Page 29 of The Slipper Scandal
"Please, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth interrupted, "let us not revisit the subject. I am quite recovered from the shock of learning I was once so pallid as to cause you concern."
Colonel Fitzwilliam choked on a chestnut. Mr. Darcy's jaw tightened. "You deliberately misinterpret me."
"On the contrary," Elizabeth replied with sweet venom, "I believe I understood you perfectly. You were attempting, in your own inimitable way, to pay me a compliment. The effort is noted, sir."
For a moment, something like frustration, even hurt flashed in Mr. Darcy's eyes, so quickly that Elizabeth thought she might have imagined it. Then his countenance transformed into the impenetrable mask she was accustomed to. It was akin to watching the closing of a shutter as it blocked the light.
"As you say," he replied stiffly.
Elizabeth did not understand why she felt a pang of guilt. It would hurt to have him confirm his evaluation, no matter how well everyone else said he thought of her. Oh, he had not insulted her intentionally, but to learn his true assessment of her appearance had been unaccountably disappointing.
Butwhywas she disappointed? She did not want to marry him, so what did it matter if he was unaffected by her beauty?
An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. Colonel Fitzwilliam, demonstrating the social adroitness his cousin so conspicuously lacked, promptly launched into an anecdote about a ball in Madrid where the British ambassador had accidentally insulted the Spanish minister's wife by complimenting her gown, which, it transpired, had been borrowed from her least favourite sister-in-law.
By the time he finished the tale, even Mr. Darcy's rigid posture had relaxed somewhat, though he still maintained a careful distance from Elizabeth.
As they prepared to continue their walk, Elizabeth found herself studying Mr. Darcy's profile when he was not looking. There was something almost tragic about his complete inability to express himself appropriately. She wondered, not for the first time, why he had agreed to this engagement at all. Surely a man of his position and fortune could have avoided a forcedmatch with her and married some elegant, accomplished lady who would overlook his social deficiencies in favour of his other, more tangible assets.
As they reached the park gates, Colonel Fitzwilliam suggested they call for the carriage. He offered Arabella his arm, and she took it. As they strolled ahead, Mr. Darcy hung back, clearly intending to have a final word with Elizabeth.
She braced herself for another awkward attempt at conversation, but instead, he simply said, "I apologise, Miss Bennet."
Elizabeth blinked in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"
"For offending you," he clarified, his voice low and controlled. "I assure you it was not my intention."
The simple sincerity of the apology caught her off guard. "I was a little sharp in return. I thank you, Mr. Darcy, for the apology, so long as you accept my own."
He nodded once, then offered his arm to escort her to the waiting carriage. As she placed her hand upon his sleeve, Elizabeth found herself wondering if perhaps she was being too judgemental with him. Rather than picking holes in his coat, as it were, she ought to be attempting to find something, anything, that might help them avoid marrying where he so obviously did not wish it.
Either way, she was quite certain of one thing as she observed his rigid posture and blank expression: Mr. Darcy did not like her, not really. He might be resigned to marrying her, might even make awkward attempts at civility, but genuine regard? That was clearly not what he felt for her.
The thought should have relieved her. Instead, as she settled into the carriage Elizabeth was surprised to find it troubled her more than it ought.
Chapter Nine
Darcy closed his library door with a soft click and turned the key in the lock—not out of fear of intrusion, but to mark the boundary between the world outside and the sanctuary within. The lamps were already lit, casting a mellow glow over the spines of well-loved books as he crossed the room and removed his coat.
Then he opened the case of his violin and removed the instrument.
The scent of old varnish rose faintly from the velvet-lined interior, familiar and comforting. He brushed his fingers along the polished wood, warm and smooth beneath his touch, the gentle curve of the neck fitting perfectly against his palm. The bow gave a soft rustle as he lifted it free. For a moment, he stood in stillness, the instrument cradled in his hands.
He did not often play for others, for he had no wish to be judged on how well he entertained. His music was the one thing he had left from his life before his father’s death that remained entirely his own. The rest of his life was lived for others—hissister, his other family, his estate and those who depended upon it. Here, alone in the quiet of his own house after an evening of forced civility and exasperating distractions, Darcy let the bow fall into rhythm across the strings, the first long note seeming to draw a sigh from the room.
The music was not cheerful. It was not even composed. He let his fingers find their own path, coaxing melody from memory and emotion, letting sorrow and vexation bleed into sound. The loneliness of restraint, the ache of Miss Bennet’s pained expression, the iron discipline that kept him from reaching for her hand when she was near, it all took shape in the trembling resonance of the strings. In this moment, he was not Mr. Darcy of Pemberley or of any consequence at all, just a man who spoke little and felt deeply.
When he finally lowered the violin, he did not know how much time had passed. The hush that followed the cessation of sound seemed alive with the echoes of it. He stood for a long while, head bowed, breath slowing, until the sound faded. Only then did he lift the violin to return it to its case, the lid closing with a soft, definitive click as if, once again, he had locked away something too precious to survive the light.
He had begun the day with renewed determination. He had revisited the plan he had crafted at the Abernathys', resolved to implement it with precision: to be courteous, restrained, and respectful without presumption; to offer Miss Bennet glimpses of his character without overwhelming her with unwanted attention; to allow her to lead the tempo of their engagement while he proved himself a man of sense and stability. It had all sounded so reasonable when rehearsed in the quiet of his chamber.
But then she had looked at him with those eyes so full of wit and wariness, and the entire structure of his strategy crumbled to dust. Every carefully selected phrase had abandoned him,and he had panicked. Instead of conveying admiration, he had catalogued her complexion like a blasted physician.
He turned from the window with a sharp exhale and paced the length of his study, his boots striking the wood in an agitated staccato. He knew exactly what was wrong—had known from the moment she first looked at him with those impossibly knowing eyes. Any sense of strategy or cleverness, everything he prided himself on, abandoned him entirely the instant she caught him in her gaze. Those infuriating, mesmerising eyes that seemed to see straight through every defence he had ever built.
Her figure was light and pleasing, deceptively delicate, yet she had an exasperating way of filling a room with her presence until the very air seemed to hum with his awareness of her. He was captivated by the way her brow arched when she challenged him, the way her entire countenance lit with intelligence, the way she had looked in her gown at dinner. How was it possible for one woman to render him so completely, helplessly undone?
A soft knock at the door interrupted his ruminations.
