Darcy's Winter Ball Page 2

  “Has she?” Elizabeth remarked, grinning at her elder sister with curiosity. “Of what sort, might I ask?”

  “I was just telling Mr. Darcy that you may be able to suggest the perfect book as a gift for his sister’s birthday,” Jane answered, widening her eyes at Elizabeth as she stepped forward a little.

  Something he could not interpret passed between the two women.

  Darcy cleared his throat before speaking. “If I may be so bold as to inquire, Miss Elizabeth, have you read anything particularly fascinating of late, that you think a girl not too many years your junior might also enjoy?”

  At this, Elizabeth smiled openly, which rendered her visage even prettier.

  “Why should boldness give you pause, Mr. Darcy, when it has been my experience that you have not allowed it to do so before?”

  There was a sharpness to her tone, and Darcy did not mistake its origin.

  “Do you recall when last we spoke on the subject of books, Mr. Darcy, at the ball at Netherfield?” Elizabeth asked.

  He nodded. “Indeed, I do.”

  On the occasion in question, Elizabeth had in no uncertain terms indicated that she and Darcy could not possibly be interested in similar reading material, or that if by chance they happened to be, the two were not likely to read those books with the same reaction.

  “Then you are aware that you and I are unlikely to agree on what would constitute suitable reading for your sibling,” Elizabeth said.

  “On the contrary,” Darcy argued. “It is precisely our perceived difference in taste that would qualify you to suggest a title, for you are bound to know more about what a young lady might want to read than I.”

  At this, Elizabeth blushed, and Darcy wondered if he had once again caused offense when his intention was in fact to show deference. Hoping not, he risked continuing. “I cannot know for certain, but I would wager you have read every title in your father’s library at Longbourn, and one or two of them must have appealed to you.”

  He was rewarded with a reluctant but genuine smile.

  “Very well,” Elizabeth said. “I would warn against heavy history tomes. The lady would be quick to offer thanks for the gift in order to please the giver, and equally quick to later use the book as a doorstop.”

  Darcy could not help but chuckle at the jest, considering his penchant for favoring history books. “I imagine you are right,” he conceded.

  “Where hours of entertainment are sought rather than improvement of the mind—and, I confess, I find both of importance, in balance—I can whole-heartedly recommend the novels of Miss Fanny Burney, Miss Maria Edgeworth, or, if you do not object to a Gothic tone, Miss Ann Radcliffe.”

  He noted each author as Elizabeth spoke, none unfamiliar to him but none of whom he had read himself, and vowed to purchase volumes by all when next he braved the bookstore.

  “I thank you very much for these suggestions, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said. He looked down at her hands then, perhaps to avoid her pointed gaze, and noticed the top of a small notebook peeking out of her bag. He did not dare ask after its contents, but the eldest Miss Bennet must have detected his interest before he could hide it.

  “My sister and I are here on special business,” Jane said, and Elizabeth sent a look in her direction that would have induced Napoleon’s surrender. But Jane, sturdier in will than the emperor himself, persisted. “We are collecting research for a book she is writing.”

  Jane seemed unable to stop herself despite the veritable daggers emanating from Elizabeth’s eyes, but as for himself, Darcy could scarcely wait to hear more.

  “It takes place partly in India and is a harrowing adventure. I, for one, cannot wait for my sister to compose more chapters,” Jane said, only quieting when finally she dared glance over at Elizabeth.

  He had witnessed many things in his eight and twenty years, but at this news, he could truly say he was all astonishment. Miss Elizabeth possessed the intelligence to pen a story—that much could not be denied—but the real question was why would a gentleman’s daughter desire to do such a thing? This, of course, he would not ask her, but there was something else he could.

  “And what is the subject of your study, Miss Elizabeth?” he inquired.

  He found he could hardly await the answer, so deeply did he long to know, which defied logic and reason. The last time he had been in the presence of this woman, she had all but driven him mad with what seemed to be her great pleasure in vexing him. Apart from this, there was the matter of her family—a group of beings the likes of which Darcy had never encountered.

