Page 61 of A Certain Appeal
I pluck the folded check from the tabletop and tuck it into my purse, still trying to parse all this. The phone on the table buzzes and my hand goes to it instinctively. I turn it over, realizing it’s Darcy’s when I see Charles Bingley as the sender of the incoming message. I start to put it down—
CB:I’m getting weak. I need you to keep me from caving.
My stomach twists into a tight knot.Jane.It has to be about Jane.
The phone buzzes again:I miss him.
The knot loosens. If Charles misses Jane so badly, maybe Darcy can talk some sense into him and tell him he’s made a mista—
CB:I know what you said, but it felt real!
The relief drains out of me like there’s a hole in my chest. I put the cell back on the table, facedown, pushing it toward Darcy’s side. My blood rings in my ears.What you said? What could Darcy have—
Darcy places a coaster and a pint of beer on the table. He takes his seat with a strained smile, avoiding my gaze as he settles, readjusts, and shifts again.Is he... fidgeting?It’s enough to rouse me from the turmoil brought on by the text. He meets my eyes, then raises his beer. “Cheers?” His voice is unsteady.
I clink my class to his without thinking. “Cheers.” I take a too-large swallow of the reposado, and my eyes water.
Darcy’s features relax, his shoulders losing some tension. He rests his elbows on the table, hand fixed at the base of the pint glass. “Clearly, I could have had someone else bring the check, or handled it online. But I wanted to see you.”
I nod, my head still reeling at Charles’s message.What could he have said?
“I know things are complicated right now. I wasn’t expecting this. To feel...”
Feel.He saidfeel. Warmth blooms in my chest, flooding me, only to drain out of the hole bored by the words on his phone. The truth fills and hardens in the space: Darcy got Charles to leave Jane.
His brows go high with concern. “Are you okay?”
In my peripheral vision, I catch his hand reaching across the table,halting shy of mine. New disappointment piles onto the weight in my chest, threatening to crush me—I don’t want him to stop. Iwanthis hand on me.
He takes in a short breath. “You must allow me to say how much I admire you.”
Admire?
I open my mouth to respond. His eyes dart to my lips, dropping lower long enough for my cheeks to burn. Despite everything, a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, and he lights up again. That brightness pulls me toward him. But Jane—what did he do to make that happen? The question keeps me planted.
My head teems with too many thoughts, so I produce his words, instead: “ ‘Thoroughly tolerable, but not enough to temptme.’ ”
His brows come down. “What?”
The defensiveness in the clipped syllable breaks through the conflicting hot and cold overwhelming my senses, releasing the anger the slight can still manufacture. “I heard you. The first night you were at the show with Charles. You said—”
“I know what I said. I’m...” He leans back and expels a bitter laugh. “Wow. You held on to that.”
My anger swells, crowding out all other emotions. “I appreciate you’re not denying it. Real gentlemanly.”
“How did you hear that? Were you in the room? No,” he holds up his hand, the one that was close to mine, using it to fan away his questions. “That doesn’t matter.”
He peers at me in what I would otherwise guess was pure curiosity. “What is it, Bennet, that offended you? Or, what clearly continues to offend you? The fact your ‘Kitten’ routine didn’t immediately win me over?” My jaw goes tight.
His eyes soften. “I appreciate what you do at the show. I know that it matters to you, but that night, you kittening, that wasn’t real. That wasn’t something to invest in. Not emotionally.”
“What?” I ask, though I don’t want to give him credit for trying to explain.
“Bennet, you looked incredible. And you were having fun, and that’s great. I get that there’s an art to it and it means something to you. But that doesn’t change the fact that you were putting on an act. A moment ago, you slipped into an act. And that’s not what I want from you.”
The explanation threatens to dull my anger. I get what he’s saying. That’s what made flirting with him different. I initiated things playfully because of where we were. It limited the risk on my end, and if he didn’t reciprocate, I could tell myself it was all part of the show. And maybe it was at the time—but now?
“The fact remains that in your club, a woman in her underwear”—he gestures to me before dropping his hand back where it was before, painfully close—“is simply a woman in a costume. Putting on a show. No matter how badly I want her.”
