Though the Bingleys and the Hursts slept well past noon, Darcy rose at his usual hour, just after dawn. He had much on his mind—foremost, his conversation with Elizabeth’s father. Mr. Bennet had been generous with him by not demanding immediate satisfaction for the familiarity Darcy had been exercising with his favorite daughter in public. Darcy did not doubt he would probably do so once he reached Longbourn later that morning, but he was more than willing to comply with any demand in that quarter.

One of his greatest fears, however, was Elizabeth’s reaction to being forced into a marriage with him after she had turned him down just over a fortnight ago. His other fear was that his aunt’s sycophantic parson would somehow manage to manipulate a union between himself and Elizabeth before Darcy could manage to plead his own case.

Then there was the issue of what had led to Darcy’s overly familiar manner with Elizabeth in the first place. He knew he had no right to touch her—or to take any liberties with her at all, for that matter—but he could not for the life of him imagine how he was ever going to completely curb his ardor when he was in her company. True, he had been quite adept at the practice for several agonizing months, but that was before he had fully come to terms with his feelings for her. Now that Elizabeth was actually allowing him to court her, and knowing at last what it was to hold her in his arms and feel her lips upon his—not to mention the exquisite sensations that accompanied these tender exploits—how would he ever survive her intoxicating presence and maintain an appearance of composure?

Darcy breakfasted alone, thankful for the silence the unconscious household afforded. Within a quarter of an hour, he was out the door and astride his horse, ready for a good ride to clear his head and ease the tension that had settled in his body. There was a decided chill in the air, and the surrounding landscape was blanketed by frost. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air. It was invigorating. With no particular destination in mind, he urged his horse into a full gallop. Leaning low over his mount, Darcy guided his beast across the surrounding fields and far beyond, determined to lose himself temporarily in the thrill of a hard ride.

Like Darcy, Elizabeth had also risen early, and to a mercifully empty breakfast parlor. She sat sipping a cup of hot tea, pleased to see that the day promised to be especially clear. After donning her spencer and gloves and securing her bonnet, she set off at a brisk pace to enjoy her morning walk.

The crisp November air assaulted her senses, making her feel alive and rejuvenated. Elizabeth continued her energetic pace and soon found herself traveling through one of the many fields bordering her father’s estate. She stopped at the edge of a thicket to catch her breath, enjoying the magical, frosty transformation of the landscape. She discerned the pounding of approaching hooves and soon glimpsed a lone rider galloping toward her. As he neared, Elizabeth recognized his form, and a smile spread across her face.

Darcy reined in his horse and, in one fluid movement, leapt from the saddle to stand before her with one of his rare, devastating smiles. He labored to catch his breath, his chest heaving from the exertion of his long, hard ride, and brought her gloved hand to his lips. “Good morning, Elizabeth,” he said.

“Good morning, Fitzwilliam.” Her voice was warm, and she painted a tantalizing picture, her cheeks a most becoming shade of pink from her exposure to the morning chill. “You are certainly up early, considering the lateness of the hour we kept last night.”

“I could easily say the same for you,” Darcy quipped. He had not bothered to relinquish her hand. “I am often an early riser, but I confess I did not sleep very well last night.”

“Oh? And pray, why was that, sir?” she asked in a teasing voice.

“Something particular weighed heavily upon my mind, and I missed you terribly after our evening ended. I am afraid such a combination made repose impossible.”

A sympathetic smile played across Elizabeth’s mouth as a blush appeared on her face. She, too, had found it difficult to fall asleep once she had returned to Longbourn, her head overflowing with images of Darcy and memories of his lips upon hers and the warmth of his hands upon her body. What on earth is this hold he has over me? she wondered for what must have been the hundredth time. Elizabeth could hardly credit it. When Elizabeth was with him, she could think of very little beyond the exquisite pleasure his company afforded her—to say nothing of his touch, his mouth, even a penetrating look from his dark, expressive eyes. Even when alone, her thoughts were filled with Darcy.

