Page 29 of Expectations (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #7)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CONFOUNDING CONFESSIONS
H is wife did not know or understand her danger, that was plain, Darcy thought broodingly. Why does she have to be so blasted beautiful?
He wanted to touch, to hold her in his arms; he only wanted it, truly, if she did as well. Nevertheless, the temptation was there in his man-brain, to see whether he could change her mind about spending any time in conversation.
Talking, he was certain, could lead to nothing good, whereas seducing her would solve at least one of his problems. And, after all, she had allowed herself to be seduced at least once before.
The spike of a jealousy he had thought exhausted caused his tone to come out harsher than he meant. “Of what do you wish to speak?”
“Several years ago…” she began hesitantly, and he had his fears confirmed—that babble-mouthed Gardiner had been spilling secrets today.
“I know what this is about,” he interrupted.
“You do?”
“You have been speaking with your relations regarding my actions in the past,” he said, making it a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“What is in the past ought to stay in it. There is no reason to bring it all up now, is there?”
“I think there is every reason. Tell me this, at least—do you regret it?”
“What does it matter if I do or I do not? I cannot change one whit of it.”
“I wish to know. I need to know,” she persisted. “Have you regrets? Would you change anything, if you could?”
She would not be happy unless he laid himself bare, would she?
Well, let the humiliation begin. He would be honest—while he might wish on the one hand that he had never brought Bingley to her corner of Hertfordshire, and thus never introduced Bingley to anyone he could hurt, the fact remained that had he not brought Bingley to Netherfield Park, he would never have met her .
Had they never met, he might have, eventually, married one of those bland debutantes Lady Matlock once used to push at him, filled his nursery, and been content—but he would never have experienced the love of a lifetime.
Despite the pain of it all, Darcy could never wish her away.
“No,” he said at last. “I do not regret a moment of it, nor what it cost me.”
Whatever he had expected of her response, it was not that her eyes would fill with tears—and not happy tears, either. Her expressive mien held nothing less than grief and despair.
“I do not know what to do,” she said, her voice desolate. “How can you feel no guilt, no remorse?”
“Why would I feel guilt?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “I did nothing of which I need be ashamed.”
Her gaze hardened, even as a tear tracked down her cheek. “If my uncle had not written to you, would you have done anything at all?”
This was the outside of enough. “Do you mean, if your uncle had not perpetrated a blackmail, would I have handed him money for little apparent reason? It seems unlikely.”
Her voice turned almost as harsh as his own. “A blackmail. That is how you view it?”
“How else could it be viewed?”
“It ought to be viewed as taking responsibility for your own actions!”
“ My actions? Of what concern were my actions to him?”
Obviously furious now, she jumped to her feet, arms akimbo; of course he had to stand as well, glad of his greater height.
“I suppose that is true enough, if one is willing to stand by and let a lady’s ruin mean nothing to his honour!”
“And the lady is not responsible for anything at all, is that it?”
Her face fell, and he felt all the remorse she had previously wanted him to feel. “I am sorry,” he said immediately. “I ought not to have said that.”
She looked away. “You have a daughter, you know,” she said, in an almost-whisper. “Does she mean nothing to you?”
He could only stare at her, her words making no sense whatsoever. “I have a daughter,” he repeated. “ I have a daughter?”
“Yes.” She finally met his gaze again. “You do.”
“No,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “I can assure you, I do not.”
“Yes,” she insisted. “From Charlotte. Surely you remember her, at least?”
“Who the devil is Charlotte?” he asked, utterly confused.
“She was once my dearest friend in the world. I cannot believe you fail to even remember her name.” Her tears had begun in earnest; she turned away from him, and ran from the room.
Sorrow filled her, sorrow and regret; she only wanted to be anywhere that he was not. But he was done, evidently, with any semblance of gentlemanly behaviour.
“Oh, no, madam. You are not allowed to toss such an accusation at me and then flee,” he said, and caught her by the shoulder. She struggled to free herself.
“Unhand me!”
But he was implacable, placing both his hands upon her shoulders and holding her there, immobile. “No. Not until you explain this alleged ruin and alleged daughter to me.”
It was galling to be forced to recall to him his iniquities. “Charlotte Lucas, daughter of Sir William Lucas of Meryton.”
“I know who Sir William is.” His brow furrowed, as he plainly laboured to recall Sir William’s offspring. Then his lip curled and he reared back. “Not the homely one with beaky nose?”
She wanted to hit him. “Yes.”
“Let me be certain I understand you. Charlotte Lucas claimed that I fathered a child with her?”
“She did.”
“Elizabeth…I swear to you on my father’s grave that I have barely ever spoken to her, much less…impregnated her!”
He sounded sincere; but why would Charlotte have lied about such a thing? Her confusion must have shown on her face, just as anger flashed on his.
“There is one way to settle this. Let us go, now, to seek out Miss Lucas, wherever she is—I will have her retraction, and you will hear it!”
“So you can bully her into covering for you?”
For one moment, his anger persisted, but abruptly, he let her go.
“ This is what you think of me. This is what you believe—that not only would I ruin a lady, father a child and deny it, but then that I would hide behind her, intimidate her...that I am reprehensible enough, low enough to behave in this manner. Why, madam, would you ever have married such a man in the first place?”
He shook his head in apparent disbelief and took a step back. He only looked at her another moment, then, deliberately, turned his back upon her and strode out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Elizabeth could barely understand what had just happened.
Had she believed the worst of Mr Darcy? Except that yes, she had fully believed it of him, for years and years.
Recently, in coming to know him better, the idea of him behaving in such a shameless fashion was fantastic, incredible, practically impossible.
It was almost as if he were two people, darkness and light, and as her aunt had accused—she by turns collected both evidence of his guilt and of his innocence, wavering relentlessly between the two.
It could not continue. She must know who he was.
One thing was certain—she could not leave their argument where it was. Either she had hurled heinous accusations towards an innocent man, or he was a liar without a conscience.
Or Charlotte was. Could it be so?
The door was not locked, as she feared it might have been. It was dark, but from the light of the fireplace, she could easily see that his bedchamber was empty. The door to the room beyond it was closed, but she boldly opened it.
It was a large sitting room, larger than her own; unlike the rest of the house, the furniture here was plainly selected for comfort rather than style, all of it enormous, overstuffed and well used—a little shabby, even.
Mr Darcy was braced against the fireplace mantel, staring into the embers.
She was certain he heard her, but he did not look towards her, nor acknowledge her in any way.
Sagging down onto the leather sofa, it seemed to enfold her into its depths, more comfortable than any piece of furniture she had ever before been seated upon. Kicking off her slippers, she drew up her feet beneath her and propped her head upon her knees. He seemed determined to ignore her.
She felt bewildered, overwhelmed, and confused.
I will simply stay right here until he talks to me again , she thought. Judging from the set of his shoulders, she might be sitting here for a long, long while.