Elizabeth retired to her room after luncheon with the uncomfortable suspicion that matters had become rather more complicated than they ought.
Only a few days before she had been perfectly certain of her opinion of Mr Darcy. He had spoken of her with intolerable arrogance, quarrelled with her when she had unintentionallywounded his sister and then proceeded to discuss her future as though she were a candidate for employment rather than a woman capable of forming opinions of her own.
Throwing aside her book in frustration, she gathered her things and went down the back stairs to the small garden where she gave herself a stern talking to in Mrs Makepeace’s cut-flower garden.
After more than half an hour, and feeling somewhat calmer, she came through the back door, unknotting her bonnet ribbons, and found him standing in the hall.
She stopped. He had his hat in his hand and was blocking the narrow space. She had nowhere to go.
"Miss Elizabeth," he said. "I trust you are well and recovered from our expedition."
“Yes, sir,” she said. Her equanimity vanished at once and she found herself unequal to forming a more complex sentence. Her colour was rising and she could not get the ribbon loose. He was watching her and she was aware of being watched most painfully.
"You are going out," she said stupidly, pulling at the wretched ribbon.
"I… yes," he said. His whole attention focused on her.
“I… that is sir, believe I owe you an apology too. My behaviour toward your sister was not what it ought to be and thought it was unconsciously done… After your contrition today, I realised I had not apologised for my own part in our messy acquaintance.”
He gave a minute shake of his head and stepped towards her. She looked at him properly then. He was close enough that she could see that the errant curl had escaped again, as it always did, and that he looked tired.
He reached forward and stilled her hands that were worrying at the ribbon. Slowly and steadily he unpicked the tangle. He was close enough she could see the shadow of stubble on his chin and smell the warm, earthy scent of sandalwood upon his skin.
His finger brushed the curve of her chin, whisper soft, and she inhaled shakily. He took a step closer to her.
"Miss Elizabeth," he breathed. His thumb moved lightly over her cheek. She looked up at him. Her mouth slightly open, and her tongue nervously wetting her bottom lip. Darcy exhaled and dipped his face towards hers. Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered closed and as his lips met hers, feather soft, several things happened at once.
Her bonnet ribbons gave up the good fight and the recalcitrant hat thumped to the floor. He started and stepped back.
In the same moment, Mrs Bennet called "Mr Darcy," with a shrillness Elizabeth had not heard for some time from the parlour.
With that he straightened his spine and put as much space between his body and Elizabeth’s as was possible in the narrow hall—ending pressed against the opposite wall, eyes wide with alarm.
Mrs Bennet bustled into the space. "I thought I heard you. Oh and Lizzy, my dear. There you are."
"Georgiana has been telling me about Pemberley and I find I am quite curious. Is the aspect from the south as fine as they say? I have always heard Derbyshire is very grand, and a lady whose cousin passed through told me the drive alone was quite something."
Darcy nodded stiffly. "You are not misinformed, madam."
Georgiana had followed Mrs Bennet and, after taking in the scene, pressed her lips together very firmly and examined Elizabeth and Darcy with great concentration.
"The drive," he said, "is very fine."
"I thought so," said Mrs Bennet warmly, and drew Georgiana back into the parlour. Mr Darcy turned and took the stairs two at a time, leaving Elizabeth holding a hand to her lipsand wondering what on earth had just happened. Indifferent acquaintances indeed.
Chapter Ten
Breakfast the following morning was conducted with such scrupulous civility that Elizabeth began to wish, very sincerely, for a quarrel.
Not a serious quarrel, nothing that would disturb the harmony of the house or require apology and repair, but something small and ordinary, which might give her something to do besides remember. A disagreement over the strength of the tea, perhaps, or whether Mrs Makepeace’s marmalade had been improved by the addition of lemon peel. Anything, in short, that might distract from the fact that Mr Darcy had kissed her in the hall the evening before.
He had kissed her.
Elizabeth had spent a restless night attempting to refine the memory into something less inconvenient, but refinement had not improved it. It remained what it was: unexpected, improper, brief—and entirely impossible to forget.
Mr Darcy sat opposite her now with an expression of such careful composure that no one unacquainted with him could have suspected the smallest disturbance. Elizabeth, who had known him only a short while and therefore ought not topresume to read him at all, noticed that he had taken no butter with his toast, had stirred his tea twice without drinking any, and had looked at her only once since entering the room.
Jane, beside her, was engaged with Mr Bingley in a discussion of the headland path, which he had promoted with the same enthusiasm he brought to every subject.
