Page 9 of Midnight at Pemberley

She lit a candle and eased her way from the room, leaving the door set ajar so she could rush to its safety if she encountered anyone. The carpeting muffled the sound of her footsteps, but she heard the whisper of each step on the marble stairs. The dim light of a dying fire in the hearth marked the library door. Without hesitation, she entered, but noting a movement near the hearth, Elizabeth froze. Recognizing the figure, slowly coming to its feet, she gasped, “Mr. Darcy!”

“Miss … Miss Elizabeth,” he stammered, “I did not expect company at such an hour.”

Elizabeth permitted her gaze to wander over him. He wore tight breeches and a loosely fitted shirt open at the neck. Standing so tall and erect, he was like a Greek god. She thought him one of the most handsome men of her acquaintance. “I beg your pardon, Sir. I could not sleep. I came in search of a book.”

Gazing upon her in intimate wear, Darcy felt a pull in his groin, a strange sense of lust and longing, something he had not permitted for more years than he could recall. Perhaps it was because his heart thudded to a complete stop when his eyes beheld her. Elizabeth stood in the middle of the room, barefoot and in her night shift and wrapper. Hair draped to her waist. His dreams of her had not come close to her exquisite beauty. He desired her more than he thought possible. He gestured towards the shelves. “I am confident you will find something of interest.” He knew he should make his excuses, but he could not leave her. His gaze slid over Elizabeth again. “May I assist you in finding a book to your liking? It seems since I arrived at Netherfield, I have spent an inordinate number of hours here.”

Elizabeth smiled uneasily. She knew she should not be found in her nightclothes and spending time with a gentleman. Yet, if she really wished to learn more of Mr. Darcy, what better way than a private conversation? “I am a voracious reader: politics, military history, science—”

“What? No romance?” His voice held a playful quality she was beginning to recognize.

“Mrs. Radcliffe is entertaining, but my favorite is Fanny Burney’s Cecilia. In poetry, I prefer William Cowper.” She walked towards the shelves, pretending to peruse the offerings, although her body remained attuned to the man.

Mr. Darcy chuckled lightly. “No Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Miss Elizabeth?”

She turned with a blush, a redness crossing her chest and neck. “I know some prefer Lord Byron, Mr. Darcy, but I assure you, I do not!”

“Then you have read Byron?” he countered.

For a moment, she thought to deny his assertion, but then Elizabeth laughed. “I am my father’s child. I read when and what I should not.”

Mr. Darcy joined her before the shelves. “Mr. Bennet has the reputation for being quite the bookman. With your quick wit and love of twisting the King’s English, I should have recognized your like propensities. You played me fair in our verbal duels.” He reached for a book on one of the upper shelves and handed it down to her. “You might enjoy this one, Miss Elizabeth.”

She stood looking up into a face with which she was beginning to become more comfortable. In silence, she held his laughing blue eyes with hers. His eyes sparked with passion and some indecipherable emotion, and she knew she should be frightened, but she was not.

“You deserved my reproofs, Mr. Darcy,” she asserted.

His smile spread across his features, and Elizabeth found his countenance breathtakingly handsome. “I have been taken to task before, Miss Elizabeth, but I cannot say I ever enjoyed it quite as much.”

He reached to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, but Elizabeth did not flinch from his touch. Instead, she tilted her cheek into his palm. She was on the brink—a precipice—a stepping-off point, and she was helpless to prevent it.

“It is a scandalous proposition, but would you consider keeping me company? I will freshen the fire to make the room more comfortable,” he suggested in husky tones.

“I would enjoy that very much, Mr. Darcy.” She swallowed hard, attempting to drive the nervousness away.

He gently caught her hand and led Elizabeth to one of the wing chairs. Then he added additional coal to the flames and stirred the embers. “May I pour you a drink, Miss Elizabeth? I fear it is too late for tea.”

“Wine would be nice, Mr. Darcy.”

As he turned to tend to the drinks, Elizabeth consciously inhaled deeply to regain her composure, but instead filled her lungs with Mr. Darcy’s unique scent. Instinctively, she closed her eyes to savor the moment. Her fingers warmed from the earlier touch of his hand, which was so tempting—so strong—that it shattered her senses. In a few brief moments, he returned, carrying two glasses—a brandy for him and a glass of claret for her.

Without asking her permission, Mr. Darcy reached for a knitted shawl resting upon the back of a nearby chair. “Permit me to provide you with more warmth.” He boldly placed it over her legs, and Elizabeth delighted in the intimacy of the moment. “Might I retrieve another for your shoulders?”

“No, Sir, I am very comfortable. Please have a seat.” She gestured towards his chair. If he stood close much longer, Elizabeth would catch his hand and hold it to her cheek.

He returned to his chair to catch up the book he had abandoned upon her entrance. “How is Miss Bennet?” he asked as he placed the book on the table.

“Jane is tougher than her beauty might lead a person to believe. She will suffer for a few more days, but the illness will run its course. It is very kind of Mr. Bingley to open his house to us.”

“Bingley is delighted to be of service,” he assured her. “I took note you chose to walk to Netherfield this morning.”

Politely ignoring his implied criticism, Elizabeth offered one of her amused smiles. “I did, Mr. Darcy. I am assuming Miss Bingley also took note of my ramblings.”

He returned her smile. “Miss Bingley prides herself on being observant. I simply meant that, unlike your sister, you chose to walk rather than to ride or to come in your father’s coach.”

“My father’s coach was unavailable, Sir, and I am no horsewoman.”

“Truly? That surprises me. I would have assumed you would be quite daring on horseback.” He sipped his brandy, and she watched his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. How had she not known that the simplest of movements could be outrageously sensual? “You possess an adventurous spirit,” he continued.