Page 12 of The Difference of a Darcy
Thank heaven for Mr. Bingley.He will return soon. I know he loves her—there was admiration for her in all his looks.
As they reached the front steps of Rosings, Elizabeth glanced up at the towering façade. The great house loomed pale and still behind a veil of frost, its columns trimmed in icicles, the windows glowing faintly with candlelight. A footman admitted them without ceremony.
Inside, the entrance hall was grand but unwelcoming, all marble and echo. The butler took their wraps with cool efficiency, and a maid stood nearby with slippers for them to wear, as their boots were caked in mud and snow.
Elizabeth unpinned her shawl and smoothed her hair quickly, suddenly wishing the walk had been shorter. A few snowflakes clung to her lashes. She turned to speak to Charlotte—only to find that her friend had paused by the mirror to adjust a loose curl at her temple.
Elizabeth found herself suddenly at Mr. Collins’ elbow as they crossed the threshold into the drawing room.
“Mr. and Mrs. Collins,” the butler intoned. Then, with only the faintest pause, “And guest.”
Elizabeth stopped mid-step.
Mr. Darcy.
Her eyes widened before she could help it.
There he sat, in the opulently decorated room, perfectly composed, in a dark coat and buff waistcoat, watching her with unreadable intensity. His gaze swept over her once—briefly, sharply—and then returned to her face.
Something flickered there.
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
Mr. Collins was already bowing and speaking effusively. “Lady Catherine, Miss de Bourgh,” he intoned to the elderly woman seated regally beneath a portrait of the late Sir Lewis and the frail looking young woman next to her. “If I may have the incredible honor of presenting to you—my wife, Mrs. Collins.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes turned to Elizabeth, who opened her mouth to correct the assumption, but Charlotte stepped forward at that moment, joining them at last with a small, steady smile.
The mistake was not addressed.
And Mr. Darcy continued to stare at her.
∞∞∞
Darcy rose with the others when the butler announced the parson and his party.
“Mr. and Mrs. Collins… and guest.”
He did not hear the final words.
His eyes had locked on the young woman walking just behind Mr. Collins. She stood with elegance, her figureunmistakably familiar beneath a plain but well-cut spencer. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and a dusting of snow clung to the dark curls peeking out from beneath her bonnet.
Elizabeth.
The shock landed like a blow to the chest.
It could not be. Itshouldnot be.
But there she was—standing beside Mr. Collins as the idiot beamed and bowed and proclaimed, “Lady Catherine, if I may have the incredible honor of presenting to you—my wife, Mrs. Collins.”
The words cracked through Darcy’s skull.
No!
He felt the floor sway slightly beneath him, though he did not move. His breath came short, but he forced it steady. Years of practice kept his face impassive, his shoulders square.
His eyes never left hers.
She looked surprised—just for a moment. Not alarmed. Not ashamed. But surprised to seehim, seated so calmly beside his aunt, as thoughhewere the specter, not she.
