being enveloped in his coat. She did not want to
bring back the memory of his kiss, not now when everything was calm.

But there was one problem looming before
her. When she began to yawn, Elizabeth could no longer ignore the question of
where they would sleep. “About tonight…”

“Our sleeping arrangements?” His response
was so quick he must have been considering the same thing. “Last night seemed
to work well.”

Her stomach fluttered at the memory of
waking in his arms. “If you do not mind the impropriety of it.”

His voice deepened. “As it happened, I did
not
mind the impropriety of it – far from it.”

“You are not helping, sir!”

He sat up and touched her cheek with the
back of his fingers. “No, I suppose I am not. But you must know by now that I
do not intend to take advantage of you. At least not undue advantage. We might
as well both be as comfortable as possible, since we will need our strength in
the morning.”

“I suppose so.” She tried to sound
dubious, but it was difficult when the proposition was so tempting. It was
wrong to want to lie in his arms again, but she could not help herself,
especially when she would have to say her final farewell to him in the morning.

To distract herself from that painful
thought, she began yanking out her hair pins, ruthlessly pulling her hair out
of the simple knot she had made that morning. Last night that had been enough,
but now her hair was too tangled even for a simple plait. Yesterday morning, an
eternity ago, Nell had braided fine lilac ribbons into Elizabeth’s hair in
honor of Charlotte’s wedding. Last night Elizabeth had simply left the tiny
ribbon braids in place when she plaited it, then put it back up in the morning.
Now the ribbons were snarled in her curls. If she slept with the ribbons in
again tonight, she might have to cut them out.

Earlier she had seen a rude wooden comb on
the shelf. She took it to the hearth and began the slow process of untangling.
It was like sorting through a rat’s nest. Each braid needed to be teased apart
from the rest of her hair, then carefully unbraided. Oh, why had Nell put in so
many? She winced each time the comb encountered a tangle. Her brush at
Longbourn would have made it much easier, but it might as well be on the moon
for all the good that did her.

And she had an audience. Last night Mr.
Darcy had turned away when she let down her hair, but tonight he made no
pretense of looking away. He sat on the palette, resting back with his hands
behind him, the look in his eyes as hot as the fire. The power of that look
made her long for something more.

That was a bad idea. She wrenched her eyes
away, concentrating all her attention on the large snarl near her scalp.
Finally it came free, and she turned slightly as she began work on the other
side. It was a good thing she had no other tasks to manage, since this was
going to take quite a while. Mr. Darcy seemed prepared to admire each moment of
her struggles.

“Gentlemen are fortunate they do not have
to deal with these problems,” she said. “No one ever wants to glue feathers in
your
hair.”

“I am glad to say the question has never
arisen. Do you really use glue?”

“Not I, since I refuse to wear feathers in
my hair for that very reason. Most ladies do. Their maids spend hours washing
it out later. Sometimes they must cut it out.” She tugged hard on a
particularly recalcitrant tangle.

“I am grateful you do not wear feathers,
then. It would be a crime to cut even a strand of your hair.” His voice seemed
to reverberate in the small space.

She masked her discomfort by focusing on
undoing another braid. The ribbon, when it finally came free, was already
fraying. No wonder it had knotted so badly! She dropped it on top of its
fellows beside her.

The back of her head was harder. Her
hairstyle had never been designed for her to undo the braids herself, and she
had to explore with her fingers even to discover where the ribbons were. The
first came free easily enough, though unbraiding it when she could not see it
was challenging, especially with Mr. Darcy observing her clumsy attempts.

The last braid was hopelessly snarled. She
gave up on the comb and tried to separate her hair a few strands at a time, but
it was impossible to tell if she was making progress or making things worse.
Frustrated, she pulled hard at one lock, only to wince when her scalp
protested.  She blew out her breath in annoyance. If only she could see
what she was doing!

Mr. Darcy spoke from the shadows. “It
seems the eyes in the back of your head operate no better than mine did in
assessing my injury. Might I offer my assistance?”

To sit close to her and touch her hair?
Her throat grew tight. She should refuse, but she doubted she would be able to
untangle it herself. “I am certain it will not matter if it waits until my maid
can deal with it tomorrow.”

“I am not
that
untrustworthy,” he
said with a low laugh.

The question was whether
she
could
be trusted, but if she refused now, he would see it as doubting his word. “Very
well.”

As he joined her on the hearth, she turned
to face away to allow the faint light from the fire to illuminate the back of
her head. She could feel his closeness, but he did not touch her hair. “Is it
that hopeless?” she asked archly.

“I am examining the problem and planning
my strategy and line of attack.”

“So you view my hair as a battle?”

“You have no idea.” He said it so softly
she was not certain she had even heard him correctly.

Now she could feel the pressure as he did
something, no doubt to separate the braid. Her scalp tingled at the sensation,
almost as if he were caressing her. It was
not
a caress, she told
herself firmly. She never thought of Nell as caressing her hair. Perhaps she
should try to imagine Mr. Darcy was her maid. A giggle bubbled up. 

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

“Not at all. I was merely considering
whether you had a future as a lady’s maid.”

He chuckled. “Only if the lady in question
has dark, curly hair which feels like silk between my fingers.”

Oh, dear. The fire simmering inside her
was putting the one in the hearth to shame. It did not help when she felt his
hands slide through the hair she had already untangled. There had been no need
for him to do that. He must simply have wished to do it. 

Fortunately for what little peace of mind
she had left, he returned to untangling. Each tug sent a spiral of odd
sensation down into her body. How could she feel it so clearly when he only
touched her hair? She dug her fingernails into her palms to distract herself
from the strangely pleasurable feelings.

“Almost there.” His voice was hoarse.

She bit her lip. “Good.” She both wanted
him to stop and to continue forever.

“I will need the comb.”

Silently she handed it to him, bracing
herself for pain, since combing through her tangles was not easy. The tugging
sensation changed, but remained surprisingly gentle. “You do that well, for one
with no experience.”

“My sister used to like me to comb her
hair when she was little. She pretended she was a princess and I was her
knight. Her hair is straight, though.”

“Whenever my hair tangles, I wish it were
straight.”

The comb stopped moving for a moment. “Do
not ever wish that.”