  Mr. Bennet, though intelligent and witty, had struck Darcy as disinclined to consider the future wellbeing of his many daughters, and Mrs. Bennet, quite the opposite, so singularly bent on doing that very thing that she allowed all attempts at propriety to elude her. The youngest daughters, likewise, had not an ounce of decorum amongst them. All this resulted in Darcy’s barely tolerating their company for a few hours, and he could not imagine having to do as much on a regular basis. His objection to the family in its entirety was so strong that he had unequivocally warned Bingley against any attachment to the eldest daughter, and he had not once doubted so doing. He strongly suspected none of the family’s behavior had altered in the time since he and Bingley had taken leave of Netherfield.

  So, what, then, could possibly account for the strange pull he felt toward Elizabeth Bennet now?

  “It is nothing which would interest you, sir, of that I am sure,” Elizabeth said in dismissal.

  He would have to try another tactic, a bolder one this time, for he longed against all rationality to see her features return to a smile.

  “If you require books for further research during your stay in Town—the library at Darcy House is not as extensive as the one at Pemberley, however you may find within it a volume or more which might suit your needs, as I am just given to understand your story takes place away from locations with which you are familiar,” he said, alarming himself even as the offer spilled out. “You would come along too, of course,” he added, addressing Jane before turning back to Elizabeth. “For propriety’s sake, you need only say that you are calling on my sister, to whom I will be glad to introduce you as I believe you’ve much in common. At your beckon, I would send my carriage to keep you from walking in the cold.”

  Elizabeth appeared equally astonished at his unexpected proposal, and her pretty rosebud mouth opened and closed but no words came forth.

  Darcy indicated the portion of notebook in view at the top of her reticule. “Though it is a well-considered collection, I fear it would not impress a great reader such as yourself. Nevertheless, it may serve your needs as an authoress, so I offer it up to you all the same.”

  Mr. Darcy was rambling, which was so out of character for the man of few words she’d spent time with a month prior. Elizabeth looked at Jane—she of great betrayal who had revealed to an adversary their private reason for visiting the bookstore, a detail Elizabeth would address at a later time—and found her confusion reflected in her sister’s expression.

  Elizabeth wondered if Darcy was perhaps ill. What else could possibly explain his proposal that she use his personal library for her novel research? For one, it would not be proper for her to visit his home, as they were neither family nor old acquaintance, and they were not betrothed and had no such understanding. And for another, he did not even like her.

  His capacity for causing her discomfort was unparalleled, though she would never allow him the satisfaction of possessing such insight, and she’d longed to quit the bookshop not moments hence he’d arrived in it.

  “It is a kind offer, Mr. Darcy, and I thank you for your generosity,” Elizabeth said, holding back the rest of her thoughts.

  He seemed to be waiting for her to agree to his invitation; it would be polite to do so, despite the oddity of it, but it would also be a terrible idea. Sometimes it was best not to speak when one had too many things to say.

  The gentleman nodded, and i
f she wasn’t certain he was far too proud to experience such a sentiment, Elizabeth might have noted the hint of disappointment that passed quickly over his features before vanishing.

  “Well, then. You both must have walked a very long way in the cold,” Darcy said, his brow knit in such a way that, were he a different sort of man than she knew him to be from recent acquaintance, might have convinced Elizabeth of genuine concern.

  “‘It is not five kilometers, sir,” she answered. “And Jane and I appreciate the invigoration of a walk out of doors.”

  “The snow is falling harder now,” Darcy pressed on. “You must allow me to escort you home. My carriage is just out front and it is quite warm inside, I assure you.”

  When Elizabeth looked at her sister, Jane’s eyes pleaded for her agreement.

  “You are too kind, sir, but my uncle’s footman is with us and we will enjoy the exertion,” Elizabeth said, ignoring her desire to acquiesce, if only for a coal warmer underneath her feet.

