Page 16 of The Difference of a Darcy
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Darcy stood before the mirror in his dressing room, slowly knotting his cravat for the second time. The first attempt had been too tight; the second was now too loose. He had retied his neckcloths with perfect efficiency since he was fifteen—but tonight, his fingers seemed foreign.
He scowled at his reflection, then gave up and let the valet finish the task.
His thoughts were elsewhere, circling back again and again to the drawing room, to Elizabeth Bennet, to everything that had unfolded that afternoon.
It was not just the shock of seeing her again—though that had been enough to set his blood thrumming in his ears. It was not even the disorienting moment when he thought she might be Mrs. Collins.
No—it was what happened after.
It was the way she had stood her ground beneath the weight of his aunt’s sneering remarks, her chin lifted, her tone calm. She had not flinched, even as Lady Catherine berated Mr. Collins for his matrimonial failure, nor as she was interrogated about her sisters, her fortune—or lack thereof, and her family connections.
She had simply… spoken. Clearly. Firmly. Truthfully.
Darcy adjusted his cuffs. His brow furrowed.
He was ashamed of his aunt. Truly ashamed. For all her insistence on breeding and lineage, Lady Catherine had displayed all the delicacy of a fishmonger in a rainstorm. To saysuch things in front of a newlywed! In front of her guests! In front of Elizabeth.
He had seen Elizabeth’s eyes flare in defense of her friend. Had seen her temper held in check by sheer will and civility. No shrill retort, no simpering submission—only poise.
He found himself wondering if Charlotte Collins had heard those same accusations before. If she had known what sort of reception awaited her when she accepted the parson’s hand.
He doubted it.
And then… there was Elizabeth’s role in it all.
She had refused Mr. Collins.
That had struck him like a thunderclap.
He had not known of the entailment on Longbourn—not in detail. The estate was of modest size, and he had paid it little heed. But now, understanding that her family’s home would pass to another line, that her father had no male heir, that her situation was precarious—and still, she had refused a man who could offer her security?
He was silent a long moment, staring at the carved edge of the dressing table.
Was she waiting for me to return?he thought suddenly.Is that why she refused Collins?
It had been foolish to leave Hertfordshire so abruptly—but his motives had been good. He and Bingley had both been in danger: Bingley, from a loveless marriage, and himself, from bewitching eyes and an ill-bred family.
Still… she had teased him so freely at Netherfield. She had stayed near him while her sister recovered. She had challenged him, danced with him, argued with him. Her flashing eyes and playful smile even as she shred him to pieces with her wit.
How could she not have been waiting for me to speak?
He suddenly felt like the worst of villains.
He had left her. Left her to explain herself to her family. Left her to endure another Christmas unmarried. Left her to face the possibility of becomingMrs. Collinsbecause he could not distinguish his own pride from her value.
And still—still—she had remained true.
She would not have rejected the offer of security from her cousin…not unless she hoped forme.
He felt a rush of something like resolve.
He would not let her suffer any longer. He would not allow her to question, to wonder, to wait. He would propose—at once. Tomorrow, if the opportunity arose. Christmas Eve, at the latest.
He would make her his wife.
And he would make her happy.
