Page 26 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

D arcy saw the astonishment in her features, the way her brows raised and eyes widened. Her response was hardly unpredictable; no one else knew of it, not the Bingleys, not Lady Catherine, not even Colonel Fitzwilliam. He had meant to never speak of it aloud, but of all the reasons he could not marry Elizabeth, this was probably the one she ought most to hear. For her sake, he would suffer the humiliation of reliving the betrayal.

“My father had been dead for a twelvemonth when I met her. He died of an apoplexy, most unexpectedly, and the depth of my grief was vast. At least, that is my explanation for my actions, in retrospect, of the circumstance. I met Miss Bradshaw at a dinner party given by my uncle, Lord Matlock. You have heard of him?”

She nodded. He was unsurprised; his uncle was in the newspapers more often than any other of his esteemed peers, for politics or parties or for some charitable deed or another. Matlock always ensured the press reported on his benevolent acts.

It had been the first social event of any significance he had attended since his father’s death; he had not wished to go, but had succumbed to his uncle’s unrelenting pressure. Even now he could remember, when he thought back, the thick haze of sorrow and grief that had followed the shock of watching his father die. It had still been following him a year later, to his uncle’s party and to anything else he attended.

Miss Bradshaw had seemed all sweetness, all kindness, lovely in the way that a girl raised to be a diamond of the first water could be—perfect manners, perfect dress, perfect conversation. She had silvery blonde curls, large blue eyes, faultlessly cut cheekbones, a striking figure—oh yes, there was that, too.

“I was introduced to Miss Bradshaw there. I did not notice her much, but she was at the next event I attended, and the next—always sweet, always unassuming, despite the many who surrounded her, wanting a bit of her attention.”

“Like Jane,” Elizabeth said, but he shook his head in the negative.

“Not at all like her,” he said sharply, but he was, briefly, struck by the physical similarities. Jane Bennet’s restraint, however, was inherent, while Miss Bradshaw’s modesty was a performance worthy of a Drury Lane actress.

“One evening while attending a musicale, I came upon her by herself. She was crying.” It had not been sobs, nothing noisy or distasteful, but delicate tears barely shed. She had appeared vulnerable and grief-stricken and too lovely for words. “Her mother had died about the same time as mine, she said, and a song had played, one of her mother’s favourites. I thought I understood her feelings.” Her sorrow struck him deeply, and after that, he had gone out of his way to attend her. He had found her mixture of innocence and curiosity— supposed curiosity—about him, about his maleness and even his desires tantalising. He ought to have known an innocent could never have known to ask such things…but then, he had been innocent himself. Unable to think of a single reason for delay, he had been ready to wed her within a month, believing himself madly, passionately in love.

“I spent all the time I could with her, and after not too much time passed, I asked her to marry me. The next day, I sought out my uncle at his home in London, with some idea of basking in his approval—he had been pushing me towards matrimony, and I knew he would be pleased with my choice. To this day, I do not know why I refused to accept his butler’s excuses that he was not at home. I knew he was there, because Fitzwilliam—my cousin, his son—had told me earlier, at our club, that he meant to stay in all day. I suppose I was too eager to share my news, and believing he would forgive my interruption, I went to his study, where I was certain he would be—and, indeed, where he was. He was not alone, however. My newly betrothed was with him, in an, er, compromising position.”

He would never forget the sight of her struggling to cover herself from his stricken gaze, or his uncle’s nude, hairy back. Or those tears she had shed—the same ones from the musicale, this time pretending it had been an assault by Matlock. It was, plainly, a particular talent of hers. But he could no longer be fooled.

Elizabeth took his hand, recalling him to her presence.

“How did you escape the betrothal?” she whispered, her tone horrified.

“Threats, mostly. I said I would tell my aunt what I had seen if Matlock did not make the travesty of our sham connexion disappear.”

He saw the shock in Elizabeth’s eyes and realised, a bit late, that she was completely na?ve about ton marriages.

“Lady Matlock is well aware of my uncle’s proclivities, his faithlessness. What she does require is discretion. To learn that he brought one of his paramours into her home would create an unpleasant disruption in his life that would not end for a long, long while. She is not the forgiving sort, you see.”

“How awful that must have been for you,” she said, shaking her head.

“I have learnt to make decisions with my head. I do not involve my heart in the matter. It is for the best, I think.”

“I can see how you would think that,” she said, with remarkable understatement.

Elizabeth stared at his unreadable countenance; she knew the scars he bore from his awful family had hardened him. No wonder he had been attracted to the innocent, artless Jane Bennet, who could not behave so poorly had she tried. Yet it was not Jane whom he desired, but her less well-behaved sister. Granted, Elizabeth’s nature was unconventional rather than wicked; nevertheless, neither was she full of sweetness and outward perfections as he had described his first love.

But he was here.

“Do you have a question for me?” she asked boldly.

He looked surprised, as if he had believed she would be disgusted by him, instead of his relations. Did he think she would be put off by some atrocious family members?

“You said you have—you have sentiments towards me.”

“I do.” She was not ashamed of it.

“I am stubborn. You are, shall we say, unopposed to change. You love to dance, and if I never attend another ball, it would be a dream come true. I am reserved. You are unguarded, direct. We are in many ways each other’s opposite. What makes you believe your feelings could survive a man who does not enjoy the entertainments you relish or admire the people you cherish?”

The question brought Elizabeth up short, but it was a fair one. His first serious romance had been a lie, a lie designed to manipulate his tenderest emotions. The plot against him had nearly been successful. In response, he had walled off his heart, determined to prevent any such breach ever again.

His error now was in believing that love was a weapon, when it had been monumental selfishness and mercenary greed which had tried to destroy him.

That walled-off heart, she earnestly believed, was well on the way to loving her. And although her own heart argued that he knew she was nothing like the Miss Bradshaws of the world, she was determined to give him more than enough evidence for his head to believe in her—and in love, itself—as well. “I do like to go to balls and plays, to dance and to laugh,” she said at last. “I also like to sew, read, write, walk, and—as you well know—to fish. I may not have fit in well with females who possess more conventional interests, but I learnt to befriend them, regardless, and talk to people who are as unlike me as it is possible to be. I appreciate quiet times as much and as often as the more active ones. Should a stubborn husband marry an equally stubborn wife? I hope, if my husband loves me, he shall at times tolerate a society somewhat painful to him. In turn, if I love my husband, I shall not inflict them upon him more than is reasonable. There will always be differences between the views of any two people as they strive to become one. I suppose that with mutual respect, commitment, loyalty, and tolerance, such a marriage of opposites might have as many chances to thrive as any other.”

He looked at her for a long moment; she met his gaze directly, yearning for him to understand, to have truly heard her. In his dark eyes, she saw more than curiosity, more than desire. One word flashed within her mind:

Destiny .

Elizabeth gazed into the dear face she had so quickly come to adore, the strong jaw, the handsome brow. He was so clearly, so perfectly right . He leant in, and briefly, she thought he might kiss her again, but he did not. Instead, he rested his forehead upon hers.

He was still uncertain, even if she no longer was, but his love and care was evident in his expression. It was not simply desire. It was the sun, the moon, and the stars. It was everything.

At last, and by mutual if unspoken consent, they started back down the hillside, retracing their steps. They did speak, if only of lighter subjects. One of those boulders he helped her over, he took her hand and he did not let it go. He held it until they separated at the bridge, he to his life, and she to hers.