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The tip of his tongue moistened his lips, prompting memories of the kiss in the garden. It had been…transcendent.
Her fingers itched to touch him…to stroke the softness of his hair…to feel the hard planes of his chest and measure the width of his shoulders with her hands. These desires took her off guard. She had never experienced this heady rush of sensations with any other man. Even Mr. Wickham—who had been pleasant and good company—had never required her to restrain herself from reaching out to touch him. However, there was far more to a marriage than desire. Could she be happy with such a proud, difficult man? A man who expected the world to bend to his will?
Mr. Darcy’s handsome features were distracting, impeding Elizabeth’s rational thoughts. She averted her eyes to the tips of her shoes peeking out from the hem of her dress.
“Elizabeth?” His question had a tinge of anxiety in it.
“Your sister”—her throat closed up, and she needed to start again—“your sister is under the impression that you are a little in love with me.”
He shook his head. “No, Miss Bennet, I am not a little in love with you.” For some reason she did not want to examine, Elizabeth’s heart sank at this news. It should come as a relief, but instead she was irrationally disappointed—as if she had, in a short time, come to rely upon the idea that he loved her.
Mr. Darcy continued, “I am violently, irrevocably, passionately in love with you and have been since before my party quitted Netherfield.”
Oh. Her breath caught. Well, that declaration left little room for doubt.
Still, he could be deceiving himself. His passion could be transitory and easily lost. Could she tie her future to a hope?
She had been grievously mistaken about Mr. Wickham’s character and was now doubly uncertain about her own judgment. On the other hand, he could be of enormous help to her family. Could she afford to decline his offer?
“Forgive me, Mr. Darcy, but I”—she swallowed—“I do not understand why you have singled me out for the honor of your attention when there are undoubtedly many other women who have been vying for your favor.”
He gasped. “Do you not see yourself?” he asked in wonder. “From the first moment I saw you in the assembly hall, your light shone so brightly that it eclipsed every other woman—every other person—present.”
Elizabeth’s heart swelled at his words, and yet… “There are many pretty women in the world. Why do you single me out?”
His hand raised, and his fingers skimmed lightly over her cheek. She held her breath. “I do not simply crave your beauty. I crave the power of your mind. Your wit. Your conversation. When I speak with other women about moral failings, they say, ‘Ah yes, sir, you have the right of it.’ But when I speak to Elizabeth Bennet, you say, ‘Do you consider vanity and pride to be failings?’ and then you argue with me.” His hand cupped her cheek, and his thumb gently brushed over her lips.
Her breathing was becoming more ragged. “You like that I argue with you?”
His smile was gentle. “I do. It is something that I did not know I needed. But I need it, desperately.”
Elizabeth gasped, struggling to keep her eyes fixed on his. Such ardor threatened to overwhelm her senses.
“I want to enjoy the power of that mind, that wit, and that conversation for the rest of my life,” he continued. “It is the missing piece of my life that I did not know was missing. It is the thing that I did not know I was searching for. All these years I have been dissatisfied with my marital choices and despaired of ever finding a woman who made my heart race and my soul sing.”
Elizabeth was speechless for perhaps the first time in her life. But how could she possibly respond to such eloquence, such intensity? He had effectively obliterated any doubts she had that he loved her, but they had been replaced with reservations about whether she could live up to such lofty standards—and whether he saw her clearly.
His fingers continued to caress her face. “Is it any wonder that I panicked when I learned you had accepted Wickham’s offer?”
No man could have conjured that speech on the spot. “Um…I…did not know,” she stuttered out the words.
“I hid it from you and from myself,” he murmured, bending his head toward hers. His intention was clear, and Elizabeth made no effort to pull away. Her feet were rooted to the path. This kiss was sweet, without the raging passion of the previous day. It started with a mere brushing of their lips and grew steadily more insistent until they both needed to catch their breath.
When they finally pulled apart, she nervously surveyed the surrounding area. Fortunately, that part of the park was sparsely populated, but still… “Mr. Darcy, we are in public.”
He smiled gently at her, apparently unconcerned. “Perhaps I can remedy that difficulty.” Taking her hand, he led her to a copse of fir trees. He pushed through the branches and guided her into a small empty space in the middle. They were mostly shielded from prying eyes but still within the confines of the park.
Elizabeth shivered. What did he intend to do?
Her reaction caught his attention; he regarded her solemnly. “Elizabeth, if I do anything you dislike, tell me immediately, I pray you.” He waited until she had nodded. “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”
The next kiss contained all the passion the previous one had lacked. He kissed her as if she supplied the air he needed to survive. Each stroke of his tongue, each caress of his lips, told her how desperately he wanted her to believe in his passion for her. It was overwhelming, an assault on her senses she had not anticipated. Mr. Darcy’s arms held her tightly against his body as if he could never let her go.
As they parted, her head was spinning, and she needed to grip his arm to maintain her balance. After a moment, Mr. Darcy released her and stepped backward. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet.”
Her eyebrows knit together. For what was he apologizing? All she could think was that she hoped he would do it again.
He stared at the ground, cheeks red. “I wished you to believe the sincerity of my words, and instead I assault you as I did yesterday.”
