Page 78 of A Searing Acquaintance
“Um, Yorkshire pudding. And cheesecake.”
“I’ve already declared myself a sucker for a really good Bolognese,” she admitted. “But I love a good Niçoise salad. And this”—she gestured at her nearly empty bowl—“was so good. You’re quite the talented sandwich maker.”
“I’m glad you liked it. And that it turned out well.” Darcy eyed her carefully. “As you might recall, I’ve been known to burn a good lasagna.”
Elizabeth’s eyes rose to his. He’d opened the door. They needed to talk. There was so much to say, so many hurts to apologize for.
“Fitzwilliam…” she began before faltering, unsure how to phrase the thoughts she’d held in for so long.
His voice, earnest and soft, interrupted, “Elizabeth, I need to apologize to you. I’ve been such an idiot since we met, and I’ve said terrible things to you and?—”
“Oh no, you don’t. You, Fitzwilliam Darcy, have borne the brunt of my foolish stubbornness for far too long,” she insisted in a tremulousvoice. She reached for his hand. “You owe me nothing. Not an apology, not a damned thing.”
He gazed at her, the fierce emotion on his face mirroring hers.
“I oweyou, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth whispered.
He began shaking his head and mouthing protestations. “No. No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted. Elizabeth tightened her grip on his hand and lifted it to her heart. “Why did you help me? I mean, Reggie Jackson? Derek Jeter? You saved my book—my name.”
“Your book was always going to be wonderful. I just dropped a name or two.” His eyes bored into hers. “I wanted to protect you,” he whispered.
“Oh,” she said, her voice breaking as she spoke. “Why? Why me?”
He looked at her for a long minute, took a deep breath, and glanced away. “Because I have to. I need to.”
That stopped her. “You need to or you choose to?” Elizabeth closed her eyes and fought back a familiar prickly pressure that always heralded tears. She exhaled and began reciting the words she’d wanted to say for months. “We made a choice at Netherfield, and it was stupid, and it’s been impossible to move past it. We both said the wrong things and thought the wrong things, but?—”
“I didn’t think it was stupid. I thought it was wonderful,” he said, his voice quiet and unsteady. He shifted his hand and traced his finger along her cheek. “I don’t regret what we did, Elizabeth, but I regret what’s happened since.”
They sat that way for a moment, and then Darcy dropped his hand and stood up. He walked a few feet away and stopped, his back to her and his hands on his hips. Elizabeth watched him, speechless and afraid to interrupt whatever he was processing. He ran a hand through his hair and suddenly turned and came back to sit down beside her. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor.
“Despite the pain you were in and the burned lasagna, bad wine, and the mistakes we both made, I don’t think I’d change a thing about that night—the first part anyway. As for the second, I’d ask a writer to add more dialogue and force us to talk.” He glanced up at her, a small rueful smile on his face. “Forcemeto talk and explain myself.”
“Would you now?” She returned his smile and wiped her eyes.We were so stupid.
“When I kissed you that night, it was overwhelming. And”—he took a deep breath—“after I talked to you, opened up, I was angrywith myself. And I was angry at you for making that happen. Especially because you didn’t seem to care or remember what I’d said.” His eyes were dark and flinty, but Elizabeth knew that didn’t mean anger. It meant passion. She remembered that from Netherfield and from last April.
“Oh God. I’m so, so sorry,” Elizabeth murmured. She dropped her face into her hands. “It’s unforgiveable how I heard nothing, held onto nothing of what you said to me.”
“No, no, no,” he whispered. He took her hands in his own and turned them over, gently kissing her palms. “You did nothing wrong, Elizabeth. Nothing.”
She looked up at him through misty eyes.
He sighed. “I wasn’t cross with you, certainly not for the reasons you think. Being angry made it easier. Blaming you allowed me to lash out without admitting to myself how I really felt.” His voice was rough with emotion.
“Which is?” Elizabeth asked tenderly as she pulled her hand from his and caressed his face.
“You terrify me,” he said simply. He gazed at her, his eyes soft and unfathomable.
“I do what?” she asked in a faltering voice.
“You…I’m not sure how to explain it, but just looking at you or thinking about you makes me forget everything else. That’s terrifying…” His eyes dropped to the floor.
“Oh…I didn’t know.” She looked at him, suddenly aghast. “You tried to tell me, didn’t you? I never let you tell me.”
He turned, and his eyes—bright and clear—met hers.
