Page 21 of The Difference of a Darcy
He was still standing before her, stunned, as ifhehad been struck.
“I—I beg your pardon?”
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “No.”
“No?” he echoed, like a man who had tripped and could not quite comprehend the ground was no longer beneath him.
Her shock was beginning to bleed into something else now—something hot and rising in her chest. How dare he stand there and lookinjured? Had he expected her to thank him? To fall to her knees in gratitude for being chosen—by a man who couldscarcely keep the disgust from his voice even as he asked for her hand?
“No,” she said again, more firmly this time. “I do not accept.”
Darcy drew back half a pace, like a man finding himself unexpectedly in a duel.
“You astonish me,” he said at last.
She laughed—short, sharp, bitter. “I assure you, the feeling is mutual.”
He flushed and frowned at her. “I do not understand.”
“It is a simple enough word, Mr. Darcy; a mere two letters of the alphabet, and only one syllable. Although, I understand from a reliable source that you prefer words of four syllables, so perhaps I shall tell you that I am disinclined to acquiesce to your request.”
When he did not respond, Elizabeth stood. She was unable to remain seated while he loomed above her, still too tall and too self-possessed for a man who had just proposed as if she ought to begratefulfor the humiliation. Her sudden movement force him to take a few steps back.
“May I ask…why?” His voice was strangled, but she could not bring herself to feel any sympathy for him.
“I cannot accept a man who makes it plain he sees my family as a disgrace, who considers my connections a burden to be borne. Do you expect me to thank you for overcoming your revulsion in order to offer me your hand?”
He looked genuinely startled. “I meant no insult—”
“No? ‘In spite of my family,’ I believe you said. ‘Despite every rational objection.’” She smiled thinly. “What poetry. You have insulted nearly every person I hold dear, and you expect me to thank you for it.”
Darcy’s hands curled at his sides. “My feelings are sincere. Do you not feel the honor—or, at very least, the comfort—ofknowing the strength of my regard in order to overcome such formidable obstacles?”
“You speak of affection, Mr. Darcy, but your words reek of condescension. And worse still, worse than your pride, is the damage you have already done to those I love.”
“I spoke only what is true,” he said stiffly. “You cannot pretend your family has no—”
“Do notdarefinish that sentence,” she hissed. Her voice rising, she added, “You have separated my sister from the only man who has ever shown hertrueaffection, and not just admired her for her beauty. You have caused her to suffer. You have interfered—without invitation, without justification—and you have the audacity to stand before me and ask for my hand in the same breath.”
He looked as though she had slapped him. Perhaps she had. Not with her hand, but with the truth. Her fingers itched to make contact with his face.
“I did what I thought was best,” he said hoarsely. “Bingley—he—”
“Was in love with her,” Elizabeth said. “And you knew it.”
They stared at one another, the fire hissing between them.
“You hate me,” he said.
“I did not before,” she said, “but now I cannot help but wish you had never been born.”
She turned away, gripping the edge of the mantel as if to steady herself.
Behind her, the silence was deafening. Outside, a bird trilled in the hedge. The fire snapped once in the grate.
But there were no footsteps. No words.
Then the door opened and closed again.
