Chapter Twenty-Nine
Darcy’s hands tightened on each other, his knuckles showing white against the table’s polished surface.
Elizabeth watched something work in his throat, some struggle between pride and the necessity of vulnerability.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried a roughness she had never heard from him before.
“I was wrong that night at the assembly,” Darcy said, shame thick in his tone.
“Wrong about you, wrong in my manner, wrong in everything that mattered. But my wrongness went deeper than mere rudeness. I was defending myself against something I sensed even then, some quality in you that threatened the careful control I maintained over my feelings.”
He paused, drawing breath. “I noticed you properly at Lucas Lodge, a few days later. You were speaking with Charlotte about books, and you said something clever about heroines in novels who fainted at every inconvenience. Your wit was sharp but not cruel, intelligent without being pretentious. And when Sir William tried to push us together for a dance, you declined with such grace that I could not take offence. Women did not typically refuse me, you see. But you did, and you made it seem perfectly natural rather than an insult.”
Elizabeth felt her chest tighten at the memory. She had refused him because she was still angry about his initial slight, had wanted to wound his pride as he had wounded hers.
“Then you walked to Netherfield to tend Jane when she fell ill,” Darcy continued, and now his voice softened with something that sounded like wonder.
“Three miles in mud, your petticoats six inches deep in dirt, your face glowing with exertion. Miss Bingley mocked you after you went upstairs, said you looked a fright. But I thought you looked magnificent. That walk showed devotion, showed that you valued your sister’s welfare above your own comfort or appearance.
It showed character I had rarely encountered. ”
He looked at her directly now, his eyes holding hers with intensity that made her breath catch.
“I was already falling in love with you then, Elizabeth. Already losing the battle. It terrified me. You were unsuitable by every measure I had been taught to value. Your connexions were negligible, your family’s behaviour not what I had come to expect, your fortune non-existent.
Marrying you would mean subjecting myself to ridicule.
So I tried to convince myself my feelings were mere attraction, nothing deeper or more lasting. ”
Elizabeth’s throat had gone tight, tears gathering behind her eyes despite her best efforts.
“But the more time I spent in your company, the more impossible denial became,” Darcy said.
“Every conversation revealed new depths to your intelligence. Every interaction showed me courage I had not recognised in myself. You were not intimidated by my wealth or status, did not simper or flatter. You challenged me, Elizabeth. Made me question assumptions I had never thought to examine.”
His hands finally loosened their desperate grip on each other, one lifting to run through his hair in a gesture of agitation she had never seen from him before.
“I told myself repeatedly that an attachment to you would be imprudent, that our situations were too different, that your family’s behaviour made the connexion impossible. ”
He drew a breath that seemed to shudder through him.
“I acknowledge now that part of my reason for separating Bingley from Jane was fear of my own growing feelings for you. I told myself I was protecting my friend from an unsuitable match, and I believed that. But beneath it lay something more selfish. If Bingley married Jane, we would be thrown into constant contact. I would be expected to visit, invited occasionally to participate in family gatherings. And I knew that repeated proximity to you would destroy whatever remained of my resolve.”
The confession struck Elizabeth with force that made breathing difficult.
He had separated Jane and Bingley partly to protect himself from her.
The thought should have made her angry, should have reignited the fury she had felt upon learning of his interference.
But instead she felt only sorrow for the waste of it, for months that might have been spent differently.
“I was already half in love with you and I did not want to be,” Darcy said, his voice faltering slightly.
His hands had begun to tremble, minute shaking that he tried to hide by pressing them flat against the table.
“You represented everything I had been taught to avoid. A connexion that would lower my standing, potentially expose me to ridicule. My pride could not bear the thought of being laughed at for forming such an attachment. But seeing you again at Hunsford, spending time in your company without the buffer of crowds or social obligations, I realised my mistake.”
He leaned forwards slightly, his gaze holding hers.
“I realised that pride meant nothing without you. That all my careful calculation of advantage and disadvantage had missed the most important consideration entirely. I do not simply admire you, Elizabeth. I love you. With an entirety that frightens me, if I am honest. You are the only woman I can love, the only one I can imagine as mistress of Pemberley.”
His hands lifted from the table, reaching towards her but stopping short of actual contact, hovering in the space between them.
“If you choose to annul this marriage,” he said, meeting her eyes directly, “I do not know what I will do. I will honour your decision, will not oppose whatever you decide. But I confess I do not know how I will bear it. How I will return to a life that does not include you, now that I have glimpsed what we might build together.”
The words hung between them, raw and undefended. Elizabeth felt tears gathering in her eyes despite her best efforts to contain them. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision, but the tears spilled over anyway, tracking down her cheeks in warm streams.
“I believe you,” she whispered, her voice emerging thick with feeling. “I believe that you love me, that your feelings are genuine. And I am moved by your honesty, by your willingness to be so vulnerable when you clearly find it difficult.”
She drew a shaking breath, forcing herself to continue.
“Annulling the marriage would cause great harm. The scandal would be enormous, would affect not just us but our families as well. Jane’s, and my other sisters’, prospects would be damaged, perhaps destroyed entirely.
Georgiana would face whispers and speculation. Even your position would suffer.”
Darcy’s expression showed he understood these considerations.
“But even taking into account these concerns,” Elizabeth continued, her hands moving to grip the edge of the table, “I do not feel truly married. Not yet. The vows I heard spoken were not mine. The ceremony I witnessed felt like watching a play in which I had no part. And though I understand intellectually that the marriage is legal and binding, emotionally it feels false. It was quite literally something that happened to someone else while I was trapped and helpless to prevent it.”
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, and this time she lifted a hand to dash them away.
“I do not want an annulment. I do not want to cause that scandal or face those consequences. But I also cannot pretend that everything is settled, that we can simply proceed as though none of this happened. I need time. Need space to feel as though this marriage belongs to me, rather than to the woman who stole my face and spoke vows in my voice.”
Darcy reached across the distance between them, his hand finally closing over hers with gentle pressure.
“Then you shall have time,” he said, his voice steady despite the emotion she could see written plainly on his face.
“Whatever you need, Elizabeth. There is no rush, no pressure. We can determine together how to proceed.”
He paused, his thumb brushing across her knuckles. “Perhaps we should consult my uncle. Lord Matlock has considerable legal knowledge, might be able to suggest options we have not considered. Ways to address your concerns without resorting to annulment and the scandal it would create.”
Elizabeth felt relief flood through her at the suggestion, grateful for practical action. “Yes. That seems wise. He might have ideas about how to proceed.”
Darcy rose from his chair, still holding her hand as he helped her to her feet. They stood close together, the space between them charged with everything spoken and everything still left unsaid. Elizabeth could feel warmth radiating from him, could see the pulse beating at the base of his throat.
“We should go down,” Darcy said softly. “The guests will have dispersed by now. My uncle will be in his study most likely.”
Elizabeth nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady. They moved towards the door together, still hand in hand, embarking on the first tentative steps towards whatever future they might build from these strange and complicated beginnings.
Lord Matlock’s library smelled of old leather and pipe tobacco, with undertones of beeswax from the polished furniture.
Elizabeth took in the room with quick assessment born of nervousness, her gaze moving across walls lined floor to ceiling with books.
The space felt distinctly masculine, all dark wood and hunter green upholstery, with a massive desk dominating the centre.
Her attention snagged on a tall cabinet positioned between two windows, its glass doors revealing an impressive collection of curiosities.
Shells arranged by size and type occupied one shelf.
A narwhal tusk stood propped in one corner.
And there, on a middle shelf in a small glass case of its own, sat a bezoar stone, neatly labelled.