Page 31 of Look on the Heart (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #10)

Darcy turned to look at his cousin. “What if you are wrong?” he asked, deflating. “How could I bear to face her, only to be turned away?”

“How can you not? If you are not willing to fight for your lady, then you do not deserve her.” Richard folded his arms. “You have placed yourself in a dreadful situation. I do not pity you. However, if this Miss Bennet loves you, then she will forgive you in time—but you must show her genuine remorse.”

“I regret my hasty decision more than I can express.” Darcy sighed and dropped back into his chair. “I suppose I ought to see Georgiana before I depart.” He fiddled with the ties of his banyan, knowing his sister must be filled with worry.

Richard’s words echoed in his mind. “Heavens, Richard, did you say it is after Twelfth Night?” He stared at his cousin, incredulous. How had so much time passed? Surely not!

“Indeed. Why do you suppose I came here? Mother and Father insisted you were merely occupied with whatever emergency kept you from our winter celebrations. I knew better. My cousin, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, holds his family in the highest regard. You would have found a way to our side, even if half your tenant cottages had burned down.”

Richard picked up his untouched glass of brandy and drained it.

“I shall be going. Come for supper. Mater insisted I issue the invitation. Order that bath,” he added, brushing past Darcy’s valet, who had just entered.

The colonel departed, leaving Darcy alone—and coherent—for the first time in a month.

Days later, doubts still lingered. Darcy questioned whether he would possess the courage to return to Hertfordshire.

If Richard was correct, then Elizabeth would be furious.

He had intimated his desire to propose. They had shared a marvelous dance.

And then he had left—abandoned her. No one had known of his awkward courtship, so he hoped she had been spared the derision of her neighbors.

But what if he is wrong? Richard’s logic seemed too easy—too good to be true. Darcy could not believe it.

He went to the looking glass—a new one, discreetly replaced by his staff one afternoon while he slept.

Carefully, he traced the outline of the despised mark that had plagued him all his life.

As it had darkened with age, even cosmetics could not fully conceal it.

Wherever he went, stares followed. He would never escape their judgment—always he would be found wanting.

Could Elizabeth truly desire that? he wondered.

His aunt and uncle had faced something similar.

Granted, Lord Matlock possessed plain features marred by the same kind of mark at birth.

Darcy had heard it before— he would be incredibly handsome if not for the scar, broken nose and, as Lady Catherine and numerous society matrons were apt to say, ‘that unfortunate blemish.’

It did not seem likely that any woman would wish to tie herself irrevocably to a man whose physical traits might pass to her children.

He amended the thought—it did not seem likely that any woman could love a man whose marred countenance might manifest in her children.

Many women had wished to marry him—for his fortune, not his face.

And then there was Elizabeth. She had seemed to like him despite his physical failings.

Had she been sincere? He still did not know.

Why not trust your first impressions? The errant thought gave him pause.

Before overhearing that dreadful conversation, Darcy had felt certain Elizabeth would welcome his attentions.

Had she been in love with him? Until he professed his feelings, propriety dictated she remain silent.

I never gave her the chance, he realized. Perhaps I ought to.

Having decided on the matter, he bathed and dressed, and feeling more himself than he had in some time, Darcy left his chambers and made his way to the study.

A large stack of correspondence caught his attention, and he groaned.

Seating himself at the desk, he began to open the letters one by one, determined to make progress before dinner.

He set aside old invitations, which would require replies filled with apologies and excuses for his delay. Several letters from his steward had also gone unanswered. Guilt gnawed at him as he realized just how grievously he had neglected his duties.

Among the letters were two from Bingley.

Feeling unequal to reading of his friend’s felicity, Darcy set them aside.

“They can wait until tomorrow,” he murmured aloud.

He had no doubt they contained news of an engagement.

Such happy tidings would be difficult to bear while uncertainty still hung over his future with Elizabeth.

Sighing deeply, Darcy reached for his writing materials.

His steward’s letters had, thankfully, not contained anything pressing.

Still, they required responses. It was a good beginning—a small step toward reclaiming a sense of normalcy.

After more than a month of misery, he felt prepared to take it, at last.

And once I have set it all to rights, I shall go to Hertfordshire.

Yet, even as he thought it, doubt crept in once more. Ought I to venture forth?