He shifted against the carriage seat. “I respect you.”
She angled her cheek to the side. “But you do not love me, nor do you even seem eager to see me when we have been apart. In fact, I think I would scarcely see any feeling from you at all if we were not among company.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean at Matlock, I believe I saw more pleasure and enjoyment in you than I have ever known you to possess. Where there are others as a diversion, you are…” She sniffed and looked away. “You are a different man than I thought you were.”
“Anne…”
“Darcy—” she put up a hand. “I am feeling out of sorts this evening. I am in no state to go to a festive dinner party.”
He groaned in frustration. “We cannot turn back without offending Lady Gresham.”
Anne lifted her chin. “If we carry on, we will only humiliate ourselves.”
He drew out a handkerchief. “Anne, forgive me. I did not intend to start a quarrel. Come, let us be rational, take a moment to collect ourselves. I am sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” She glanced at the linen he offered, then shook her head. “It is no good. Take me home, Darcy.”
He stared at her in disbelief for another moment, then reluctantly rapped on the roof of the carriage to signal his driver. Not another word passed between them until they were outside her building, and he was handing her down once more.
“I will walk you up,” he offered in a husky voice.
She looked him in the face, then shook her head. “Not tonight.”
As she turned to go, he called after her, “What of Christmas Day? Do you still mean to take dinner with us?”
She did not answer—merely stopped and glanced back at him. “Lady Matlock is eager for my company again.” When she turned away, he almost imagined—or did he hear her mutter, “At least someone is.”
Chapter 32
Darcyreturnedfromalong, brisk walk the following afternoon, not nearly tired enough to silence the constant torment of his mind. He ought to have walked farther, faster, but at every corner and crossing, it seemed someone he knew stopped him to converse.
His mission that day had initially been a simple one—a morning at Harrod’s investigating Christmas gifts for Georgiana, and for Anne… perhaps one or two for other ladies of his acquaintance. And he did find several items of interest—brooches, scarves, hat pins, bracelets, books, even a rather fetching hat. A clerk set each item aside at his request, but after some time, when Darcy asked to see his order, his stomach sank. Three tasteful gifts chosen for Georgiana. One was for Anne. And five he had selected with Elizabeth in mind.
He could not decide which he liked best, nor which to send back, so he purchased everything and had it taken to his carriage. Had the morning been warmer, he might have driven his open car, but now he decided he was glad of the fact that his coachman could take it all home for him. “John,” he told the young man, “I mean to walk the rest of the way.”
The coachman stopped in the process of putting down the block for Darcy to step up. “But it is nearly an hour’s walk, sir, and it is cold out.”
“And I daresay the exercise will do me good. Please have Hodges take the parcels to my study and send word to Miss Darcy that I will be delayed.”
The walk was invigorating, but not productive. All his thoughts were dominated by the bewildering dilemma of what he was to do—about Anne, about his own cursed sentiments, about… yes, about Elizabeth. He could not very well continue his friendship with her if this was how his heart induced him to behave. Yet, cutting her out of his life would be like amputating his own limbs.
For one delirious moment—or perhaps it was longer—he consideredwhat if. What if he went to Anne, confessed his duality, and asked her to release him? What if that darkness he had seen in Elizabeth’s spirits was truly her own unquenched longing, and what if she yearned for him as he did for her? Because, in truth, every moment he basked in her magnetic presence, or even when she crossed his thoughts, he felt… light. As if he walked among clouds, all the petty troubles and inconveniences of the world in the distance below.
Poets spoke of it. Operas and plays and novels tried to capture it. Even so, any rational person knew it was a vain ambition, pure folly to live in wait, with the hope of someday tumbling headlong into the mindless euphoria of love. And yet…
It was not mindless, for his eyes were clear. He knew the woman’s faults, her unsuitability in the estimation of the world. He knew the blackened stain upon her past and the heartache that haunted her, and he would gladly share in them for the honour of holding her hand. But that pleasure must be denied him, for his honour was already committed. If he broke faith with Anne, how could he count himself worthy of Elizabeth?
And so, he must bear up, continue on, and pray he could govern his mind and heart in the future better than he had so far proved capable of. And he must tell Anne the truth—that the reluctance she had sensed in him, perhaps the very reason they were failing to thrive and flourish together, was due to his own weakness. He would not ask her to set him free—no, never that—but she must be given the chance to see him for the flawed creature he was before she bound herself to him. Honour demanded at least that much.
He did not see Georgiana when he returned to his house, so he went directly to his study to examine his purchases again. That delicate pin, the gold stem studded with tiny diamond and amethyst flower petals—that one Elizabeth surely must have. And the book—yes, he could not omit the book. That made Anne’s gift of kid gloves look rather inadequate. He sighed and went to his desk to sort through the day’s correspondence rather than tackling the dilemma of the gifts just now.
A quick glance through the assorted letters, however, proved the opposite of the refuge he had sought. Elizabeth’s name topped the first envelope.
Was she writing in secret? A letter of confession, affection, or otherwise? Was she attempting to sever their friendship herself? Reginald had spoken of her wishing to go… With as much trepidation as pleasure, he tore open the envelope.
Dear William,
