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A few minutes into the performance, Mr. Darcy’s hand reached over and enclosed hers. He regarded her anxiously—perhaps concerned that she would pull away—but relaxed when she smiled at him. The touch of his hand should have been odd, but instead it was warm and comforting.
She was almost sorry when the interval arrived, breaking the performance’s magical spell. Elizabeth had no need to leave the box, but the Gardiners took her father to meet some acquaintances they had noticed in the audience, while the colonel and Miss Darcy herded the children out in search of refreshments and an opportunity to run about. Suddenly, Elizabeth was alone with Mr. Darcy.
She stood, seeking a better view of the theatre. “It is wonderful! Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for inviting us.”
“Please call me William,” his deep voice rumbled.
“But—” Elizabeth was about to object to such impropriety. Then she reminded herself that the man had proposed to her. She swallowed. “I will…try.”
This earned a small smile. “I cannot tell you how much it pleases me to see you so enjoying yourself.”
Oh, Lord, he was so close and so distracting. She needed to find something to talk about—something to think about besides his lopsided smile. She said the first thing that came into her head. “I wish Jane were here. She loves riding, and her spirits could do with some improvement.”
His brows drew together. “She is out of spirits?”
Oh. Elizabeth had not meant to divulge that. “Well…since she hurt her ankle…” Mr. Darcy—William—nodded. An impulse Elizabeth did not understand insisted that she be honest with this man. “But really the melancholy started when your party left Netherfield.”
William stiffened. There was something in his eyes…Could he verify Elizabeth’s suspicions about why they had left Hertfordshire? Had Mr. Bingley’s sisters insisted he give up Jane? She gazed down at the audience, attempting a casualness she did not feel. “It was a hard blow for her when Mr. Bingley departed. Do you know when he will return?”
His eyes widened, giving him a slightly panicked appearance. “No, I do not.” The words emerged in a rush. “He has not confided his plans to me.”
Elizabeth nodded, trying not to think about Jane’s wan face upon their parting.
William shifted uneasily and turned his eyes toward the stage. The movement tugged at her hand, and Elizabeth realized their fingers were still entangled. Heavens! Had anyone noticed? A quick glance at the audience confirmed that nobody appeared to be watching them, but if they should…
The sensible act would be to release his hand, but Elizabeth knew by now that she was unlikely to do the sensible thing when it came to Mr. Darcy—so, of course, she wanted to continue holding his hand. She pulled him toward the back of the box, where the shadows and the folds of the curtain would shield them from view.
Mr. Darcy—William—raised his eyebrows in surprise but did not object. She shrugged self-consciously. “One is so exposed in a box. I desire more privacy.”
William did not respond but immediately took advantage of the dim lighting to cup her cheek with his hand. “I am in agony, Elizabeth,” he groaned. “Can you give me any hope that you will accept my suit, or is this all in vain?”
Did he indeed believe his situation could possibly be as hopeless as all that? Did he not note the signs that her opinion of him was improving, softening? She swallowed, finding it difficult to meet eyes so full of desperation. “Indeed, sir, I would not hold the hand of a man I had firmly decided against. I am not prepared to give you an answer, but there is reason for hope. Ample reason.”
His forehead creased. “But your father’s objections…”
“He and I spoke last night. He is not as intransigent as he appeared at first, but rather he is willing to reserve judgment.”
William’s head was bowed. “That is good to hear.”
Elizabeth could restrain herself no longer. The memory of the kisses in the garden and the park haunted her. She could feel the ghostly presence of his lips on hers—and she wanted more. More contact with this man. More touching. Stepping forward, she reached out a hand to touch his arm, his shoulder.
“Oh, Good Lord, Elizabeth,” William moaned as his other hand wound around her waist and pulled her gently toward him. His lips met hers for a soft kiss. As he deepened the kiss, one hand moved to the back of her head while the other pulled her more tightly against him. They moved in harmony, as if their entire bodies participated in the kiss. His tongue licked along the seam of her lips. She parted them almost involuntarily, and suddenly his tongue was in her mouth!
***
Darcy could not believe Elizabeth was allowing him such liberties. In the dark recesses of his mind, he knew he should not be taking advantage of her momentary pliancy, but such self-control was far beyond his capacity at the moment. Touching her…feeling her warmth against his…it was so exhilarating that he could not help discovering new places on her body to explore. The more of her he touched, the more he wanted to touch.
One hand had traveled up her back and was daringly caressing the bare skin of her shoulder blades. He waited for her to stiffen and pull away, but instead she moaned and snuggled closer in his arms. He was lost.
Their tongues entangled, dueled, and created amazing sensations. Simultaneously, his fingers inched under the edge of her bodice in the back. Forbidden territory, but the skin was so soft. So tempting. His fingertips traced down her spine, vertebra by vertebra, deeper and deeper under the back of her dress. She arched her back and moaned, the sound further enflaming his desire.
He pressed her against the wall, the better to feel the soft pillows of her breasts and the roundness of her stomach. The yielding softness of her body and the hardness of his. They were so close he could feel the rapid beat of her heart.
Now his other hand was creeping under the edge of the neckline in the front of her gown. What would her breasts feel like in his hands? At the last minute, Darcy ripped his mouth from hers. “Good Lord, Elizabeth, tell me to stop!”
Elizabeth stared up at him, blinking owlishly.
“I must stop now while I may still call myself a gentleman,” he panted, turning his head down and away, unable to meet her eyes lest his desire combust again. He had expected her to stop him, to pull away or slap him or object. What did it mean that she had done none of those things?
