Page 135 of Colour My World
“Because this conversation is absurd.”
“Is it?” Anne stared at him again.
“What is it you want from me, Anne?”
She stepped forward and put her hand to his cheek. “I want you to know joy.”
She opened the door just enough to check the hallway. She motioned for Darcy to follow. When they reached his suite door, Anne knocked in a precise rhythm.
The door swung open immediately. Barty swept them in and threw the bolt.
“Is there anyone in this house who does not conspire to manage me?” Darcy said.
“Oh, do stop. We are cousins, and Barty is a worthy collaborator.”
“Is he?”
Barty smirked. He guided Anne to a chair and pressed a glass of sherry into her hand. “Now, sir, let us make a gentleman of you again.”
In minutes, he changed Darcy into dry clothing and made him presentable. Barty pushed him into the sitting room, handed him a drink, and closed the bedroom door.
Darcy sat. “That was worthy of Richard.”
“Who do you think taught me?” Anne laughed. “Let us be serious, Darcy. Our time is short.”
“I am at your disposal.”
“Then tell me this. What are your feelings for Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”
Darcy swirled the whiskey in his glass. “I have spent years surrounded by those who see only Pemberley, who measure me by its wealth and consequence. It is a tiresome existence to be valued for what one owns rather than who one is. To always be observed, weighed, and never truly known.”
“It is.”
“I had resigned myself to solitude. A wife would serve but one purpose: to provide an heir.”
“And yet, you speak as though something has altered.”
“It has. At the assembly. I saw her.”
“And?”
“And my heart leapt.” Darcy stood. “Leapt! As in novels. I cannot explain without––”Without sounding as though I have lost my senses.
“What is your reluctance?”
Darcy resumed his seat, his gaze fixed upon Anne—the onlywoman who saw him without seeking the consequence of his name. “Does she behold Pemberley, or myself?”
Anne, with quiet assurance, laid her hand upon his. “You.”
His breath faltered. “You are certain?”
“Perfectly.”
Chapter 48
Alone once again, Anne had fled, claiming her mother would scream ‘Compromise!’ and Darcy strode the length of his chamber, his footfalls muffled by the thick Persian rug. His mind, however, thundered with each misstep he had taken where Elizabeth was concerned.
He had insulted her, unintentionally, slighted her at the assembly. He had misjudged her, believing her impertinence mere play, never perceiving her wit was armour forged to deflect scorn. But that paled beside the arrogance he had shown before her father.
