Chapter Text
"I call your bluff, sir," she said archly, "There couldn't possibly be any pressing business that you must attend to at this instant that cannot be handled in the morning."
She glanced at the clock, "Why, it's quarter to nine in the evening."
Her lips morphed into something of a smirk. "Are you frightened of me, Mr. Darcy?"
He, the man in question, gulped.
She continued, "You must know I enjoy the challenge that your attempts to intimidate me present; my courage rises steadily in their wake."
Mr. Darcy, having been slowly inching past the threshold of the library throughout her entire discourse, decisively shut the door, closing them in. He resumed his place by the hearth, sitting stiffly in the stifling air. Only moments ago, he had sat in the very same armchair, chasing away thoughts of the very fine eyes that tracked him down now, with a glass of port and a book. Whether he managed to do any reading was up for debate. His tumultuous peace had been disrupted by Miss Elizabeth Bennet, her color heightened, looking much like the day she had appeared at Netherfield, petticoats six inches deep in mud. She leaned against the door and let out a deep sigh of relief before sinking to the ground. On her descent, she made eye contact with a very wary Darcy and immediately shot back upright.
"Mr. Darcy!" she had said, "I wasn't expecting anyone to be here. I mustn't importune you longer, good night, sir."
"I beg you not to leave for my sake," he said in a rush, cursing himself for his quick tongue. He could hardly get her out of his head when she wasn't around. How would he get on with her in the same room? Regardless, he could tell that something beyond the door was troubling her.
"Thank you for your generosity, sir," something in her tone told him she didn't quite feel the gratitude she expressed, "but I really should go see how Jane fares."
"Is Miss Bingley giving you trouble?" he said on a whim, his traitorous mind not wanting to lose her company. She noticed the fear that the invocation of Caroline Bingley brought to his eyes.
A spark ignited in her own eyes, "Mr. Darcy, do not tell me you are afraid of a person such as Caroline Bingley?" she teased.
He was silent.
"Well, if you must know…" She settled into the armchair across from him.
The light from the hearth danced in her eyes as she recounted the tale of Miss Bingley's latest ploy to capture his attention, which Elizabeth had been roped into somehow. Something involving china, hunting dogs, and a priest, he didn't know. He was finding it increasingly difficult to control his nerves every time Elizabeth leaned towards him at a particularly outstanding point in her story or whenever her tongue darted out to wet her lips as they dried out from all the talking.
So, there he was, floundering through some excuse about having to write to his steward because he found the woman across from him so irresistible he feared he would do something he would regret should he not quit the room immediately.
Alas, societally-imposed politeness and the old English custom of self-inflicted suffering in silence brought him to his current predicament. Elizabeth Bennet was talking to him, and he could not stop thinking about all the reasons why he should be running in the opposite direction. She was unsuitable, her family outrageous, her connections nonexistent. Nevertheless, Elizabeth Bennet was talking to him. And who was he to resist such a momentous occasion?
"Pray, Miss Bennet," he relented, "do you not find the writings of Mary Shelley dull?"
She looked outraged, "Of course not, sir! I have not read writing with such unparalleled sincerity and honest reflection on the human condition."
"Yet, take Frankenstein for example," he said, "it is nothing more than a tale of a blubbering dandy who enjoys playing God and cannot face the consequences of his misguided actions."
"Well, if you choose to read only on the surface, that is all that you will gain," she said staunchly, "but at its core, it is a story about a woman's struggle with motherhood and the role in which she is forced into by society."
"What balderdash!" he exclaimed. "Surely you jest!"
She grew serious, "No, sir, I do not." She leaned in closer, pushing the bounds of propriety and causing Mr. Darcy to inhale sharply.
"You take a lot of stake in my opinion of Mary Shelley," he said, imitating levelness.
Her voice became low, "I happen to consider myself her personal defender."
Elizabeth took notice of the erratic nature in which Mr. Darcy's chest rose and fell. "Sir, are you quite alright?"
"I'm fine, thank you," he said without pause.
Now, Elizabeth was no simpleton. She was well-read and had unfettered access to her father's library back at Longbourn. She was well aware of the signs of arousal men often exhibited in the presence of a pretty lady (and occasionally a handsome man). However, she had never expected to read them so plainly on so haughty, stubborn, implacable, dull, rude, emotionless (she could go on) a man as Mr. Darcy, especially in relation to her. She racked her brain for memories of their previous encounters. How she had misconstrued his selfish, unabashed pride! As she saw him practically trembling before her, she realized that she had mistaken his shyness for conceit. Regardless, she still struggled to come to terms with the idea that he had taken a fancy to her. Surely not! Perhaps he is just sent into a state of nervousness by any sort of closeness to a woman. A bit surprising at his age, albeit. She thought it would be amusing to test her theory.
