Pride and Proposals

by Victoria Kincaid

  Georgiana’s dilemma was written plainly on her face. Unmarried men and women were never left alone, except for one purpose. Could it be that? But her brother would visit Elizabeth to make an offer of marriage, not the other way around. And Elizabeth did not appear eager to accept a proposal.

  Georgiana clearly could not penetrate the oddness of the situation; however, she was too obedient to question her brother. She nodded and swiftly exited the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  The moment Georgiana was gone, Elizabeth turned the full force of her gaze on Mr. Darcy. “You knew Lord Kirkwood was preparing to make me an offer, but you deliberately arrived beforehand to preempt him.”

  Mr. Darcy inclined his head stiffly. “I did.”

  Elizabeth swallowed, pleased he admitted it. “Why? If you were only concerned with my safety, surely marriage to Lord Kirkwood would do just as well. Unless you have some objection to the man?”

  Darcy looked at his hands. “No, I have no objection to him. His character and family situation are impeccable.”

  “Then why?” She demanded.

  Darcy launched himself from his chair and strolled to the windows, gazing at the street outside without any particular interest. “As I said, Pemberley needs a mistress. I need an heir.”

  “And I would do as well as another women?” She could hear the indignation in her own voice.

  He rested his arm on the window frame and ran his free hand through his hair. “I - I believe – you are well suited to the role. I admire you. We are friends. You would be an excellent mistress of Pemberley.”

  “So you did not want to let this opportunity go? You did not want to let Lord Kirkwood have me?” Her hands shook, and she hastily set down her teacup.

  Mr. Darcy colored, but his expression did not change. “I suppose you could say so.” The muscles clenched in his jaw, and his lips pressed tightly together. Perhaps he wished to contain his disgust at her forward behavior.

  What did it matter? He had answered. She understood his feelings—or lack thereof. She was a convenience, an opportunity he did not wish to lose to another man. Slowly, her anger drained away. What did it gain her to be angry with this man? But in its place, she experienced an unfamiliar emptiness. Perhaps she had been hoping, just a little, that he had deeper feelings for her.

  Now there was no need to linger—at Darcy House or even in London. Yes, it was past time to return to Hertfordshire.

  Her eyes burned, and she blinked back tears of humiliation, refusing to cry in his presence. She cleared her throat, staring at the door and longing for escape. “Thank you for your explanation, Mr. Darcy.” She stood, calculating how many steps would free her of the room and this frustrating man.

  “I must be going. Please give Miss Darcy my regrets.” Her voice was hoarse and thin.

  In the back of her mind, she wondered how she could maintain her friendship with Georgiana while avoiding her brother for the rest of her life. But that was a question for another day.

  After crossing the room without incident, Elizabeth had reached out to the door knob when Darcy’s voice stopped her hand. “Why were you so angered?”

  She did not touch the knob, but she could not turn around to look at him. “I beg your pardon?” Her head lowered, she stared at the bottom edge of the door and the room’s fine woolen carpeting.

  “When I proposed you were furious, but Lord Kirkwood reported to me that you refused him graciously and with humor.” Darcy’s voice was rough and low.

  Elizabeth blinked; she had not noticed the difference in her reception of nearly identical proposals. Her hand rested on the brass door knob; one quick twist and she would be free of this man and his intrusive questions. Free of his vexing contradictions. If she pretended she had never heard his question, she knew instinctively that he would let her leave without a protest.

  But she could not do it. If she had any hope of retaining her friendship with this man, she must address his difficult questions. Reluctantly, she removed her hand from the knob and turned to face Mr. Darcy.

  His face held a desperation she had never seen before, and an almost wild fierceness lit his eyes—completely at odds with his refined clothing and the elegant furnishings.

  “Why, Elizabeth?” This is the second time he has used my Christian name. What does it mean? “Is it simply that you prefer him to me?” Now his voice held a hint of pain.

  The hurt in his voice made her heart throb with empathy. But had she merely wounded his pride, or had she somehow spurned his tender feelings?

