Read Online Mr. Darcy's Refuge by Abigail Reynolds - Free Book Online
Authors: Abigail Reynolds
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made him decide to wear a thick housecoat rather than just his shirtsleeves? He would be able to glory in her every movement then, but no, he had decided to be proper. Sometimes propriety was distinctly overrated.
Propriety was also distinctly hard to recall when his every instinct was telling him to explore her face with his lips, committing the feeling of it to memory before moving on to meet her own. He could barely think why that was such a bad idea, but he was quite sure he had been resolved on it. It was torture to do no more than to hold her in his arms, and yet he hoped it would never end.
All too soon he reached her room, dimly lit by the one candle. Good Lord, he was alone with Elizabeth in her bedroom, and she was nestled close to him – and he was supposed to put her down and walk away. He was going to be a candidate for sainthood by the time this was over. Crossing to the side of the bed, he lowered her gently until her back rested on the sheet, then slowly and reluctantly began to pull his arms out from beneath her.
He was almost free – what a terrible word that was, free, when applied to something so distasteful as separating himself from Elizabeth – when she stirred. Holding his breath, he watched as her eyes fluttered open for the merest second, then closed again. She shifted onto her side, facing toward him, and clasped his hand so that it was trapped between her cheek and the pillow. With a sound of contentment, she rubbed her face against his hand as she drifted back into a deep sleep.
Only his arm that had supported her legs was now free. What in God’s name was he supposed to do now? Did gentlemanly behavior really demand that he pull his hand from her grasp by force when the incredible silkiness of her cheek rested warmly against it? He had not sought out the position; she had definitely taken his hand, albeit without knowing to whom it belonged. Or perhaps on some level she did know, in some part of her that had never believed in George Wickham’s lies, that knew she belonged with him.
But he could not stand there bending over her forever, so he lowered himself until he sat on the floor beside her bed, his hand still in hers. God help him, but he did not have the strength to pull himself free, not when it felt so unutterably right. He should not be watching her, though – she would not have given him permission to do that – so he closed his eyes against the temptation, resting his head against the side of the mattress, his entire being concentrated into that small part of him she held so close.
Chapter 6
Elizabeth’s dreamworld had taken her to the Netherfield ball, which for some reason was being held in the oversized dining room of Rosings Park, where a troupe of acrobats were performing. She was dancing with Mr. Darcy, but not in a country dance. Instead, she was in his arms for that scandalous London dance, the waltz. They whirled around the dining room, miraculously now empty except for an acrobat performing impossible feats of tumbling on a tightrope strung between the chandeliers. Somehow the acrobat transformed into a young child who fell from the tightrope, her body flipping in slow uncontrolled circles as she screamed and screamed….
Startled out of sleep, Elizabeth sat up abruptly in bed, her heart pounding. A child was screaming, “No! No! No!” And was that really Mr. Darcy’s back disappearing through the door of her room? No, she must have dreamed that part.
She threw off the counterpane and stood, reaching for a dressing gown that was not there. Of course it wasn’t; she was still wearing her dress. Her mind must still be fuzzy from the dream, she decided as she hurried into the passageway toward the source of the screams.
Jenny’s bedroom was only faintly illuminated by moonlight through the window. It was a moment before Elizabeth realized that Mr. Darcy was kneeling beside her bed, trying to speak to the girl.
Propriety was also distinctly hard to recall when his every instinct was telling him to explore her face with his lips, committing the feeling of it to memory before moving on to meet her own. He could barely think why that was such a bad idea, but he was quite sure he had been resolved on it. It was torture to do no more than to hold her in his arms, and yet he hoped it would never end.
All too soon he reached her room, dimly lit by the one candle. Good Lord, he was alone with Elizabeth in her bedroom, and she was nestled close to him – and he was supposed to put her down and walk away. He was going to be a candidate for sainthood by the time this was over. Crossing to the side of the bed, he lowered her gently until her back rested on the sheet, then slowly and reluctantly began to pull his arms out from beneath her.
He was almost free – what a terrible word that was, free, when applied to something so distasteful as separating himself from Elizabeth – when she stirred. Holding his breath, he watched as her eyes fluttered open for the merest second, then closed again. She shifted onto her side, facing toward him, and clasped his hand so that it was trapped between her cheek and the pillow. With a sound of contentment, she rubbed her face against his hand as she drifted back into a deep sleep.
Only his arm that had supported her legs was now free. What in God’s name was he supposed to do now? Did gentlemanly behavior really demand that he pull his hand from her grasp by force when the incredible silkiness of her cheek rested warmly against it? He had not sought out the position; she had definitely taken his hand, albeit without knowing to whom it belonged. Or perhaps on some level she did know, in some part of her that had never believed in George Wickham’s lies, that knew she belonged with him.
But he could not stand there bending over her forever, so he lowered himself until he sat on the floor beside her bed, his hand still in hers. God help him, but he did not have the strength to pull himself free, not when it felt so unutterably right. He should not be watching her, though – she would not have given him permission to do that – so he closed his eyes against the temptation, resting his head against the side of the mattress, his entire being concentrated into that small part of him she held so close.
Chapter 6
Elizabeth’s dreamworld had taken her to the Netherfield ball, which for some reason was being held in the oversized dining room of Rosings Park, where a troupe of acrobats were performing. She was dancing with Mr. Darcy, but not in a country dance. Instead, she was in his arms for that scandalous London dance, the waltz. They whirled around the dining room, miraculously now empty except for an acrobat performing impossible feats of tumbling on a tightrope strung between the chandeliers. Somehow the acrobat transformed into a young child who fell from the tightrope, her body flipping in slow uncontrolled circles as she screamed and screamed….
Startled out of sleep, Elizabeth sat up abruptly in bed, her heart pounding. A child was screaming, “No! No! No!” And was that really Mr. Darcy’s back disappearing through the door of her room? No, she must have dreamed that part.
She threw off the counterpane and stood, reaching for a dressing gown that was not there. Of course it wasn’t; she was still wearing her dress. Her mind must still be fuzzy from the dream, she decided as she hurried into the passageway toward the source of the screams.
Jenny’s bedroom was only faintly illuminated by moonlight through the window. It was a moment before Elizabeth realized that Mr. Darcy was kneeling beside her bed, trying to speak to the girl.
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