No, she couldn't. But could she? No. She was a respectable woman from a respectable family who refused to prove him right in finding her society lacking manners. Yet, how she loved watching him squirm. A little push past the boundaries of propriety never hurt anyone, she thought.
"Mr. Darcy," she began, "do you often choose Mary Shelley as a topic of conversation among the women of the Ton?"
"I do not often find myself conversing with women, generally," he said, confused by her change in demeanor.
"Why is that?" an inch closer, "Do we make you nervous?"
He swallowed. What strange, uncharacteristic behavior, he thought. He tried his best not to encourage it, "Why do you say that, Miss Bennet?"
"You just seem a bit flighty, I wondered if that was the cause," she stood up and pressed a hand to his forehead, leaning over at such an angle that he was able to gain a very clear view of her chest, "or are you ill?"
He stammered, "I am perfectly well."
"So it is the former," she smirked, perching herself on an arm of his chair.
"I said no such thing," he feigned being scandalized by the notion. "I simply do not find myself in the company of women who simply wish to converse for the sake of conversing. I find my wealth tends to be the inducement. Therefore, I'd rather avoid conversation altogether."
"You converse quite readily with me, sir." Elizabeth forced a pout.
"Do you consider yourself mercenary?" Mr. Darcy avoided her eyeline.
"As mercenary as a woman who cares not for riches could be."
"There you have it." His eyes caught hers, and he found himself drawn in by some inexplicable force. He stopped himself before he was able to put his thoughts into action with a sharp pinch to his forearm.
"I see you are a masochist this evening, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth teased, having taken notice of his pinch, "I didn't take you to be so pious. Had you lived in the times of the bubonic plague, I reckon you would have taken to the streets as a flagellant. Rather, no, that would have been too public a display of emotion for you."
He couldn't help but chuckle at the mental image, and Elizabeth found herself so shocked to see a smile grace his visage that she almost abandoned her mission to torture Mr. Darcy. Reminded of her intentions, she decided to take it a step further.
Elizabeth pretended to lose her footing, conveniently landing in Darcy's lap with a huff. His arms wrapped around her waist instinctively to steady her. She was surprised to feel affected by his closeness and took a second to clear her mind before continuing her pursuit. She looked up at Mr. Darcy through her eyelashes. "Given that you don't often speak to women, have you ever been this close to a woman before?"
She felt his heart beating rapidly beneath the palm that she placed on his chest, "Well…I—I don't—maybe—I should…"
His stuttering was put to an end by Elizabeth reaching a hand up to play with the tips of his curly hair. She advanced her fingertips to his scalp and began a slow massage. "Has a woman ever done this to you?"
"Elizabeth—" Her Christian name slipped out in the unexpected moment of intimacy. "Sorry—Miss Bennet. I do think I should get going, it is quite late after all."
Her target was making to stand up and leave, so Elizabeth figured the situation called for drastic measures. She moved the hand from his scalp to rest it on the back of his neck, leaving her other hand on his chest to steady herself as she moved to place kisses on his neck. His skin was hot and feverish against her lips, and she couldn't help smiling at the effect she had on him. How low she had brought Mr. High-and-Mighty-Darcy. He was still, frozen like a statue, powerless to make her stop. Mostly due to his unwillingness to bring the moment to an end. He knew that he should stop her before he did something idiotic, like propose marriage.
He made a feeble attempt to push her away, but she strengthened her hold on him. She made her way up his neck and planted a kiss on the corner of his lips. She pulled back, and she could've sworn she heard Darcy whimper. She chose to let Mr. Darcy decide if he would allow the situation to escalate further. Elizabeth cupped his face in her hand and looked him straight in the eye before saying, "Kiss me, Mr. Darcy."
He was lost, powerless to deny her. Their lips met with unexpected fervor. Elizabeth was surprised at the passion that erupted from so staid a man. She had not expected to get the wind knocked out of her with his kiss. His lips moved feverishly against hers, and she surrendered to him. He parted her lips expertly with his tongue, and Elizabeth found herself in completely foreign territory and with no doubt in her mind about the answer to her previous question.
His frenetic kisses made their way down her throat, and he stopped periodically to utter, "We really must stop," or "Anyone could walk in and ruin us."
Elizabeth had no thoughts to formulate a response to his protestations. She was entirely focused on the task at hand and the foreign feelings that the man she had thought so disagreeable was stirring within her. He was running his hands along her, igniting nerves along her entire body. She felt as though she were on fire.
The second his lips touched her breast, he retreated as if having been shocked, pushing her away, "I have let this carry on long enough. We must stop."
Elizabeth simply looked up at him, flushed, chest heaving.
"Oh, damnation," he decided to say something idiotic, "Elizabeth Bennet, would you please put me out of my misery and consent to marry me?"
Elizabeth had not expected that as a conclusion to her quest to loosen up the stoic Mr. Darcy. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth Bennet had been effectively shut up.