  “No!” The protest sprang from her lips without thought. She struggled to articulate her meaning. “If anything, it is the opposite. That is—I do not know Lord Kirkwood well. I was honored by his proposal, but my feelings were not touched.” Too late, Elizabeth realized the implications of her words and wished she could recall them.

  Mr. Darcy’s attention was completely focused on her face. “And my proposal touched your feelings?” Leaving his post at the window, he swiftly closed the distance between them. Suddenly, the room seemed too small.

  “N-naturally,” she stammered. “You are my friend. Richard’s cousin. I f-feel affection for you and Georgiana.”

  “Affection.” Mr. Darcy bit off the word disdainfully. His eyes would not waver from hers. “That does nothing to explain why my offer angered you!”

  As Mr. Darcy loomed over her, Elizabeth instinctively backed away. His face paled when he noticed her reaction, and he abruptly turned away, blindly walking back toward the window.

  Elizabeth used this time to examine her own emotions. Why had she been so angry with Mr. Darcy and not with Lord Kirkwood? What was different about them? Why was the lord so easily dismissed from her thoughts, while she felt compelled to confront Mr. Darcy?

  Dismissing Lord Kirkwood’s proposal had been simple; it held no appeal, despite the good intentions behind his offer, and she had felt nothing more than regret for disappointing his hopes. However, she had found it far more difficult to credit Mr. Darcy’s good intentions, and the proposal itself was … more disconcerting.

  Despite these disquieting emotions, she forced herself to examine the question. Mr. Darcy was far different from Lord Kirkwood. Despite the mode of his offer, betrothal to Mr. Darcy held … appeal. Certainly he was attractive—and kind. If she were truthful with herself, Elizabeth reluctantly admitted that under different circumstances, she might have been tempted to accept Mr. Darcy’s offer.

  The thought rushed in with the suddenness of a tidal wave, washing away all other notions and knocking aside all of her earlier assumptions. The truth and clarity of her realization left her staggered. She desired Mr. Darcy.

  How had her feelings about him changed? When had her feelings changed?

  Could I be in love with him?

  For a moment, the thought struck her with dizzying ecstasy—joy and wonder filled her heart to overflowing.

  And then memory left her dashed back on the rocks of reality.

  Richard.

  How could she have forgotten about Richard for one moment?

  Her hand flew to her mouth in horror. How could she consider replacing him in her heart so soon? Only a week ago, she thought she would never consider marriage again. Even contemplating such feelings about Mr. Darcy seemed like such a betrayal.

  No. Impossible. Those feelings had died in her when she had buried Richard. She had been so certain.

  “Elizabeth? Are you well?” Mr. Darcy was staring at her again, his eyes wide with concern.

  Awareness returned. She had walked several steps into the room and was clutching a chair with one hand, while the other covered her mouth in a gesture of despair. “I must go. I beg you to forgive me,” she mumbled as she lurched toward the door, pausing only for a moment by her chair to collect her reticule. “Give my regrets to Georgiana.” Dimly, she was aware that Mr. Darcy was stepping closer to her.

  “You are not well. You should not venture out—” Mr. Darcy’s hand on her
elbow arrested her progress. “I pray you, sit, and I will have some water brought.”

  The room had grown stiflingly hot, and her stays compressed her lungs until she could barely breathe. I must leave now! Passing one more minute in Darcy House would be intolerable.

  Elizabeth pulled her arm from his grasp without looking at his face. “Thank you, no. I must leave at once!”

  Darcy released her arm abruptly, and she almost lost her balance. Keeping her eyes fixed on the doorway, she stumbled forward until she could grasp the door knob. As she opened the door, she glanced back at Darcy over her shoulder. His expression was so perplexed that she was almost tempted to return and comfort him.

  But then I might never leave.

  If only she could say something to reassure him and demonstrate that she wished to maintain their friendship, but she could think of no words that were not fraught. “I-I—” she stammered. “I beg you to give my regrets to Georgiana.” Had she said that before?

  His mouth set in an unhappy line, Mr. Darcy merely inclined his head. “I will.”

