Darcy and Deception

This Darcy was very different from the stiff and arrogant man who had proposed so awkwardly at Hunsford. His voice was soft, and his head was low. Yes, he still experienced an impulse to issue orders, but he had attended to her chastisements and taken them to heart.

She had stuffed all her thoughts and feelings about Mr. Darcy into a box at the back of her mind. What would happen if she opened that box and allowed herself to explore the ripples of attraction she felt for him? Would those ripples become a wave? Would the wave drown her?

It was a profoundly reckless idea. Under the present circumstances, losing focus on her mission could lead to injury or death, and yet she could not banish Mr. Darcy from her thoughts. What would it be like to be courted by him? To truly discover his character? Over the past few days she had found hidden depths in the man, and she wanted to know more.

“No, it is not too late,” she murmured.

Mr. Darcy’s smile shone like the sun emerging from behind the clouds. “Elizabeth.” He inhaled the syllables of her name as if they provided life-giving breath. He was moving toward her, and she was moving toward him. Their lips met somewhere in the space between—a joyous joining.

There was no comparison between this kiss and Mr. Wickham’s. It would be like comparing a pile of rocks to Westminster Abbey. Yes, this is how a kiss should be. This is the life-altering experience described in novels. In no time at all, the kiss had stolen away her reason, her breath, her thoughts. Nothing remained but the sensation of his lips pressed to hers and the warmth of his body clinging to hers.

“Elizabeth…” he moaned against her mouth while his hands caressed her hair. “Just as soft as I had dreamed.”

Another person had never stroked her hair before, and the experience was somehow both relaxing and stimulating, causing her to melt against him while also exciting her to deepen the kiss. Her fingers initiated their own exploration, plunging into his dark curls and stroking the strong curve of his jaw.

“I had lost hope of ever experiencing this,” he murmured when they broke apart.

“You imagined it?” she asked—both surprised and flattered. How often had he thought about her?

“More times than I would care to confess.” His fingers drifted lightly along the side of her neck, sending shivers down her back. She would have happily remained in this blissful place forever.

However, a sound intruded on her reverie. “Is that an owl hooting? I did not know any owls inhabited Brighton.”

Mr. Darcy whirled around and leapt off the bed in one movement. Racing to the window, he unlatched it and threw it open. After a moment, she heard scraping sounds, male grunts and curses, and then thumps as someone climbed over the low sill of her window. Mr. Darcy assisted the unidentified man in entering her room. If I had known I would entertain so many guests in the middle of the night, I would have prepared tea.

Mr. Darcy quickly shut the window and drew the curtains closed. When the newcomer moved toward Elizabeth, she saw his face clearly for the first time. “Colonel Fitzwilliam!”

“Miss Bennet.” The colonel executed a precise bow that struck her as rather excessive under the circumstances. “I apologize for my precipitous arrival. A night watchman was approaching the alley behind the garden, and I did not want my presence to be questioned. I gave my wayward cousin the signal”—he shot Mr. Darcy a sidelong glance—“but he dawdled a bit in opening the window.”

Mr. Darcy’s face was quite red. “I am sorry, Richard. I was distracted.”

The colonel’s eyes darted from him to Elizabeth. “I just bet.” She colored as she imagined how disheveled they must appear.

Mr. Darcy huffed. “We have been discussing the danger that Wickham presents.”

“And what did you conclude?”

No doubt the colonel believed Elizabeth should retreat to a safe location as well. Would Mr. Darcy admit Elizabeth had won that argument? He rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke. “Well, er, Eliz—Miss Elizabeth will remain in Brighton for now. She was recruited by Colonel Forster to report on Wickham’s activities.”

The colonel viewed her appraisingly. “So you are spying upon the spy? How clever of Forster; nobody suspects a woman of spying. More the fool they.”

“But it is dangerous,” Mr. Darcy interjected. “We do not know who killed Denny.”

“Yes, dangerous,” the colonel mused. Elizabeth braced herself for another argument about returning to Longbourn. Unexpectedly, he turned to his cousin. “We should devise a plan for ensuring her safety until her mission is completed.”

Mr. Darcy appeared resigned rather than argumentative. “I will remain with Elizabeth, particularly when Wickham is in the vicinity, and serve as a kind of bodyguard.” He turned anxious eyes to her. “If that is acceptable to you?”

Although pleased that he inquired, Elizabeth was prepared to object. Then she reconsidered; a protector might prevent Colonel Forster from returning her to Longbourn, and she was discovering she did not mind spending more time with Mr. Darcy.

“Very well.” A broad smile was her reward. “I also believe you should meet with Colonel Forster in the morning and share your information. We can join forces.”

“Such was my plan,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Good.”

The colonel peeked through the curtains. “The night watchman has departed, Darcy, and I suggest we make haste to leave as well. Every passing minute increases the odds of being detected.” After his cousin’s nod, the colonel opened the window and disappeared within seconds.

Mr. Darcy’s gaze fixed on Elizabeth’s lips; he obviously wanted to kiss her again but not when his cousin might see. Instead he took her hand and kissed the back. “I will see you tomorrow.” His voice alone, low and husky, sent shivers along her spine.