Chapter Seven #2
Anger and embarrassment tangled her words. “I never wished for such thanks. I specifically requested that my name not be mentioned.”
Mr. Darcy smiled, but there was no pleasure in it.
“How convenient. The charitable act enacted in secret becomes even more praiseworthy once revealed. Your modesty itself becomes a virtue to be celebrated. Tell me, do you practise that sigh? The wearied burden of unwanted praise? It is particularly effective.”
He was insufferably smug.
Elizabeth stood, her book clutched like a shield against her chest. “You know nothing of me, sir. You have decided upon your interpretation and refuse to consider any alternative. That is your right, but I would ask you not foist your false convictions upon me.”
“False? Let us consider the evidence. Your companion directs this establishment like a feudal manor, demanding the best of everything in your name, whilst you make pretty speeches about sharing what you have. Yet somehow, you retain every comfort whilst appearing magnanimous for distributing what you can easily spare.”
“I have made no speeches at all . . .” Elizabeth’s voice rose despite her best efforts to remain composed.
“I have tried repeatedly to moderate Mrs. Hobart’s demands.
Do you think I enjoy having her commandeer every pillow in the county?
Do you imagine I take pleasure in knowing that people go cold whilst wood burns in my fireplace? ”
“If you do not enjoy it, you have a curious way of showing your displeasure.” Mr. Darcy tipped his head to one side. “A true princess would command her servant, not hide behind ineffectual protests while secretly enjoying the benefits of her companion’s excess.”
“How dare you presume to tell me what a true princess would do?“ Elizabeth’s cheeks burned. “Do you know any?”
“Do you?" he asked.
Infuriating man! “You know nothing of me, yet you have spent the entirety of our brief acquaintance making assumptions and pronouncements based on nothing but your own arrogant certainty.”
“Arrogant?” Darcy’s eyebrows rose. “That is a remarkable accusation from someone who has falsely claimed a royal title. You were wise to choose the royal family of another country, for to claim an English title you do not own might send you to gaol as a fraud.” He turned to exit the room as the others had.
A fraud? She might feel like a fraud, but in fact she was not. “I am who I say, regardless of what you choose to believe.”
The sneer he tossed at her over his shoulder made her wish to throw something at him. Something hard.
He turned back to face her. “Let us examine your behaviour, shall we? You say you wish to moderate your companion’s behaviour, yet she continues unchecked.
You say you wish to remain anonymous, yet the entire inn knows of your royal status.
You claim humility whilst accepting every privilege.
Is any of this the conduct of a princess? ”
Elizabeth felt tears prick behind her eyes, anger and shame warring in her heart. This terrible, bitter man had identified precisely the remorse that had been gnawing at her since their arrival: was she fighting hard enough against Mrs. Hobart’s excesses? Why could she not make the woman listen?
“You are content to be ruled by a woman who relishes power she ought not possess,” Mr. Darcy continued, unaware of or indifferent to her distress. “What does that say of you?”
“I am not content with it.” Elizabeth’s voice shook, her fists curling at her side as she moved closer to him.
“But neither will I denigrate a servant in public for wishing to serve me, no matter how she also provokes me. I have my dignity. I would not attack hers. And I would not wish to be a servant of yours if you believe that to do so is a just way to behave.”
They were standing close now, close enough that Elizabeth could see the flecks of gold in his arresting green-brown eyes, could count the stubble along his jaw that suggested he had not been shaved by a valet, could smell the faint scent of soap and wool.
“A servant of mine,” he repeated, very distinctly, as if he tasted the words and found them disagreeable. “Madam—"
“Do not,” Elizabeth returned, shocked to hear the plea in her own tone. She spoke again with more firmness. “Do not attempt to instruct me in dignity while you make a sport of stripping it from others.”
“You speak very feelingly of dignity,” he said, voice controlled to the point of chill. “I wonder you do not extend it to truth.”
“What truth have I denied?”
His gaze sharpened, and in it was something that felt uncomfortably like accusation and certainty combined. “I see you are unwilling to abandon your game.”
The words hung between them, sharp and cutting.
Her hands trembled along with her voice, and she was suddenly, acutely aware that they were alone in this corner of the common room, that the other travellers had all departed, that there was no witness to this confrontation save the dying fire and the winter light.
“And you,” she said, her voice steady despite the fury coursing through her veins, “are unwilling to listen to reason.”
For a long moment, they stood frozen, close enough that a single step would bring them into contact, close enough that Elizabeth could see his chest rise and fall with each breath, could watch his pupils dilate and contract as emotions flickered across his face, too quick to name.
Then she stepped back, breaking the spell that had held them suspended.
“Excuse me,” Elizabeth said, her voice cold and formal. “I find I have had quite enough of your company, Mr. Darcy. I do hope the roads clear soon so that we might both be spared any future need to share the same inn.”
She turned on her heel and swept from the room, her book clutched tight.
In the passage she had to sidestep sharply to avoid Mrs. Cooper, who was hovering just outside the door listening.
She had likely heard every word of that humiliating exchange.
Mrs. Cooper’s gaze darted to Elizabeth’s face and softened with sympathy.
Sympathy was the very last thing Elizabeth could bear; she gave the woman a quick nod and walked on.
Only when she reached her chamber, when the door was safely closed and locked behind her, did Elizabeth allow herself to sink onto the edge of her bed, breathing hard, angry and frustrated and unhappy.
And, in some strange way, elated.
Mr. Darcy’s wit was quick, but he was also insufferable. Superior. Presumptuous. Absolutely, completely wrong about her.
And distressingly attractive in his righteousness.
She pressed her palms against her burning cheeks and tried very hard not to remember the way her breath had caught when he had stepped toward her, the way his hazel eyes had darkened when they stood so close, or the uncomfortable truth that some of his accusations had struck closer to home than she wanted to admit.
No. She would not think of it. Would not think of him. Mr. Darcy was nothing to her, and she would be vastly relieved when the roads cleared and they could continue their separate journeys.
Even if part of her, a treacherous, stubborn part she refused to acknowledge, had felt more alive in those heated moments than she had felt since leaving Longbourn.