Page 78 of Colour My World
Lydia looked at Mrs Ecclestone, who nodded. “Well, heisrather handsome.” She grinned. “Or, more likely, because he insulted you in front of the entire village.”
Jane’s lips parted. Mary lifted an eyebrow. Mrs Bennet sat up.
Mr Darcy, for his part, placed his knife and fork down with slow deliberation. He stood and reminded her just how tall he was.
“In that, Miss Lydia, you are correct.”
His voice was lower than usual, steady but stripped of its usual precision. He turned to Elizabeth.
“I realise I have behaved abominably. And you, Miss Elizabeth, deserve my sincerest apologies.” He bowed deeply. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he resumed his seat.
Something stirred in her, uncertain and unwilling. Was it admiration? Could humility alone redeem the past?
Lydia huffed. “Well, at least you admit it.”
“I do.”
Mrs Bennet placed her hand upon Mr Darcy’s forearm. “Why, Mr Darcy is not so disagreeable after all, is he Mr Bennet?”
“An acquired taste, my dear.”
Mr Darcy, however, did not break his gaze from Elizabeth.
The room waited. All eyes were on her again. He was not the man she had thought him. But who, precisely, was he? She had braced for deflection, not contrition. And certainly not this strange sense of something beginning.
She lowered her gaze and returned to her plate, though the food had lost all flavour.
Chapter 26
Mrs Bennet rose from her chair. “Come, my dears,” she said. “Let us leave the gentlemen to their port.”
The ladies stood. As Elizabeth turned to follow Jane from the room, she hesitated. Mr Darcy did not look at her. He remained in place, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable.
Mrs Ecclestone, however, did look at her. The older woman caught Elizabeth’s eye momentarily before she inclined her head, took Mrs Bennet’s arm, and exited the room.
The door closed behind them.
* * *
Bennet swirled the last remnants of his wine before setting his glass aside. He leant back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
Darcy remained perfectly still. Bennet studied him. Darcy stared ahead, not speaking.
“You know,” Bennet said, “it is a curious thing how a man may step into a house with the best intentions and still find himself standing amidst the ruins of his own making.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Tell me, Darcy. Did you come here to court disaster or merely fail to see the edge of the cliff beneath your boots?”
“I had no intentions at all, sir.”
“No?” Bennet lifted a brow. “That much is clear. And yet, your lack of intention has created quite the spectacle.”
He reached for the decanter, thought better of it, and folded his hands instead.
“Let us review the evening, shall we?”
Bennet ticked off each point, one by one. “You arrived. You were received with civility. No small thing, I might add, given the circumstances. You then sat through a dinner where youneither engaged nor encouraged conversation. And yet,” he nodded toward the doorway, “the moment my daughter so much aslookedat you, the entire room became a battlefield. It was my youngest—and hardly the family diplomat—who called you out.”
“Miss Lydia spoke,” Darcy said, “with Mrs Ecclestone’s leave.”
