Page 48 of Penned By Mr Darcy
I cannot allow this. I must not. Her family - their behaviour - Bingley must be protected from such imprudence. I see too clearly what they are. And yet… Elizabeth. She is not like them. I see no artifice in her.
Would that it were so simple.
She paused, fingers pressed lightly to the page.
So itwasher. The “lively wit,” the “impertinent manner”. He had meanther, all along. Only days ago, such a conformation would have made her bristle with offence. And now?
She hated that her cheeks were warm. She hated that her breath had caught, that her heart had pounded a little faster to know that he admired her.
She could not excuse him, for his words were proud, and his judgement of Jane was so wrong as to be insulting. Wounding, in fact! How could a man who claimed to care so deeply for his own sister believe that Jane’s quiet composure meant a lack of feeling? Jane, who blushes at the mere mention of Bingley, whose entire countenance softens when he enters a room?
But his words abouther…they did not ring entirely false. She had spoken freely to him, often with a sharpness she now wondered if he had earned. And yet, there was something deeply vulnerable in what he had written - something unguarded. Mr Darcy, the man she had so readily dismissed as cold and proud, had written of her not with disdain, but with reluctant admiration. Perhaps even longing.
He admired her. And he struggled with it. That knowledge unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
But it changed nothing -yet. Jane loved Bingley. That was the truth, and it could not be changed. Her sister’s heart was lost to him, even if she would never dare to admit such a ferocity of feeling. If Darcy’s intention was to separate the two, he must be stopped and corrected.
Still, even as she turned the page, one foolish thought remained:He wishes to be better - for me.
Heaven help her, she did not quite hate the thought.
As she focused upon the next entry, she found the mess of ink that she had caused when she had startled him in the library. He must have closed the book before the ink was dry, for it was a chaotic mess of black splotches, the words that he had written barely legible. She smiled, her fingers tracing over the splotches as she recalled his panic that day.
What had he been writing then – and why did she long to know?
Chapter Fifteen
Darcy
Sometime after his furious return from Meryton, Darcy stood at the far end of the room, his back to the door, the light of late afternoon slashing across his face as he tugged impatiently at the fastenings of his coat. His trunk lay open on the floor, garments half-folded, half-thrown, as though his thoughts had outrun his hands.
Bingley stepped inside, startled by the scene.
“What happened to you?”
Darcy turned sharply, eyes shadowed, movements jerky with agitation.
“I have to leave.”
“What?”
“I must leave at once,” he repeated.
Bingley’s brow knit.
“Darcy, I do not understand.”
“I cannot…” He pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, pacing. “I cannot explain. It is too much. I cannot…”
He felt out of control, a caged animal as fury raged through him. He could not think clearly, his mind a whirlwind as he seethed. How could that man be here?!
“Darcy, man, calm down,” Bingley said, crossing to him. “You’re shaking.”
Darcy stopped, jaw clenched. His eyes met Bingley’s, and Bingley almost recoiled.
“Will you come with me?” Darcy asked, turning away and resuming his task.
“Now? But we are to host a ball! We cannot simply leave!”
