Page 27 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
Elizabeth’s fingers stilled on the spine of a volume of fairy tales. Household staff. The insult was delivered so matter-of-factly that for a moment she wondered if she had misheard him.
“Lady Eleanor has kindly granted me use of the library, Mr. Darcy,” she replied carefully, not trusting herself to say more. “But if my presence disturbs you, I shall return later.”
William, who had been sucking his thumb, chose that moment to pluck his thumb from his mouth with an audible pop. “Da!” he declared, reaching in Darcy’s direction.
Darcy’s brow furrowed again, like cracks on an icy pond. “Children should be properly instructed in appropriate forms of address. It creates confusion otherwise.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth agreed, unable to resist adding, “Though I find a child’s innocent mistakes far less troubling than an adult’s deliberate misapprehensions. ”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed, clearly catching the edge in her tone. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing of consequence,” Elizabeth replied, plucking several books from the shelves. “We shall retrieve our book and leave you to your work.”
As she did so, William shifted his weight on her hip and wriggled from her arms. To save him from a fall, she dropped the books with a loud thud while he slid to the floor. Elizabeth picked up the books while her son toddled determinedly toward Darcy’s desk, his unsteady gait surprisingly swift.
“William!” Elizabeth called, hurrying after him. “Come back at once!”
But William had already reached Darcy’s chair, gripping the wooden leg for support as he gazed up at his father with a beaming smile. “Up!” he commanded, raising his arms imperiously.
Darcy’s face twisted with an expression of bewilderment mixed with a wry smile. He reached down and William grabbed his hands, wanting to be picked up. Elizabeth waited with bated breath, but the furrow between Darcy’s eyes deepened and he gave his head a quick shake like a horse bothered by a fly.
“At Pemberley,” Darcy said coldly, leaning back to distance himself from William’s reaching hands, “children of the… household staff… are kept to the appropriate areas. It creates unnecessary disruption otherwise.”
Forgetting the books, Elizabeth swooped up her son, though he protested with a disgruntled whine. How dare he? How dare this man—this shadow of the husband who had looked at her with such tenderness—speak of his own son as if he were some inconvenient intrusion?
“I see,” she said, her voice deceptively calm. “And do you find that such… management… creates the harmony you seek? Or merely the illusion of it?”
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, rising stiffly from his chair with obvious discomfort, “I believe you mistake yourself. I am offering guidance based on proper management of a gentleman’s estate. Your… situation… should not blind you to the necessity of maintaining appropriate boundaries.”
Elizabeth felt her temper flare, the familiar fire beginning to kindle in her chest. But as she opened her mouth to deliver a cutting response, Darcy shifted his weight with a barely suppressed wince, his hand moving unconsciously to his lower back.
The gesture was so achingly familiar—hadn’t he once confessed to her his discomfort with strangers?
How he retreated into formality when overwhelmed?
The sharp retort died on her lips as she truly looked at him—not the imperious master of Pemberley but a man struggling with confusion, pain, and the loss of everything familiar. He was being insufferable, yes, but he was also frightened in a way he would never admit.
What if the roles were reversed? What if she were the one who’d forgotten him?
“Mr. Darcy,” she said finally, her voice gentler than before, “I must ask you not to assume you understand my circumstances based on appearances alone. You may find that your judgments, however well-intentioned, are founded on incomplete information.”
He picked up his cane and moved slowly toward her, his height imposing and towering, allowing him to look down on her with an expression of affronted dignity.
“Miss Bennet, I must ask you not to look at me in that manner. I am a gentleman, and such expressions from a woman in your… position… might be misconstrued.”
A dozen retorts died on her lips. She wasn’t the one staring at him or piercing him with her obvious disapproval. She wasn’t the one making baseless assumptions and insulting his inability to recall basic facts.
“A gentleman,” she said softly, and though her voice carried an edge of steel, it was tempered with something else—not quite pity, but a recognition of his struggle.
“I wonder, Mr. Darcy, whether you speak from conviction or merely from habit? It has been my observation that true gentlemen rarely find it necessary to announce their status.”
She paused, studying his face as confusion warred with indignation. And still, that intense focus of his dark eyes stayed on her. What gave him the right to assess her the way a man shopped for a prized mare?
She returned his gaze, fierce and protective of her son whose thumb had gone back into his mouth.
She would not back down despite his insistence that she was below his station.
His deep dark eyes shifted, lowering to her lips, wavering until by some force of will he snapped his head away, waving his hand dismissively.
“Miss Bennet, you’ve collected your books.”
She would not be so summarily dismissed.
“Yes, I shall retreat, along with my son, but perhaps we might both benefit from… clearer understanding. I am not what you assume me to be, Mr. Darcy, any more than you are entirely what you seem.”
She paused with her hand on the door handle, her mind racing with thoughts of William and his future.
“My son,” she said without turning around, “is innocent of whatever sins you believe I have committed. Whatever your opinion of me, he deserves to be treated with basic kindness. He is only a child.”