  The need to escape threatened to suffocate her. She darted through the doorway into the hall, closing the door firmly behind her. She was halfway to the main entrance when she remembered her cloak. But the day was mild, and the walk was short; she made the hasty decision to sacrifice it. The cloak could be collected by a maid later. Swiftly, she hurried out the door of Darcy House into the sunshine.

  Chapter 16

  Darcy stared at the plate of breakfast in front of him, willing his appetite to return. The eggs and ham should have provoked rumblings from his stomach, given that he had not been able to choke down a single bite of dinner, but the food’s aroma only rendered him slightly nauseous. He had slept fitfully, as his thoughts constantly returned again and again to the scene with Elizabeth the previous day. The disgusted look on her face as she realized Darcy intended to press her for an answer about her feelings toward him. What had possessed him to such foolishness … such offensiveness? He could well recall the echoing sounds of her boot heels racing through the entrance hall.

  Yes, I am the man who prompts women to flee his presence. Any discussion of marrying me is so disturbing it causes one to race into the cold without a cloak.

  Although to be fair, it is not all women who flee—only the one I wish to marry ….

  Yes, no doubt there were any number of women who would not run from him. For instance, Miss Bingley …. Darcy shuddered.

  He had realized too late—must he always be too late?—that Elizabeth had given him a perfect opportunity to reveal his feelings when she had demanded he account for the manner of his proposal. But he was so accustomed to concealing his love for her, it had not occurred to him to reveal it. And to be honest, her refusal had piqued his vanity, and his temper had flared.

  Of all the times to lose my hold on my temper!

  He had never before made an offer of marriage, but he was certain that anger was not supposed to be part of it.

  He had been rough, demanding, angry—when he should have been gentle and understanding and loving. She was, after all, grappling with her grief for Richard.

  No wonder she had fled. She had probably run all the way back to her townhouse.

  He had compounded his offense by growling at Georgiana when she inquired about Elizabeth’s visit. Sometimes, he wondered how she could bear to live with him. He could hardly bear it himself.

  On days like today, he was disgusted with himself.

  Darcy had already informed his butler and valet he would be returning to Pemberley today, no longer caring what they thought of his abrupt comings and goings. I never should have left Derbyshire.

  Once there, he might never leave again.

  Conceding breakfast as a lost cause, Darcy pushed back from the table at the same moment his butler entered, followed by Bannon, the groom he had sent to Elizabeth’s house to watch over her horses. Gloomily, Darcy mused she had most likely ordered Bannon to quit his post, unwilling to have any reminders of Darcy about her house.

  Then he noticed unease twisting Bannon’s features. “What is it, man?” Darcy asked, standing immediately. Had something happened to Elizabeth?

  “Mr. Darcy, sir.” Bannon tugged off his hat and held it before him. “I came as soon as I could. Miss Bennet …well, she—”

  Anxiety knotted Darcy’s gut. “Has something happened to her? Is she injured?”

  “She is gone!” Bannon blurted out. “She left at first light this morning. Took some of the colonel’s horses and hired a carriage.”

  Darcy grabbed the edge of the table for balance. She was running away, escaping him. Oh, Good Lord, what had he done to her?

  Bannon was babbling. “I came as soon as I can, but there was all these doings—”

  Darcy interrupted. “Where did she go? Hertfordshire?”

  Bannon solemnly shook his head. Darcy was at a loss. Where else would Elizabeth go? She knew few people outside London or Hertfordshire. “Carter, the footman she took with her, said she was bound for Matlock.”

  “Matlock?” Darcy echoed. Why would she go there? Richard’s parents were not in residence and would not welcome a visit from her if they were.

  Bannon just shrugged. “Carter said she been there before. For the colonel’s funeral.”

  Oh, Good Lord! Darcy sank slowly into his chair as understanding dawned. Of course. Richard’s grave was on the grounds of the Matlock family chapel. Disgusted by Darcy’s proposal, she was seeking refuge in memories of Richard’s love.

  Darcy felt like a prize idiot. How could he have ever hoped to measure up to Richard? Replace Richard?

  Suddenly, Darcy felt exhausted. “Thank you, Bannon. I would like you to stay on at Miss Bennet’s for now.”