  Admittedly, it would be nice to receive transport back to Gracechurch Street in warm comfort, but she was sure she could not abide another minute with Mr. Darcy. She reminded herself silently of his prideful behavior when last they’d seen each other. And, though she had no proof of which to speak, she had convinced herself in the days hence that it was Darcy who had encouraged the parting of Bingley from Jane. There was no other way to account for Bingley’s sudden withdrawal from Netherfield after the affection she’d witnessed between the amiable gentleman and her sister, and Elizabeth was all but certain Darcy had persuaded Bingley against the match; it would be just like him to do such a thing, so outwardly hostile had he been toward her family, so condemning of their station.

  And even though she had to allow that the majority of the Bennets might have deserved the resentment, as far as Jane was concerned, Elizabeth could not forgive Darcy if he’d orchestrated the separation. Jane might conduct herself in company as though she were in good spirits, but Elizabeth could sense her sister’s true inner feelings.

  “I will not keep you from your enjoyment, then,” Darcy said. “Good day, Miss Bennet.” He bowed. “Miss Elizabeth.”

  “Good day, sir,” the sisters replied, dipping their shoulders.

  Though she had believed she would feel relief upon his exit, as Elizabeth watched Darcy stride toward the front door and away from her for the foreseeable future, something else struck her, something she would keep to herself until she took her last breath. For she could never, ever confess to anyone, not even her dearest companion and sister, that what filled her heart at his leaving…was regret.

  Chapter 3

  “Mr. Darcy seemed different somehow, Lizzy,” Jane said through chattering teeth as the sisters walked in the direction of Gracechurch Street. They had marched most of the way in silence with James, a footman from Gardiner House, following a few paces behind, and had nearly reached their uncle’s neighborhood; but the fierce wind made the remaining distance seem long.

  Despite their linked arms and warm clothing, Elizabeth found her eyes moist and stinging and her hands nearly frozen inside kid gloves as they hurried past shops and houses with frosty windows.

  Never mind, she thought; she was sure she had done the sensible thing in denying Darcy’s offer of a carriage ride. For who was she if she would not stand by her principles, one of which was looking out for the wellbeing of her dear sister who was older but more charitable than she. A jolt of guilt in Elizabeth’s stomach did not escape her as she considered the fact that journeying a considerable distance in frigid winter air did not exactly classify as looking out for Jane; it reminded her uncomfortably of a time when her mother had done something similar.

  She consoled herself, however, by remembering that she and Jane had chosen to walk to and from the bookshop anyway. They were not the sort of women who stood around waiting idly for a knight in shining armor to rescue them, like Lydia and Kitty, and they were, after all, properly attired and chaperoned. She and Jane had survived much colder winter walks at home in Hertfordshire, where the wind was not buffeted by buildings as it was in London; they would not catch their death today.

  “Lizzy,” Jane prodded, her voice quiet around the hat Elizabeth had pulled down over her ears against the cold, “are you quite alright?”

  “Oh, yes. Forgive me, dearest. I was lost in thought,” Elizabeth answered.

  When she looked over, Jane’s brow was furrowed in concern.

  “I just wondered if you found Mr. Darcy different from before, as I did,” Jane continued. “He seemed very intent on your accepting his invitations, both to visit his library and to drive us back to our uncle’s home. I am sure he was lighter of heart than he appeared to be at the Netherfield ball.”

  Elizabeth turned away to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. The snow fell faster and thicker, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to see more than a few yards ahead. There was activity yet on the pavement as shoppers hurried home with their purchases, but it had begun to wane along with the remaining daylight. At her side, Jane waited to hear her thoughts.

  “I believe he only seems less prideful because he is in Town and must display the utmost in proper behavior, lest any of his peers witness his true nature,” Elizabeth said carefully, though she was no longer certain she could determine with any great accuracy exactly what constituted his true nature.

