Page 22 of The Difference of a Darcy
Elizabeth stood still for a long moment, then let out a breath through her nose. Her hands were cold. She pressed them to her skirts and sat slowly back down in the chair by the fire.
He had proposed. With all the gravity of a man bestowing a title.
And now he was gone.
She stared into the flames, too furious to be triumphant.
∞∞∞
Darcy scarcely knew how he reached the gate leaving the parsonage.
The lane was thick with frost, but he felt none of it. His gloves were on, his greatcoat buttoned, but his whole body felt raw, exposed, like the wind had sliced straight through his ribs and stolen the breath from his chest.
She had refused him.
Not with hesitation. Not even with regret.
Flatly. Completely. As if the very idea of becoming his wife wasoffensive.
“I cannot help but wish you had never been born.”
He flinched again at the memory. Those words would echo for a long while, he suspected.
Each step toward Rosings felt heavier than the last. He was not certain how long he had wandered the park’s outer edge before the house came into view. The windows glowed with candlelight, the scent of roast goose wafted faintly on the night air. Somewhere within, the silver was being polished, the punch set out. Lady Catherine believed in formality—even at Christmas.
Christmas. His steps slowed. This was supposed to be a happy time of year, filled with goodwill and cheer.
And yet the woman he loved despised him.
He swallowed hard and climbed the steps to Rosings’ front door. The footman at the door opened it quickly, and Darcy stepped inside, shoulders hunched against the warmth.
“Mr. Darcy, sir—Lady Catherine requests your presence at once.”
Darcy gritted his teeth.Of course she does.
He passed his hat and gloves to the servant with numb fingers. “Inform her that I am indisposed.”
“Sir?”
“A headache,” he said sharply. “And a matter of business that requires my attention. I will not be coming down.”
The man blinked. “Yes, sir.”
Darcy turned without waiting and climbed the stairs two at a time, not stopping until he reached the sanctuary of his bedchamber.
Once the door was shut and locked behind him, he leaned back against it, letting the weight of the silence settle over him.
It was Christmas Eve.
He had thought—he hadtruly believed—that this night would mark the beginning of his life with her. That she would say yes. That he would write to Georgiana with joyful news. That he would finally feel… settled.
Instead, he felt hollow. Like he had been carved out.
It was worse than Ramsgate.
That moment—thatothermoment—had been terror and fury. A nightmare. But this? This was… personal. This wasrejection. He had opened his heart—awkwardly, yes, and perhaps not with the finesse of a practiced courtier—but openly nonetheless.
And she had thrown it back in his face.
