Page 23 of The Difference of a Darcy

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With a trembling hand, he rang for his valet to bring up a tray, then crossed to his writing desk and pulled out paper and ink.

If she had misunderstood him—if she had judged him wrongly—it was not too late to set it right. He had been too blunt. Too proud. The fault, if he were being honest, might partly be his.

He uncapped the ink and began.

Miss Bennet,

You must allow me to explain—

He stopped. Crossed it out.

You have, perhaps, been misled—

No. Too condescending.

My intentions were honorable—

He crumpled the sheet and threw it into the fire.

Another. Another attempt.

Too cold. Too desperate. Too angry.

He wrote until his hand cramped, until the hearth was glowing with the ash of failed confessions. Page after page blackened and burned, curling at the edges like scorched petals.

At last, he shoved back from the desk and stood, breathing heavily.

Ink would not suffice. That much was clear. She may even refuse to read it. Refusal, it seemed, was in her nature.

Very well, I shall know how to act.

As the words would not come to his pen, then he would speak to her once more. Calmly. Firmly. As a gentleman.

She would see sense—shemust. She would be made to understand how deeply she had wronged him. How ungrateful and rash her judgment had been.

She would regret it. He was certain of it.

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, chest still heaving with the last embers of humiliation.

Tomorrow, then.

He would speak to her tomorrow.

And when she finally saw her error, he would forgive her.

Eventually.

∞∞∞

Darcy had not expected to sleep.

He lay for hours staring at the ceiling, his mind a snarl of wounded pride and gnawing confusion. Her words rang repeatedly in his ears—not just the refusal, but everything that followed.

You speak of affection, Mr. Darcy, but your words reek of condescension…

You separated my sister from the only man who ever showed her real affection…

I wish you had never been born.

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