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It was a terrible thing, Darcy found, when one’s mind and one’s heart seemed, suddenly, to speak entirely different languages and refuse to speak at all to each other. He had watched her walking and talking with Gardiner. There was no question but that her uncle was informing her of who had truly purchased that portrait—then he saw her glance over at him and quickly look away. What did it mean?
His heart urged him to race to her; even if she would not have him, he would know.
His mind counselled him to patience, that it was too soon, that a slow and steady courtship would be the proper approach.
Proper or tepid?He was not a man to dither for long, however; he must at least learn if there was any hope. Once the set ended, he searched for her. The ballroom was crowded, and for several minutes, he was unsuccessful. But just as if he had dreamt her, she suddenly appeared at his side, looking up at him with eyes that revealed so much—a bit of bewilderment, a little fear…but a good deal of hopefulness, too—or at least, that is what his heart told him. His mind was scrambling, fearing he only saw what he wished.
“Mr Darcy” was all she said in greeting, but it was enough to make his heart race.
And of course, now that he was brought to point non plus, his tongue, predictably, tangled.
You are the woman of my dreams, he wanted to tell her. I will spend my life in your service. Only hear me out. I am sorry. I am yours, forever. Say anything, except no.
“Liz-zy,” he managed. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. The first time, he had proposed like an afterthought, without warning, without courtship. The second, he had allowed his fears to mangle and strangle his feelings.
Quit gaping at her like a fish! Say something, idiot!he thought. And with sudden conviction, he realised there was only one thing he could say.
* * *
Lizzy was feeling a bit tongue-tied. Colonel Forster in his medals and regimentals could not compete with Fitzwilliam Darcy for display of power and authority. That Darcy was the most handsome man she had ever known did not help matters. How could she dance with him, pay attention to the steps, to the rhythm, to the other dancers? When he spoke her name, in that dear, still-fractured way, her heart melted, and she could only watch his struggle to speak with a throat as constricted as his own. But he quickly regained control, not murmuring his words but pronouncing them clearly and distinctively enough that those closest must overhear.
“‘Passions are liken’d best to floods and streams:
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words, in words discover
That they are poor in that which makes a lover’.”
And with those silly verses, she found her own tongue. “Sir Walter Raleigh? Surely the situation is not so desperate that it requires a descent into poetry?” she asked, smiling tremulously.
“Poetry…is love’s food,” he said, taking her hand in his strong, warm one, his crooked half smile nearly destroying every bit of composure she had gathered.
“Of a fine, stout, healthy love, it might be. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away,” she quipped, trying to be light-hearted while her voice cracked on the words, ruining the effect.
“Let…me nourish,” he begged with a pure sincerity that pierced her heart. “Let me feed.”
At that very moment, a small commotion not far from the dancers caught her eye, and her heart sank.
Lizzy had only seen her once, but she would never forget the woman—Lady Matlock, resplendent in a gown of green crape and Turkish turban, bedecked in jewellery of gold and amber, on the arm of an equally imposing and elegant gentleman who must be the earl. They were here, now, in the ballroom at Netherfield. Lord Matlock—who, plainly, was not giving up, as her uncle had predicted he would. The last thing he must witness was a dance between herself and Mr Darcy, never mind anything more personal.
Then, with a timing only the angry fates could have supplied, Mr Darcy dropped to one knee.
* * *
“Say…you will marry me. I asked…before but in the wrong way. I said I could…do better. No one is. No one could be. You deserve…better. I knew it then. I know it now. Take me…anyway. I will try harder…to deserve you, although I never can.”
He got the words out, finally—only a small part of what was in his heart, but truth, nevertheless. He looked into her eyes and saw it.
She was going to refuse him. Again.
What was more, they had drawn a crowd.
“Liz-zy,” he said, shaking his head, knowing he was pathetic, and yet, still too desperate to let her go without trying again. I must get the words right this once, if I have to use every poet in memory! “Would…Burns change your mind?
