March is for merriment & spring flowers

The snowdrops have come and gone, the daffodils are in bloom and the tulips I brought home from Pemberley are only 4″ tall and still keep me guessing which variety is which.

The Spanish bluebells are coming out in force, and as I was thinning them out yesterday (under careful supervision 🙂 ), I thought this would be a good time for a walk among the bluebells.

It’s also a walk down the memory lane. This is an old excerpt, from The Darcy Legacy, but I hope you’ll like a springtime stroll with our favourite couple.

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The temporary freedom from Lady Catherine’s scrutiny, and even her father’s, put a spring in Elizabeth’s step as she and Darcy wandered together into the coppice carpeted with bluebells. She could not forbear a warm smile when she saw him bending down to gather another small bouquet. Yet when he offered it, the warmth was predictably seasoned with a touch of archness:

“I thank you. Although we do have it on the very best authority that they will not last.”

He shrugged.

“Then I shall have to present you with others.”

“Real or sketched?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye.

He mirrored it as he replied, “Just as the circumstance requires.”

“You are most attentive.”

“‘Tis kind of you to say so. I will make it my business to continue in that vein.”

She raised the small offering to inhale its faint but refreshing scent, and could not quite resist the impulse to tease him:

“You will forgive me if I am still unaccustomed to open gallantry from you.”

“Of course,” Mr Darcy said in a matching tone. “In fact, it has recently occurred to me that you might find it helpful if I were to devise a schedule.”

A chuckle escaped her lips.

“A schedule, sir?”

“Indeed – for a gradual progression from feigning complete disinterest in your person and employment, to straying no further than ten steps away and hanging on your every word. I have already grasped that leaping directly to the latter might be disconcerting, so I have undertaken to apply myself with some diligence of purpose to mapping out the stages.”

“Have you?” she said, surprised but no less delighted by his jocular manner. “And what is your success?”

“I thought I might begin by arranging such little compliments as might be adapted to ordinary occasions, along the lines of Mr Collins’ attempts at flattering with delicacy.”

This time she laughed wholeheartedly.

“Mercy, no, not Mr Collins’ brand of courtship. I daresay you can do a little better.”

“My thanks for your vote of confidence,” he replied, laughter in his eyes and a twitch in his lips.

Elizabeth’s glance effortlessly took the same playful gleam when she prompted, “And then, what would the next stage be?”

“I might offer my company on a walk to gather wildflowers if the opportunity arises to do so with impunity, however long they are expected to last in a vase. I might even show some skill at making daisy-chains. I had a fair amount of practice when Georgiana was younger. Although I would probably draw the line at wearing them for your amusement.”

“That is very reassuring, Mr Darcy. It would be far too great a shock to see you turning into love’s fool.”

“Would it?” he replied, a new timbre to his voice that sent a strange quiver rippling through her senses. She dismissed it as unaccountable and foolish, and ascribed it solely to the feel of his fingertips brushing over the back of her hand, before he captured it in his and brought it to his lips. The quiver returned, not to be dismissed this time, when he whispered, his breath a warm caress over her skin, “I was rather hoping you might grow accustomed to that notion, as you are likely to see repeated evidence of it as time goes by.”

Her colour deepening by a shade or two, she withdrew her hand. Mr Darcy made no protest, but raised his to the ringlets at her temple. He twirled one around his finger, which might have accounted for the third and equally foolish quiver when he added softly, “As I was hoping you might grow accustomed to calling me Fitzwilliam.”

She drew away from the barely perceptible but deeply affecting caress, and gave a little shaky laugh as she resorted yet again to archness.

“Oh, goodness, no, that will not do. What if I were to become careless and address you thus in your aunt’s presence?”

He gave a faint shrug, clearly unperturbed by her defensive teasing.

“No matter. We could easily persuade her you were speaking to my cousin.”

“And if he were not there?”

“Of him, then,” he said, once more reaching for her hand.

This time she did not withdraw it. But neither did she stray from the comfortable realm of playfulness.

“I must confess this has puzzled me for some time – his name and yours.”

“I imagine it would be a most improper show of vanity if I were to declare myself gratified that you should puzzle over my name,” he remarked, his eyes dancing, “so I will only say it was my parents’ wish that I should bear my mother’s maiden name.”

“A family tradition?”

“No. Just their wish.”

“That is a relief. I would have found it very strange indeed if our firstborn were to be christened Bennet,” she spoke without thinking, only to see the new and rather pleasing hint of mischief vanishing from her companion’s eyes, to be replaced with the warmest look of unadulterated tenderness. She blinked, shocked at how much it changed him, and no less at the sudden thrill that coursed through her without warning at finding herself enveloped into a gaze such as that. “What is it?” she asked, still unthinkingly, and inwardly chided herself for how ludicrously breathless she sounded.

His first response was a little smile. His second was to raise her hand again, but this time the kiss was not a light brush of his lips over the back of her fingers, but a soft and lingering caress on the skin of her palm. Soft lips, eliciting the strangest of sensations that made her fingertips twitch against his cheek. He sighed – nay, drew a deep breath – and whispered, “You think of such things? Thank you.”

“For?”

“Not dismissing the matter out of hand. Not dismissing me.”

Elizabeth chuckled ruefully.

“You are making it very difficult indeed for me to dismiss you.”

“How so?”

