Page 63 of A Certain Appeal
“Honestly, even in whatever worst-case scenario you’ve imagined, how would Charles’s being with Jane have impacted anything?”
“I would not abide my friend being used, no matter the outcome.” Darcy curls his hands into fists, then relaxes them again. His voice is quieter when he adds, “Charles’s money was only a secondary concern. My true fear was for his heart.”
Neither of us says anything for a moment after that. Not that it matters. We’re talking around the real problem, the ugly assumptions behind Darcy’s fears for Charles’s well-being. Those assumptions wouldn’t just be about Jane, after all. They’d be about me, too. It almost hurts to ask, “Why would you suspect Jane of something like that? Because he’s broke? Because he wants to sing? Because he’s pursuing some dream? This is New York. Everybody here has a dream.”
“What’s yours, Bennet?”
I lean away from the table. “What?”
Darcy’s face is hard again. Not his standard, starchy stiffness, but purposefully steeled. Shielded. “You mentioned experience in design. With so few programs in Colorado, it wasn’t hard to determine where you went. And the school doesn’t update its website much.”
I feel the color drain from my face. The school’s overwrought article about my internship win was searchable when I last checked, but that was years ago.
Darcy’s expression is shrewd. “That firm was looking forward to bringing you on, too. Then, nothing. No trace of Elizabeth Bennet, aspiring designer.”
“YouGoogledme?” I say with all the incredulity I can muster. The act itself isn’t an issue, but the direction it’s taken this already knotted conversation is threatening to derail me completely. Whatison the firm’s site about me? What does he know?
“Since I’m sogoddamn protective, shouldn’t I also consider whatyou might be trying to get out of my friend? I mean, interior designer is a pretty solid step up from stage kitten.”
And there it is.
I push away from the table so hard my chair scrapes against the floor. People at neighboring tables stare, but I don’t care.
Darcy rises, too. The lights are back on. “Bennet, I’m sorry. I—”
“Fuck you,” I growl, my voice thick. “How dare you judgeme?” The hurt fuels the anger already simmering in my core. I shove it back at him. “And you can keep kittening out of your mouth. I love that gig. It means something to me, and youknowit.” My voice wavers. I’ve made it clear that discovering burlesque was a turning point for me, and he’s acting like it’s a strike against my character?
“Who in the hell do you think you are?” I stand taller. “What dream do you have, Darcy? To hang out, doing fuck-all with that building you took from Wickham?”
At Wickham’s name, Darcy’s eyes narrow.
“Maybe you have Charles now, but how is he going to feel when he finds out you were so blinded by your goddamn paranoia that you steered him away from someone who loves him?”
A new agony takes root in the center of my chest. “This is where all that trust bullshit comes into play, isn’t it? You think Jane’s acting, so you can’t trust him with Charles. And you think I’m acting, so you can’t trust me. But you”—I point at him with a smile so fake it hurts—“you can’t help wanting me anyway. And it’s gutting you. Is that it?”
Darcy stares at me like I’ve pulled a gun on him.
“Quality commitment to that intimacy you care so much about.Wow.” I consider the mental gymnastics of trying to sort out theWickham situation, the time I devoted trying to get Darcy to see value in something I care about. Andthisis the person he is. I’m thinking aloud when I say, “What awaste.”
He flinches. It’s almost too small a gesture to note, but I’m so homed in on him I can’t miss it. “What?” His voice is dark.
The reaction pulls me from my stupor. The word tumbled out of me, but his visceral reaction has jogged my memory. That night at the Work It event.
I take a step forward, chin high. “Charles’s friendship. Pemberley. It’s all wasted on you.”
His jaw goes tight. “Say it again.”
With pleasure.I move another step closer. Close enough to feel the anger rolling off of him. Close enough to touch him. My eyes drop to his lips. Close enough to... “It’s. A.Waste.”
His lips go tight. I watch them draw together, tension quaking in his jaw, and my ego swells at the successful hit. But at the same time, I ache to smooth the strain away. I want to touch him, pull him to me, run my tongue along the seam of his mouth and feel it soften and give against mine. It’s dizzying.
The charge between us crackles. It pulls us toward one another, but everything said and done repels us with almost equal force. I meet his eyes again, and his look burns. He feels it, too.
“So this is your opinion of me?” he says, the words coated with bitterness.
We are so,soclose. His focus lands on my lips. My face is on fire.
“Forgive me, then,” he says, eyes still low on my face. “For wasting so much of your time.”