But what distressed her most was how she could possibly feel such a powerful urge to abandon propriety, for that was very much what Elizabeth found herself wishing every time she observed Darcy’s intense gaze settle upon her. And Darcy’s gaze always came to rest upon her. This enigmatic power he seemed to have over her sensibilities disconcerted her greatly. It seemed so easy to surrender her body, but was she truly equal to completely surrendering her heart to such an overwhelming passion? Was she even worthy of such a love as he claimed to possess for her?

It had been far easier than Elizabeth had ever anticipated to come to like him. And, indeed, she now had to admit she liked him very much. Darcy had shown himself to be an excellent man, intelligent, insightful, fair-minded, and honorable, with a dry, clever wit she could well appreciate. Yet, at the same time he could be tender and caring—passionate, even—and vulnerable. But surely I cannot be falling in love with him so soon! she attempted to reason with herself. What if I am mistaken in this? My Lord… how am I ever to be certain of anything?!

Something in Darcy’s eyes caught her attention then, and Elizabeth found herself drawing closer. She could see just by looking at him that whatever unpleasant preoccupation had been weighing upon his mind the previous night tormented him still. She felt an overwhelming urge to comfort him, and almost without thought, she moved to place her free hand upon his face. “Would you care to speak of what bothers you?” she asked quietly.

The heat from her touch and the delicate lavender scent of her fragrance flooded his senses. Darcy closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “I would rather not. Not at this time. Forgive me, Elizabeth.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

The urge to bring him comfort did not abate. Elizabeth traced the line of his jaw, brushing her thumb across his bottom lip while his breathing deepened. She kept her voice as soft and caressing as her touch. “Is there, perhaps, another way, then, that I might ease your troubled mind as effectively as you seem to be able to ease mine, dearest?” She tilted up her face to his and parted her lips in an invitation.

It was the first time Elizabeth had ever referred to Darcy by such an endearment, and the fact that she was the one initiating the physical intimacy between them caused an unbearable source of emotion to surge through his breast. His body grew heated with undeniable passion, and before he could master himself, Darcy pulled Elizabeth against him in a tight embrace, kissing her passionately and with unwonted abandon.

He had caught her completely off guard. His way was usually more tender and less demanding, but apparently Elizabeth found this exchange to be far from unpleasant. So loving was her response, that his hunger for her threatened to overpower him.

They continued thus for what seemed an eternity, Darcy holding her as he ran his hands down her back and over her hips, reveling in the utter intoxication of losing himself in the woman he loved. He suddenly felt himself desiring her so much, he found himself vocalizing his fervent wish that she was already his.

Elizabeth gasped at the boldness of such a declaration, as well as the path of his hands as they traveled upward from her hips to caress the softness of her breasts. She froze, held captive by the many delectable shocks of desire coursing through her from this new intimacy.

It took Darcy a moment to comprehend, that Elizabeth was no longer returning his ardent kisses, and realizing with sudden horror the liberties he had been taking, he tore himself from her and stepped away.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” was all he could manage, but he repeated it over and over again in a whisper as he sank to his knees and ran his hands over his face. He was appalled he had taken advantage of Elizabeth in such a way—his Elizabeth, whom he loved and respected beyond measure—even beyond reason. He knew he had no right to do what he had done, just as he had no right to wrap his arms around her waist to draw comfort from her presence, but when she quietly moved to stand before him, he could not resist doing just that.

Darcy clung to her, burying his face in her spencer and the soft folds of her gown while she removed his hat and entwined her fingers through his curls. It had a soothing effect on him. He could not cease marveling at her generous capacity to continually overlook his offenses. How can she still be so tender and caring toward me? How can she even permit me to hold her after I have taken such liberties? If anyone had come upon them, Elizabeth’s reputation would have been in tatters; yet, here she was comforting him. He was overwhelmed.

“Fitzwilliam?” Her voice was soft and gentle, with no hint of admonishment in her tone, only concern.

Shaking his head, he said, “You have placed your trust in me, enough to offer yourself in such a way, and yet I have taken advantage of your generosity and tenderness in a manner that can only be described as completely reprehensible. I do not deserve you.”