Page 2 of Love Drunk for Mr Darcy

"You were quite determined to make a study of it."

"And you simply allowed me to continue?"

His brows lifted. "I did attempt to stop you. You can be very determined when you wish to be so. I suppose another word for it might be pig-headed."

She gave him a sharp look. "You cannot have tried very hard."

"Miss Elizabeth, you took great delight in informing me that I had no authority over you and that if I did not assist you with your wine selection, you would have no choice but to open the French brandy."

She hated that she could well believe it. She remembered lifting a bottle in a wonky salute, announcing that she would not be ordered about by the worst proposer in England and taking a drink directly from it. Her face burned. "I spoke of your proposal."

"Yes," he said, an emotion crossing his face she could not identify. "At some length. There was a reenactment accompanied by many helpful pieces of what I believe you called feminine wisdom."

"Oh, good God." Elizabeth stared at him, fragments of feeling and speech returning in a disturbing jumble of emotion.

Darcy’s flush deepened, although his expression remained solemn. A new moment returned to her, Mr Darcy standing before her while she arranged his posture, pressed one hand against his chest and instructed him to look like a man in love. Then she had taken his face between her hands and told him that no woman wished to be proposed to by a man who appeared to thoroughly dislike her.

A new thought occurred to her and her mouth opened before she could prevent the words escaping. "Did we kiss?"

Darcy suddenly appeared entirely incapable of speech. His gaze moved to her mouth before he seemed to catch himself and turned away. He bent to retrieve his coat, shook it out and folded it across one arm with great care. Elizabeth waited, her heart beating almost as violently as the pain in her head.

"Mr Darcy," she said at last, when it became clear he had no intention of answering.

His shoulders rose as he drew in a slow breath. "You kissed me."

For a moment she could only stare at him. Then her knees weakened so abruptly that she was forced to press one hand against the wall. "I could not have done. I just… I would not have done."

"You did." His voice was quieter now, though there was no hesitation in it. "You had drunk a considerable quantity of wine and may not remember it, but I assure you that I do."

Elizabeth searched his face for some sign that he was teasing her, although Mr Darcy had never looked less inclined towards humour. "You had been drinking too."

"I had." He looked at her then, and whatever she saw in his expression made the denial die upon her tongue. "But not enough to forget that. Never enough to forget that."

Another memory returned with unflinching clarity, and Elizabeth felt heat rise from the tips of her toes to the very top of her scalp. Mr Darcy had been sitting against the wall with one knee raised, his cravat loosened and the neck of his shirt lying open. The wine had softened the stern lines of his face, and there had been a warmth in his eyes she had never seen before. He had been smiling at something she had said when she looked at his mouth and informed him that it appeared much less disagreeable when he was not using it to insult her.

Then without so much as a by your leave she leaned forwards and kissed him. The first touch of her lips against his had been clumsy and brief, no more than a warm, uncertain press before she drew back. Mr Darcy had gone completely still. His eyes were wide and every muscle tensed.

Elizabeth had stared at him, fascinated by the expression upon his face. Then, apparently deciding that the fault lay in her execution rather than the experiment itself, she had run a curious finger down the hard line of his jaw and across the softness of his lips—causing his breath to catch. Then she had kissed him again.

This time she had lingered. He had allowed her to lead, his hands remaining firmly at his sides while she explored the shape of his mouth with wanton curiosity that caused her to cringe as she recollected it. Then his restraint had broken. One hand had settled at the small of her back, drawing her into his lap with great care while another threaded into her hair, causing pins to scatter against the hard floor.

The remembered sensations flooded her now, the roughness of his stubble beneath her fingertips, the warmth of his body against hers and the quiet growl he had made when she gripped the longer curls at the nape of his neck. Elizabeth closed her eyes, only to discover that shutting them made everything worse. She could still feel the slow sweep of his thumb across her cheek and the way his mouth had followed hers when she drew back for breath.

When she opened her eyes, Darcy was watching her. He no longer looked like a small boy awaiting punishment. He looked pale and determined, which was much more alarming. "Nothing further occurred," he said. "I give you my word. You became cold as you grew weary, so I wrapped you in my coat. I did not intend to sleep beside you, but there was little room and you would not release my shirt."

Above their heads came a faint sound, followed by the unmistakable tread of footsteps crossing the floor beyond the cellar door. Both of them looked upwards. The household was waking. Within minutes, servants would begin moving through the lower passages and someone would discover they had been in the wine cellar, completely alone, all night.

Darcy’s expression had hardened. He collected her gloves, set her shawl over her shoulders and then stood before her with his coat folded across his arm. "Miss Elizabeth," he said, with dreadful formality, "we must marry."

Chapter One

One week earlier

Elizabeth stared at the door to the vicarage parlour which still swung back and forth slightly on its hinges. A few seconds earlier, Mr Darcy had stormed out of the room and flung it open with much greater force than required. Although that offence against carpentry was the very least of his crimes. He had proposed, of a fashion, replacing what Elizabeth imagined to be the usual promises of devotion and pretty compliments with a laundry list of complaints—of her family, her status (so far below him as to be a degradation), and connections to trade. Then he had the gall to look shocked at her refusal. Vile, hateful man. She had known him to be proud and disagreeable. His behaviour in Meryton and actions towards Mr Wickham alone proved that, but to behave in such a strange and ungentlemanly manner was beyond anything she could have imagined

The whole affair felt like a fever dream rather than something that could possibly have happened in real life, but as she looked down at her shaking hands and peered through the window at the dark figure stalking across the lawn towards the grand house at Rosings, she knew there had been nothing imaginary about it. Mr Darcy had declared himself in love with her. Mr Darcy, who had barely tolerated her when they first met, who had looked upon her family with barely concealed disdain and who had separated Jane from the man she loved, had entered Charlotte’s parlour and, stooping under the low ceiling, announced that he had fought against his feelings in vain.

Elizabeth began to pace. The room was too small for the amount of indignation she felt brewing inside her, forcing her to turn sharply each time she reached the hearth or the far wall of the modest room. His words followed her as she went. His sense of her inferiority and the degradation to which he was apparently prepared to submit for the privilege of making her Mrs Darcy. How could any man speak so insultingly and expect to be accepted? More astonishing still, how could he have believed she wished to be asked?