“I will go to visit Elizabeth Bennet,” she announced.
“That is an excellent idea!” Richard cried.
They both sought Darcy’s approbation. He had doubts about the wisdom of stirring up old memories for his sister, but she would rebel if he treated her like a child. “A happy thought, Georgiana. I thank you.”
His sense of relief mingled with uncertainty. Speaking with Georgiana should extinguish whatever feelings Elizabeth had for Wickham, but it would not solve the larger problem: Elizabeth did not love Darcy.
Chapter Eight
“Would you like another cup of tea, Lizzy?” Aunt Gardiner asked.
Elizabeth shook her head mutely as she stared unseeing out of the window. Her aunt had insisted that she stay in bed to recover from the shock of the previous day’s events, although Elizabeth would much rather be pacing, or perhaps taking a long walk.
“I put extra sugar in it,” her aunt said enticingly.
Elizabeth sighed and took the cup, placing it on the table beside her bed. Her aunt was of the opinion that enough tea could solve anything, including nervous conditions, a broken heart, a fever, the plague—and, most likely, the Peninsular War. Elizabeth had already consumed so much tea that morning she felt as if she would float away.
Despite all the tea, she remained mired in an odd state of anger mixed with sadness, a dollop of guilt, and a pinch of shame: a recipe for a particularly awful stew. The anger was directed at Mr. Darcy for his high-handed behavior and arrogant assumption that naturally she would prefer him over Mr. Wickham because of his fortune.
The sadness had been provoked by a realization during her long, sleepless night that she could not marry Mr. Wickham; any future relationship between them would forever be tainted by Mr. Darcy’s actions. If Elizabeth loved Mr. Wickham, perhaps they could overcome that obstacle, but her amiable feelings toward him were not enough to surmount the scandal which could erupt if she defied Mr. Darcy.
She had sent him a note that morning breaking off the engagement. Hopefully her mother would not be angry that she had declined another eligible offer of marriage. Of course, if her mother knew Elizabeth intended to refuse Mr. Darcy…
The guilt sprang from that intended refusal. Mr. Darcy could provide even more security to her mother and sisters, but Elizabeth could not imagine accepting his offer. She was too angry, and he was too selfish and disdainful of others.
And the shame stemmed from that small (very small, Elizabeth insisted to herself) part of her soul which seemed content—even delighted—at the prospect of marrying Mr. Darcy. Feeling like a traitor to her own values and identity, she had at first attempted to deny such sentiments. How could the thought of a future with that man provoke anything other than revulsion?
But in the stillness of the nighttime, Elizabeth had admitted to herself that even before the incident in the garden, she had caught herself admiring his fine figure and serious manner. And then the kiss…well, the kiss…
Elizabeth always found herself distracted when she recalled the kiss. It had been very… Extremely…
Surely she would not have responded so…passionately if she had been prepared for the kiss. And it was her first real kiss; any previous kisses had been mere meetings of the lips by comparison. Of course, she had a strong reaction.
Perhaps all real kisses were like that. Did all wives feel like their husband’s kisses were a drug that they craved every minute of every day? Elizabeth somehow doubted it. Her mother certainly seemed more preoccupied by her nerves than her husband’s lips. And her aunt did not appear to crave her uncle’s touch.
If a simple kiss could engender such sensations, what would happen in the marital bed? Elizabeth shivered, goosebumps erupting along her arms. How would it feel if Mr. Darcy touched her?
Nor was the
effect limited to his kisses. Conversation with the man always had a vivacity and energy she experienced with nobody else. Although he was proud and difficult, she always enjoyed matching wits with him. Unfortunately, her conversations with Mr. Wickham could not compare; he was amiable and pleasant, but he never made her feel quite so alive.
And, thus, the shame.
“You are thinking about Mr. Darcy again?” Aunt Gardiner asked, sitting on the side of Elizabeth’s bed.
“How did you know?”
Her aunt smiled gently, sadly. “You develop a small crease here whenever you are worrying the subject.” She indicated with a finger to her own forehead.
Elizabeth sat up straighter in bed. “I do not know if I can reconcile myself to becoming his wife.”
“It is despicable the way he took advantage of you, but too often that is the way of the world. Wealthy men believe they are entitled to…privileges,” Aunt Gardiner spat out the words, leaving no doubt of her disapproval.
“He simply assumed I would be happy to be his wife!”
“It is not an unreasonable assumption. Most women would be thrilled to become the mistress of Pemberley.”
“They may have him.”