Page 53 of Penned By Mr Darcy
“Then tell me - why do you have it now? Were you bringing it to someone? Are you to deliver it tohim?”
“To who?”
“ToWickham,” he bit out. “Tell me, Miss Elizabeth, what lies has he fed you? What promises has he made in exchange for what you found in those pages?”
“I have not spoken to Mr Wickham since the day we first encountered him,” she said, the words rushing out. “I had already read - Iknew. I made Lydia swear never to speak to him again. I know what he is capable of, that he is the worst kind of scoundrel.”
Darcy stilled. His chest rose and fell as he searched her face.
“I knew at once that I had invaded something private. But if I had not… if I had not seen your words, Georgiana’s suffering might have been repeated in my own home. I could not let that happen.”
“I am glad, then,” he said slowly, “that something good might come from what I once wished undone.”
“I meant to return it,” she said. “But it would not leave me. The words - your words - they stayed in my mind. I was changed when I found that page. That first page…burned at the edges. I thought it was a letter, at first. Then I saw the script, and I knew that nobody could possibly write a letter like that. And I - I could not stop wondering if it was about me.”
He stepped forward.
“I meant to see that destroyed. I…I had drunk too much, and I must have left before ensuring that it was burnt.
“It is wrong, but I could not stop thinking about those words. I have read it over and over again, Mr Darcy. Sometimes, I see the slope of your script when I close my eyes. Forgive me for saying so, but it did. I needed to know. Needed to be certain. I told myself I wanted the truth, but truthfully…”
He did not know what to say. Her words trailed away, and they stood in the cold winter air, staring at one another. When he could bring himself to speak, all eloquence escaped him.
“What?” he asked, stunned.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, horrified by her own confession.
“I told myself I hated you. But every word I read, every thought you confessed - it changed something in me. Perhaps it is my own vanity, for I have never been wanted or desired, but I would like to believe I am not so easily swayed by pretty words.”
He took another step toward her, close now. Too close. She could feel the heat of him, the tension in his body like a storm barely restrained.
“And now?” he asked, voice rough.
“I do not know,” she whispered. “I only know I cannot think of you without feeling like I might come undone.”
He reached for the diary, but instead of taking it, his fingers brushed hers. A touch, brief and scorching. Her breath hitched.
“You should not say such things,” he said. “Not unless you mean them.”
“I have never said anything I did not mean,” she returned, trembling beneath his gaze.
The diary fell, forgotten, to the grass between them.
And then -he kissed her.
There was nothing careful in it. No ceremony. No polite restraint. It was the kind of kiss born of months of silence and fury, of pride wounded and hearts exposed. His hand came to the curve of her jaw, anchoring her as his mouth met hers - urgent, reverent, desperate. She gasped, and he drank it in. Her hands, once clenched at her sides, found the folds of his coat, gripping as if to steady herself.
When they parted, both breathless, her eyes were wide, astonished.
“That was…” she managed.
“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely.
He felt her fingers curl around his. He could not say who had initiated the second kiss, for it seemed to happen of its own accord. Her lips, petal soft and impossibly made for his own, crushed against him.
“We…I have not…” Miss Elizabeth broke from him. “Do not think you are forgiven, sir. You wrote impossibly rude things about my family, and…”
“And I stand by every word that I said. Your sisters lack manners and your mother is brash. Your father does not keep them in hand. Can you deny such a thing is true, when I have seen you roll your eyes at their behaviour on multiple occasions?”
