"My dear sir, I told Charles when we took the house that this table is a most inconvenient height. I pray you will forgive us," she simpered.
Mr Darcy nodded at her and returned his attention to his plate. Without looking at her he said again, more quietly, "Infuriating?"
"Infuriating, vexing, condescending, maddening. Take your pick Mr Darcy, you have spent these many weeks glowering at me or chastising me and I have had my fill. Pray let us eat in blessed quiet."
He opened his mouth as if to speak again, but closed it firmly again and began to cut up his venison with more force than was perhaps required. Elizabeth for her part, sullenly pushed her food around her plate and wondered for the hundredth time why this man vexed her so.
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Miss Bingley soon led the ladies through to the parlour and Elizabeth was occupied with ensuring that Jane was comfortable and warm. But as she went through the motions of fetching tea and arranging her shawl, she could not help feeling a twingeof guilt. The man had looked genuinely horrified. It was the only emotion she could recall seeing cross his face apart from boredom and disdain and she wasn’t certain what to make of it. Was it simply that she had the audacity to call out his bad behaviour? Perhaps a man in his position was too used to being indulged.
Nevertheless when the men joined the women after their port and cigars she found she could not meet his eye. She sat with Jane and Mrs Hurst as they talked of novels, contributing only a little when required. And when Jane let out a small yawn and Mr Bingley insisted that she must rest, Elizabeth was glad to leave the room and the feel of Mr Darcy’s eyes against her skin.
???
She settled Jane in her chambers and retired to her own, finding herself pacing up and down with restless energy. She had that hot, itchy feeling again and she longed to go out into the cool air and simply run back to her Longbourn. Silly mothers, loud sisters and a father who would rather be in his book room than with his family would be a small price to pay to be out of Netherfield and away from the infuriating Mr Darcy.
She went through her toilette mindlessly and got in bed but found herself staring at the ceiling. Sleep would not come andafter more than an hour of unsettled tossing and turning she decided to retrieve a book from the library. If she could not sleep at least she could occupy her mind and slow her whirring thoughts.
She opened her door gingerly and listened. It was quiet and from what she could see down the corridor, dark. It seemed the house was abed, and she wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her and padded carefully down the corridor and stairs to the library. As she got to the door, she opened it just enough to squeeze through and held her candle high as she examined the nearest bookshelf. Mr Bingley’s book selection left a lot to be desired, but she was certain she had seen a novel that she hadn’t read in here a couple of days earlier. It was probably one of Mrs Hurst’s, that lady devoured every gothic tale she could get her hands on.
She moved onto another section, frustrated to find largely dusty agricultural works and stood on her tiptoes to examine a higher shelf.
"I would have thought with your great love of horticulture, a tome on farming wheat may be something you would enjoy, Miss Elizabeth."
The low baritone came from somewhere behind her and Elizabeth let out a shriek and dropped her candle, the light extinguishing and leaving the room in gloom. A voice from theother end of the library called out quietly, "My apologies, Miss Elizabeth."
"Mr Darcy!" she hissed, her fear quickly replaced by a rising sense of fury.
A pool of light made its way towards her and she saw the stern lines of his face illuminated in the glow. He was wearing no jacket or cravat and she could see a dark sprinkling of hair where his lawn shirt dipped low. She licked her lips nervously and took a step back towards the shelves.
His face softened and he took a step back. "I did not mean to startle you, Miss Elizabeth."
"I could not sleep," she said in a wavering voice and then, hit by another wave of irritation. "Do you often go around terrifying women in the middle of the night?"
His countenance hardened again. "Of course not. I shall leave you to your selection." Mr Darcy gave a stiff bow and turned, taking the only light in the room with him. He looked back and seemed to realise his mistake.
"Your candle," he muttered.
"Yes," she said stiffly. "You caused me to drop it when you appeared like a spectre out of the gloom."
He crouched and retrieved her candle from the carpet, awkwardly setting it to rights in the holder and lighting it withhis own. He held it out to her, and when she reached to grab it, he did not release his grip.
"Do you really find me infuriating?" he said softly.
She blew out a breath of irritation. "Mr Darcy," she said slowly, tugging the candle to her. "You constantly interrogate my actions and thoughts with a disapproving frown. You stare at me constantly, as if my presence in the room is a personal insult to yourself. You cannot even allow me to eat my dinner or select a book in peace. You are the most vexing man in the world and I think it best if we see as little of each other as possible in the little time my sister and I will remain in this house."
Elizabeth went to step around him and he stepped with her, blocking her exit. He ran a hand through his dark hair which was a mass of untidy black curls. He looked, for the first time in their acquaintance, like a man rather than a walking, talking granite statue.
"Miss Elizabeth," he said in an undertone. "I fear you have… or that I have… " He took a step closer to her and put a hand gently on her arm. She stiffened immediately. He was close enough that she could hear his unsteady breath and smell the scent of sandalwood on his skin.
This was insupportable. Really, this man, this infuriating, large, stubborn man, thought he could behave any way that he wanted. Now, he simply looked down at her with eyes so darkthat she felt as if she were pinned to the spot. She began to speak, to give him a further piece of her mind when the library door opened and Mr Jones, the butler, came in, accompanied by Polly the maid.
Mr Jones carried a branch of candles and had his head turned to Polly, giving her instructions as he opened the door. As he caught sight of Elizabeth and Mr Darcy, he gave a rather undignified gasp that he quickly turned into a more reserved cough. Polly squawked, "Miss Elizabeth!"
Darcy sprang back from her as though burned by hot coals and placed his hands behind his back, his features turning to granite. She could feel her face burning red and tears starting to prick at the corners of her eyes, and with a sob, she ran from the room.
Chapter Three
