Longbourn to London by Linda Beutler Read Free Book Online
Authors: Linda Beutler
tossed her head. “I do not call that so very much experience. ” She embroidered the word by elongating it.
The conversation reminded him of a circumstance he had met with recently regarding a beautiful, unbroken filly. All that could be done was to let her run until she tired and became docile. His first instinct was to defend his youthful exploits until he remembered he was not jousting with a friend but, in fact, was wading through the mire of a damned tricky negotiation with his future wife. He drew himself up to his full height. “I believe you will find me knowledgeable enough in five weeks’ time, and that is all I shall say.”
“Sir… Fitzwilliam…” she looked up at him with more trust and open affection than she had shown all morning. “I rather hoped you might also be a source of information.”
“Under different circumstances, with clearer heads, I may be prevailed upon to elaborate what I hope from you and what you may hope from me, but we are too overwrought now.”
“Oh. We are?”
“Yes. But I do have one question for you . Will you not tell me something of what you dreamt?”
She met his supplication with an implacable gaze.
“I assure you, Madam, my imagination will run quite wild, and we do not want that, do we?” He tried to sound jovial but realised it was merely his own prurient interest he sought to assuage rather than offering her any solace.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered.
At first, Elizabeth did not at all like the tone of his voice, but when he whispered at her ear beseechingly, her eyes widened, and for the third time ever, a single strong shiver shuddered through her with a verbalised inward gasp. “I cannot.” She shook her head, raising and lowering her forearms ineffectually.
She could see the beginnings of alarm in his piercing eyes.
“Please. Give me this much… You were with a man—passionately with a man?”
He was too vulnerable, and while she found she could not speak, she also could not break his gaze or risk hurting him. She nodded.
“It was I?”
She nodded again, and finally murmured, “Dearest Mr. Darcy. Of course it was you.”
Darcy closed his eyes and released a long-held breath. “That is all then… Nothing else matters.”
“I am pleased to know so little will give you comfort.” She managed a weak smile.
“Perhaps comfort is not precisely the word you want.” He smiled enough to deepen his dimples. Without her leave, he embraced her, and started laughing as the brim of her bonnet bumped against his chin and fell off. He caught it as it tumbled down her back, and she put her hands on his arms. They both laughed with relief.
“How long has it been raining?” Darcy asked. He released her and replaced her bonnet, scattering raindrops.
“It cannot have been for too long. I am not very wet.”
They joined hands and, still laughing, ran for the shelter of the manor.
***
Caroline Bingley was not a woman given to gazing at views from windows, for she was in no way a romantic, but in Netherfield’s small breakfast parlour, the atmosphere darkened so precipitously that she stood up from her food and looked outside. At the far end of the broad lawn, where the stone path passed through boundary shrubs, a movement of colour drew her attention. It was the rust bonnet and spencer of Miss Eliza Bennet, standing in serious conversation with Darcy. The rising wind was whipping her skirts against their legs but neither seemed to notice.
“Louisa,” she whispered, “attend this.”
Her sister joined her, and together they watched the couple. “I believe our Mr. Darcy and his Miss Eliza are having a disagreement,” snickered Louisa.
It looked as if Darcy and Elizabeth were executing a symmetrical formal dance: Darcy stepped to Elizabeth and spoke. She looked away. He stepped away and Elizabeth pursued, he looked away. Back and forth they went until, suddenly, they were smiling, he embraced her, and the couple turned and ran hand-in-hand
The conversation reminded him of a circumstance he had met with recently regarding a beautiful, unbroken filly. All that could be done was to let her run until she tired and became docile. His first instinct was to defend his youthful exploits until he remembered he was not jousting with a friend but, in fact, was wading through the mire of a damned tricky negotiation with his future wife. He drew himself up to his full height. “I believe you will find me knowledgeable enough in five weeks’ time, and that is all I shall say.”
“Sir… Fitzwilliam…” she looked up at him with more trust and open affection than she had shown all morning. “I rather hoped you might also be a source of information.”
“Under different circumstances, with clearer heads, I may be prevailed upon to elaborate what I hope from you and what you may hope from me, but we are too overwrought now.”
“Oh. We are?”
“Yes. But I do have one question for you . Will you not tell me something of what you dreamt?”
She met his supplication with an implacable gaze.
“I assure you, Madam, my imagination will run quite wild, and we do not want that, do we?” He tried to sound jovial but realised it was merely his own prurient interest he sought to assuage rather than offering her any solace.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered.
At first, Elizabeth did not at all like the tone of his voice, but when he whispered at her ear beseechingly, her eyes widened, and for the third time ever, a single strong shiver shuddered through her with a verbalised inward gasp. “I cannot.” She shook her head, raising and lowering her forearms ineffectually.
She could see the beginnings of alarm in his piercing eyes.
“Please. Give me this much… You were with a man—passionately with a man?”
He was too vulnerable, and while she found she could not speak, she also could not break his gaze or risk hurting him. She nodded.
“It was I?”
She nodded again, and finally murmured, “Dearest Mr. Darcy. Of course it was you.”
Darcy closed his eyes and released a long-held breath. “That is all then… Nothing else matters.”
“I am pleased to know so little will give you comfort.” She managed a weak smile.
“Perhaps comfort is not precisely the word you want.” He smiled enough to deepen his dimples. Without her leave, he embraced her, and started laughing as the brim of her bonnet bumped against his chin and fell off. He caught it as it tumbled down her back, and she put her hands on his arms. They both laughed with relief.
“How long has it been raining?” Darcy asked. He released her and replaced her bonnet, scattering raindrops.
“It cannot have been for too long. I am not very wet.”
They joined hands and, still laughing, ran for the shelter of the manor.
***
Caroline Bingley was not a woman given to gazing at views from windows, for she was in no way a romantic, but in Netherfield’s small breakfast parlour, the atmosphere darkened so precipitously that she stood up from her food and looked outside. At the far end of the broad lawn, where the stone path passed through boundary shrubs, a movement of colour drew her attention. It was the rust bonnet and spencer of Miss Eliza Bennet, standing in serious conversation with Darcy. The rising wind was whipping her skirts against their legs but neither seemed to notice.
“Louisa,” she whispered, “attend this.”
Her sister joined her, and together they watched the couple. “I believe our Mr. Darcy and his Miss Eliza are having a disagreement,” snickered Louisa.
It looked as if Darcy and Elizabeth were executing a symmetrical formal dance: Darcy stepped to Elizabeth and spoke. She looked away. He stepped away and Elizabeth pursued, he looked away. Back and forth they went until, suddenly, they were smiling, he embraced her, and the couple turned and ran hand-in-hand