  Darcy had seemed to disdain her so upon their first meeting, when she’d overheard him saying that she was not pretty enough to tempt him, yet had shown interest in the workings of her mind and sought her opinion on a variety of subjects when she had gone to visit Jane, who had fallen ill following a perilous rain-soaked horse ride to Netherfield.

  Then, on yet another occasion, when he’d stooped so low as to dance with her at a ball Bingley had given at his estate, Darcy had openly scorned the behavior displayed by her mother, younger sisters, and even her father. With his ever-changing estimation of her, how could she possibly know his mind when he seemed not to know it himself?

  “Mr. Darcy is probably not so callous,” said Jane. “I am sure that, given opportunity to display his finer qualities, he would surprise you. Have you considered that he may just not be comfortable showing his true feelings in the presence of new acquaintances? I am not so different myself. Perhaps if I had been more forthcoming about my fondness for Mr. Bingley…”

  Jane’s voice faltered and Elizabeth bit her lip.

  “At any rate,” Jane bravely continued, “you must admit he is exceedingly handsome. Beyond even what I recall when last we saw him. Of course, I would not have noticed as much at the time,” she mused softly. “For my eye was drawn elsewhere, as my heart still is.”

  Elizabeth swallowed emotion that tickled the back of her throat at the reminder of Jane’s fondness for Mr. Bingley. Then vexation rose up again, at the thought of Mr. Darcy’s role in untying her sister from the person she truly loved. It did not help that Jane’s assessment of Mr. Darcy was accurate—he was indeed handsome, though it pained Elizabeth to admit such a thing. His lithe, muscled frame, broad shoulders, and dark hair and eyes were impossible to overlook even with concerted effort.

  “Well, we are not new acquaintances. I spent much time in his company during your stay at Netherfield, and many evenings passed during which his chief source of amusement was to challenge my every word. But yes, it is an unjust world in which one who fancies himself so superior to others should also be the beneficiary of dashing good looks,” Elizabeth said, eliciting a grin from Jane. “And I would rather face a thousand wintery walks such as this one, in which I am overcome by cold that reaches deep into my bones, than to ever meet again the chill that follows that man wherever he goes.”

  “Then I am left to assume you are not likely to take him up on the offer of using his library?” Jane asked as they rounded a final corner and, blessedly, Gardiner House came into view.

  “Not even if he were the sole possessor of a rare book I needed for researc
h,” Elizabeth vowed with a huff. “Upon my word—I will never set foot in Mr. Darcy’s library.”

  Oh, but it was nearly impossible to move forward in her writing when one vital piece of information was missing!

  Elizabeth sighed heavily and set down her pen, longing for a break from struggling to complete the next scene of her novel. She really must find a way to fill in the details she needed in order to finish this chapter, which had plagued her all day.

  The previous matter of geography had been sorted at the bookshop the day before, but shortly after she’d begun work the next morning, she had run straight into yet another tangle that would require an additional research book to unravel—one she had been unable to find in Hatchards. It was no wonder most women—indeed, most men—did not take up the practice of writing fiction; the effort not to lose one’s very mind while so engaged required the sturdiest constitution.

  “Pray, my dear niece, do tell Jane and me what irks you so!” called Aunt Gardiner from her seat near the hearth. “I wonder what correspondence could possibly cause such displeasure. I do hope nothing is amiss at Longbourn.”

  If only it were just a letter, Elizabeth thought but did not say as she covered her pages with a blank sheet of foolscap. Composing missives to her family and friends would have made a far simpler and, at present, more agreeable task.

  “All is well, Aunt,” Elizabeth said, gathering her work atop the writing desk to be dealt with another day, perhaps when her shallow well of patience had been refilled. “I am only tired.”

  “Come and join us by the fire, Lizzy, where it is warmer,” Jane urged from the sofa. She grinned, a sparkle of mischief in her eye as Elizabeth drew near and sat in a chair across from her. “It is too dark in that corner to write letters at this hour anyway.”