Page 18 of The Difference of a Darcy
Hedidit.
He took Bingley away. He made Jane suffer. And not for some noble cause, not even forBingley’ssake—but to preserve his own sense of superiority. To spare himself the embarrassment of a connection to trade, to a family with silly sisters and little fortune.
And he calls himself a gentleman.
She turned in her bed, pulling the blanket higher, and wished—truly wished—she had never come to Kent.
∞∞∞
Darcy leaned against the carved mantel in the east drawing room, a brandy warming slowly in his hand. The fire crackled low, casting flickers of gold across the wood paneling and gilded frames. A clock chimed somewhere down the hall—ten, perhaps.
There had been no time to speak privately with Elizabeth that evening at tea. His aunt had monopolized the entire conversation, and quickly whispering in Elizabeth’s ear as she played the piano was far less than she deserved.
No, if he wished to speak with her alone, he would need to go to the parsonage the following morning while the Mr. and Mrs. Collins were out.
For once, he was glad for his aunt’s officiousness.
Lady Catherine had gone on about calling cards, cakes, and the correct distance to stand from a drawing room hearth. Darcy had barely heard any of it; he had been watching Elizabeth.
She had not looked at him once since the moment at the pianoforte. Not during the tea, not even when he passed her cup. Her hands had been steady, but her mouth—so often animated—had been tight. Restrained.
Perhaps it was nerves. Or surprise. Or modesty.
She could not have known what he meant to do.
He would go early. Not so early as to seem improper—he would not insult her dignity with a clandestine call—but soon enough that he might not be leaving her waiting any later than he should.
He had once imagined proposing to her in a great hall, with flowers and candles and witnesses who understood her worth.
Now… he would settle for a warm fire, a quiet room, and the chance to speak his heart at last.
Darcy exhaled and stepped away from the mantel.
Let others question. Let his aunt fume. Let the world call him proud or precipitate or mad. He wouldnotlet another day pass in silence.
He rang for his valet.
Tomorrow, he would speak.
Tomorrow, she would be his.
Chapter 4
Hunsford Parsonage, Kent—December 24th, 1811
The door shut behind Mr. and Mrs. Collins with a clatter and a cloud of snow-dusted wind. Elizabeth watched through the parlor window as they made their careful way up the lane, Charlotte steadying herself with one gloved hand on her husband’s arm. The parson’s voice wafted back to her on the wind, echoing in the cold until the door latch clicked properly into place.
Peace. At last.
Elizabeth turned from the window and wrapped her shawl a bit tighter around her shoulders.
“I could come,” she had said earlier that morning, when Charlotte made mention of their calls to several of Lady Catherine’s most venerable neighbors. “I do not mind the cold.”
But Mr. Collins had immediately turned crimson. “Certainly not! I must insist, Cousin Elizabeth, that you remain here. We shall not risk another scene like the one at Rosings. It would be most improper were you again mistaken for my wife.”
Elizabeth had blinked. “I did not imagine Lady Catherine found it improper at all. She seemed quite in favor of the notion, as I recall.”
Charlotte gave her friend a reproving look as Mr. Collins blustered something about appearances and reputations and the dignity of the cloth.
