Page 58 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

"Say?" Bingley laughed. "Do you know, I had a speech. I worked on it for a week. Netherfield, and the settlements, and how I should always look after her family. Three pages, very nearly." He shook his head. "I forgot every word. I looked at her and I told her I wanted her. That I had been wretched for a month and wished to stop. That was all."

Darcy's fingers had stopped on the page.

"I did not tell her one thing I had," said Bingley. "I only told her what I wanted. It seemed the only thing worth saying."

He went on talking. He talked about the church, and the banns, and whether Jane would like the blue drawing room. Darcy answered him.

Bingley had written three pages of what he could give. Then he had thrown them away, and told Jane what he wanted.

Darcy had done the opposite. He had kept the three pages and thrown away the one line that mattered. He had offered Elizabeth everything he owned and nothing of himself.

He set down his glass and stood up. He would go back now. He would knock again, and this time he would tell her what he wanted.

The room tilted.

He put a hand on the mantelpiece. The hearthrug was not quite where he had left it. He looked at the decanter, and then at Bingley, and understood that he was thoroughly foxed. He had not been this drunk since Cambridge.

He could not go to her like this. He could not knock on her door at three in the morning, smelling of brandy, holding the wall. She would think he had come for the hearthrug and the wing chair. He did want them. God help him, he wanted them still. But she would think it was all he wanted. And he would stand there with his tongue thick and say it wrong again.

"Darcy?" Bingley had got to his feet too, rather unsteadily. "You look very odd. Are you going to bed? I shall see you up."

"There is no need."

"There is every need. You are swaying." Bingley put an arm around his shoulders. He leaned on Darcy rather more than Darcy leaned on him. "Come along."

They went out into the passage. Bingley held the candle, and most of the wax went on the floor. Darcy's feet carried him three steps toward the morning room door before he knew it. He stopped outside it.

There was no light under it. There was no sound.

"Wrong way." Bingley steered him round. "That is Miss Elizabeth's room. You will frighten her to death. The stairs are this way."

Darcy let himself be steered. He climbed the stairs with Bingley's arm around him, and Bingley humming a country dance under his breath.

At his door Bingley pushed him through it. He tipped him onto the bed, boots and all, and stood back looking pleased with himself. "There," said Bingley. "Now you will sleep. The best of friends, Darcy. The very best."

The door closed. Darcy lay on his back in the dark, fully dressed, and the canopy turned slowly above him.

In the morning he would be sober. In the morning he would find her. He would not tell her what he could give. He would tell her what he wanted.

The carriage was ordered for eleven.

16

Elizabeth set her left foot on the floor and stood on it. It ached, a deep, dull ache from the heel to the shin. But it held her. She stood in the gray light in her nightgown. For the first time in a week, she let it bear her weight.

Mr. Jones had said Wednesday. It was Wednesday.

She had not slept. She had lain awake and listened to the house settle after the ball. She had heard the clock strike two, and three, and she had not gone to the library.

At twenty to three someone had knocked, very softly. Then his voice came through the door, low. Elizabeth. I must speak with you. You do not understand.

She had understood perfectly. He meant to finish what he had begun among the orange trees. He meant to settle his account. She had lain still with her hand over her mouth until his step went away.

She had thought it through. She had thought it through so many times that she could have recited it.

He had offered for her. Or he had begun to. And he had offered because he owed her. He had said so himself. After everything you have done for me, it is the least I...

She knew how that sentence ended. Everyone did.