Page 27 of The Difference of a Darcy
Not confusion.
Wonder.
And perhaps—if he were not mistaken—something like fear.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth Bennet awoke on Christmas morning in no festive spirit at all.
Her head ached. Her mouth was dry. And her mood was, in every possible respect, abominable.
She had slept badly, tossing and turning beneath too-heavy bedclothes, her mind churning with every word of Mr. Darcy’s astonishing, offensive proposal.
He had come to the parsonage. On Christmas Eve, no less. Uninvited. And asked for her hand in marriage as if doing her afavor, a greathonor.
Despite every rational objection…
She threw back the bedclothes with unnecessary force.
If there had been a less gracious way to propose, she could not imagine it. And then to look wounded when she refused him—wounded! As thoughhewere the one insulted!
She did not even wait for the maid to light the fire. She dressed swiftly in the dim morning light, wrapped herself in her thickest shawl and cloak, and crept downstairs, boots in hand. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet, but neither Mr. nor Mrs. Collins stirred.
Good.
She needed air.
Within minutes she had pulled on her boots and slipped out the kitchen door. The snow had stopped in the night, but the clouds hung low and heavy. The world was white and silent, and the biting air hit her like a tonic.
She tramped toward the grove near the stream behind Rosings. Her cheeks burned from the cold, and she welcomed it. It cleared her head.
But not her anger.
“You speak of affection, Mr. Darcy, but your words reek of condescension.”
She muttered the words once more under her breath, half-wishing shehadslapped him just to see the look on his face. Her hands curled into fists inside her muff. Why had he proposed at all? Why now, after weeks of silence and aloofness? After encouraging Bingley to leave, after humiliating her sister?
“Perhaps,” she said aloud to the trees, “you trulydobelieve no woman in England could resist such a prize.”
Just then, she heard a scream.
It was raw and guttural, nothing like the polite voices of Rosings or the occasional calls of gamekeepers. It tore through the frosty air like a wounded animal.
Elizabeth froze.
For a heartbeat she thought she had imagined it, but then came another sound: a violent splash, the crack of ice splintering.
Her heart lurched.Did someone fall into the stream?
Knowing the water was nearby, she ran in its direction. Her breath came in short, sharp clouds as she ducked under tree branches. The snow clung to her hem and soaked through her gloves, but she paid it no mind. She had never heard a sound like that before—not from an animal, not from a man.
Reaching the edge of the path that opened into the small grove near the water, she paused for breath, eyes scanning the area for someone in the water.
Instead, all she saw was Darcy, kneeling on the bank. His shoulders were tense, his coat dusted with snow.
What? Is he the one who shouted, or is he assisting someone?
Before her mind could catch up with the sight in front of her, she heard him speak—low, ragged, his voice scraping against the silence.