  “Will you go after her?” Darcy frowned up at Bannon. He did not appreciate intrusive servants.

  “No, she is entitled to her privacy.”

  “But the thing is, Mr. Darcy,” Bannon’s hands anxiously worked the edge of his hat, “Mr. Grayson found out after the lady left that one of the kitchen boys told Mr. Wickham where she was going to. He’d been paid off, the scoundrel!” Bannon’s eyes were open wide in earnest concern. “What if Wickham goes after her?”

  Darcy shot to his feet. “Good God, Bannon, why did you not say so at first?” He yelled for his butler, who immediately opened the door.

  “Saddle my horse at once. I ride for Matlock!”

  ***

  There had been no snow on the way to Derbyshire, but the roads were pitted and bumpy—and the hired carriage was not the best sprung, communicating every bump and hole to the occupant. The entire journey, Elizabeth’s body had been jostled and bumped around, fittingly mirroring the tumultuous nature of her inner thoughts. For propriety’s sake, Elizabeth supposed she should have brought a maid, but privacy had given her time to think.

  The night after her visit to Darcy House, she had stared at the ceiling of her bed chamber, attempting to sort through her feelings for Mr. Darcy. She sighed. It had been so much simpler when she had just been angry with the man for proposing so insultingly. If she had never visited Darcy House to demand an explanation, he would never led her to consider that he genuinely cared about her.

  Even more disturbing was the way her heart leapt at the thought that he might have romantic feelings for her. Yes, life had been easier when she had been blissfully unaware of those sentiments.

  Did she truly feel love for him, or was she confusing friendship with something else? How could she feel that way about another man so soon after Richard’s death?

  She could not. That was the answer. It was some sort of temporary madness—perhaps brought on by grief itself. A visit to Richard’s grave would clear her head, remind her whom she loved. It would restore her equilibrium and help her forget all this nonsense.

  Lost in her reverie, she was startled when the carriage jerked to a stop. When Carter, the footman, opened the carriage door, she gave him a puzzled glance. “Hello
Carter, why have we stopped? Is there a problem on the road?”

  He grinned. “No, ma’am. We’re at the Matlock chapel.” He positioned the steps and held out his hand so she could descend.

  Elizabeth gratefully straightened up after the confined quarters of the carriage and glanced around. It was indeed the grounds of the Matlock churchyard—less green, but otherwise just as she remembered them on the sweltering June day when they had laid Richard to rest. “I cannot believe we are here already! You made very good time, Weston,” she said to the groom who was hitching the horses to a nearby fence.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Weston smiled, then turned away shyly.

  In June, the graveyard had been shaded with weeping willows and birch trees and carpeted with thick grasses. But this time of year, the trees were bare of leaves, and most of the grass was a dull brown. Nonetheless, she heard a cheerful birdsong in the distance, and the sun shone brightly. The graveyard held the kind of peaceful quality often found in such places.

  It was a lovely spot for Richard’s final resting place. Blinking back incipient tears, she murmured to Carter, “I would like to visit the colonel’s grave alone.”

  Carter frowned, scanning the deserted churchyard. “Very well, ma’am. Weston and me will take the horses to that stream to water ‘em. But we’ll be back in a trice. You won’t want to stay out long in this cold.”

  Elizabeth nodded. The sun had warmed the air, and the temperature was mild for January but still chilly. She drew her cloak about her as she climbed the hill toward the Fitzwilliam family gravestones. The small hill on the east side of the churchyard was home to a mausoleum and several grand effigies of prominent members of the Fitzwilliam family, but Richard’s grave marker was a plain gray marble with his name and the years of his birth and death. He had expressed a desire to avoid anything too ostentatious. However, the grave’s simplicity set it apart from the far more ornate markers surrounding it.

  Grass had grown around the grave, but Elizabeth could still see the outline where the earth had been disturbed. There was a rather flat gray rock next to the grave, and Elizabeth sat on it, not caring about the state of her skirts. Gathering her cloak about her, she set her reticule down and leaned forward to better view Richard’s gravestone.