She shrugged as she gave a little conscious laugh and a flourish of her other hand.

“You have an uncanny ability to fluster me, as you well know.”

Still warmed by tenderness, his eyes widened with such stark surprise that she could not but regard it as genuine.

“Oh? I assure you, this is news to me,” he said, unmistakable delight in his low and pleasantly rumbling tones. “Exceedingly welcome news, I would call it if I dared say something quite so ungentlemanly, but news nevertheless.” He did not press his lips into her palm again, but brought their hands down, hers still ensconced in his. His gaze did not veer from hers either, not for a long time, until at last he smilingly remarked, “In that case, I expect it would be unfair to use that information to my advantage and ask if I might kiss you.”

Another rueful chuckle left her lips.

“What amuses you?” Mr Darcy wished to know.

“Only that you would give yourself the trouble to ask, this time round.”

“Ah, but I try to learn from my mistakes, you see.”

“Do you?” was all she could say, only to inwardly censure herself yet again, on this occasion for finding no better a rejoinder than an inane question.

He did not answer it. Instead, he turned towards her and raised his hand to run his fingertips over her flushed cheek, trail a line to her chin and tentatively tilt it up as he drew nearer, only to remain poised inches away, his dark eyes delving searchingly into hers. A spellbinding gaze, intense, compelling and oddly vulnerable, that would have just as easily held her in thrall in a crowded ballroom as in a deserted coppice. Somehow, nothing mattered in the world but the unspoken question in his eyes.

Her eyelids fluttered, and she let them drop. He must have taken that for the abandon and the silent consent that it was, for a fraction of a second later she felt his warm breath over her mouth and chin, and the lightest touch of his lips on hers. Lighter than a feather. The softest caress. She released the breath she had been holding, and her shoulders lost their tension, which surely must have been the only reason why she leaned towards him. Eyes closed, she registered a second kiss, still brief, still light – a third, a trifle longer – a fourth – a fifth that sought to part her lips. After the seventh she lost count, along with any interest in counting. Or perhaps the kisses blended into one, long, hungry and insistent, until she found herself clutching at his shoulders, breathless, a little dizzy and more than a little disappointed when his lips left hers. Yet he remained close – there was no doubt about it, she could still sense the warmth of his breath on her face. She opened her eyes then, to find his. They were dark and bright, and crinkled at the corners.

“It was not self-delusion, was it?” he whispered, and there was no smugness in his words, but deep earnestness, so she did not turn away in renewed mortification. Instead, she flashed him an impish grin and answered his question with another:

“Must you always go a step too far?”

“Indeed,” a low drawl rang quite close beside them, making them jump apart, dreadfully conscious.

Mr Darcy cleared his voice, but made no reply. It was Mr Bennet who resumed in a calm and measured tone.

“I consider myself a reasonable and forbearing man, Mr Darcy. But I suggest you do not try my patience. It would be unwise.”

Looking some twelve years younger and very much like a reprimanded schoolboy – endearingly so, Elizabeth discovered – Mr Darcy ran his fingers through his hair and, visibly against his every inclination, he acknowledged the justness of the reproof with a nod and a crisp, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Do bear that in mind. Now, I would very much like to take the measure of you as an angler. I trust you will oblige me at your earliest convenience.”

“Of course,” Mr Darcy resignedly complied.

“This way, then. You can sit with us and keep count if you wish, Lizzy, but pray do not feel obliged to do so. As I recall, you have no patience for that sport. Tedious, you used to call it. So rejoin the others at your leisure, we shall not impose upon you,” Mr Bennet blandly said, but Darcy could distinguish the by now familiar glint of mischief in his eyes.

So could the gentleman’s daughter, apparently, for she replied in kind:

“That was when I was far too young to appreciate its finer points, Papa. I daresay the art of fishing has its merits, and I might come to watch the pair of you demonstrate your skill. Besides, I can always bring a book to entertain me if it becomes too tedious,” she added, and ran gaily off.

~ * * ~

She did not join them straight away. In fact, to Darcy’s way of thinking, she took her time in coming. But she did come to sit on a folded rug, lean against a tree trunk at the water’s edge – and thoroughly distract him with the play of dappled sunlight over her exquisite countenance and figure.

She had brought a book, but paid it no heed. The volume remained abandoned in her lap as she sat gazing over the glistening waters, seemingly oblivious to her companions, and his stare. It was beyond him to look away from the bewitching picture, and his gaze lingered, taking in every detail of the ever so alluring form that he had held clasped to his chest not long ago. Reflected sunlight now caressed the skin he had caressed – flawless and as translucent as the finest porcelain. Warm skin, bathed in warm light. Perfectly shaped lips, rosy and full, that had been so soft and pliant under his, their remembered fragrance all of a sudden invading his senses and making his grip tighten on the rod, and his Adam’s apple bob under the restraining neckcloth quite as violently as the forgotten cork.

When dark eyes flashed towards him, the jolt was no less violent. Breath caught in his already too-tight chest when she did not look away, nor did she arch a brow in censure at his unremitting stare, but rewarded him with the beginning of a smile.

Darcy drew a deep breath, the need for air registering at last. Little else did. Still, he could not miss Mr Bennet’s admonition:

“They are biting, Mr Darcy, and eagerly too. Would you kindly spare some attention for the fish?”

(Copyright © Joana Starnes 2018)