Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Bingley handed him a mug. “Darcy, even you cannot grumble while drinking sipping chocolate.”
Darcy’s brow drew lower. “She will not speak to me. She did not even look at me, Bingley.”
“Give her a moment and approach her.” When Darcy shook his head, Bingley said, “I wish to speak with Miss Bennet. Please do not spoil the morning for yourself or anyone else.”
Bingley walked to where Miss Bennet stood with her younger sisters, and after a few words were exchanged, he and his betrothed stepped to another part of the room, speaking affably.
Darcy would speak with Miss Elizabeth.
No, he could not. Miss Elizabeth could approach him.
But she would not. She knew he was a short distance away, yet kept her eyes assiduously diverted.
He looked about the room. Lucas Lodge was modest but well appointed.
He liked the dark green curtains and dark furniture, even if they were not the most fashionable.
They spoke of taste and discernment, two qualities he appreciated.
He ran his hands along an inlaid table, then turned his attention to the portraits on the wall, which were all of the current Lucas family.
There would likely be no ancestors’ paintings, as Sir William had made his money in trade.
Darcy did not look down upon such men, as others of his class did.
His own parents would have disapproved of his friendship with Bingley, but Darcy’s parents had passed and Bingley was the truest friend he had ever had.
Why discount a man—or woman—due to relations?
Even on a lovely April day such as this one, the air was too thick. The room was crowded. He had to move into the hall. As he did, he nearly bumped into Miss Elizabeth.
“Miss Elizabeth!” he exclaimed, then bowed.
She curtseyed, her brow lowering.
“How marvellous to see you,” he said.
She did not return the pleasantry, or offer any reply.
“I-I…” He could not think what to say if a mere greeting was unwelcome. Did she not recall how their conversations flowed? Did she not remember their kisses?
“Why did you leave that night?” she asked, surprising him with her bluntness. “And why did you not return?”
Her lovely face was contorted with grief, and he would do anything to take away her sadness. Anything but tell her the truth.
“I had… I had—”
“Business. Urgent business. Yes, so I have been told. But what?”
He looked about to see who might be overhearing this conversation, but none were near enough. “It is of a private nature.”
She flapped her arms at her side like an unhappy bird. “If you cannot tell me why, I cannot forgive you.”
“Then you cannot forgive me,” he said, his anger rising, “for I will not share such matters.”
“Then there is nothing more to say.”
“I suppose there is not.”
Nevertheless, they stood staring at one another, he wanting nothing more than to pull her into a corner and kiss and kiss her and—but he did not move. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said in as low a voice as possible, “did our embraces mean nothing to you?”
She flushed.
“Before my aunt called for us at Rosings, when you said you had lost your brooch,” he said stepping closer, his heart hammering, “I wanted to ask— Was attempting to ask…” He stood straighter and pulled at his coat.
This was it. This was his moment. They were at last together, and she was listening.
“Miss Bennet, would you do me the honour—”
She dashed away from him.
Dashed.
Away!
Losing her was like experiencing a death.
A death from which he could never recover.