Page 4 of Love Drunk for Mr Darcy

Arrogant. Conceited. Selfish disdain for the feelings of others.

The last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.

He had never imagined that a refusal might feel like this. Like he was being stabbed repeatedly by scalding blades, like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin to escape himself. He had never imagined he might be refused at all, a fact which so perfectly illustrated the charges she had made against him that he felt sickened by his own stupidity. He had entered the parsonage convinced that his feelings, once declared, would set everything to rights. He had harped on about her inferior connections, the impropriety of her family and the struggle he had endured before allowing himself to love her. He had even revelled in the separation of her sister from what now appeared to have been a love match.

Good God. He had insulted the woman he wanted to become his wife in every possible way and then acted like a dolt when she did not fall into his arms with gratitude.

Darcy lengthened his stride, though there was nowhere he might walk that would allow him to escape the memory of Elizabeth’s face. Her dark eyes, those deep, liquid brown eyes that had so often flashed with wit and amusement and so thoroughly entranced him, had widened first in disbelief and then in something far worse. Disgust. All those conversations he had enjoyed at Netherfield, every teasing remark and arch glance he had privately treasured, looked very different now. What he had taken for shared amusement had been mockery. What he had believed to be interest had been the barest civility. She had never admired him or even liked him. The great Master of Pemberley indeed. He was no better than a lovestruck teenager.

He reached the broad stone steps of Rosings and took them two at a time. A footman hurried forwards to open the door, only narrowly avoiding being struck by it when Darcy pushed through before the man had properly taken hold of the handle.

"Sir?"

Darcy stopped. The young servant had drawn back, his eyes wide and one hand still suspended in the air.

"I beg your pardon," Darcy said stiffly. "I did not see you."

The footman bowed at once. "No harm done, sir."

Darcy continued into the entrance hall, though the encounter only worsened his temper with himself. He was an arrogant, unfeeling idiot, and it seemed every step he took offered further proof of it. No wonder she believed him to be the worst sort of man. He needed to leave Kent. He would write her a letter first, if only to warn her of the threat Wickham posed, and then he would return to Pemberley. Perhaps he would remain there for the rest of his natural life. The thought of encountering her again, in any place or circumstance, was too mortifying to contemplate. And Bingley. Damn it, he must write to Bingley too. He could not undo the hurt he had caused, but perhaps he might at least begin to atone for his part in that whole miserable affair.

The thought of escaping to Pemberley came like a lifeline. His valet, Burke, could have everything packed within the hour. He would tell his aunt that business required his return and depart before dinner. Fitzwilliam would have to shift for himself. By nightfall, Hunsford would be miles behind him and Elizabeth would be spared the unpleasantness of ever seeing him again. The prospect ought to have brought him relief, but the thought of leaving her only made his bone-deep misery more acute. He placed one hand against the wall of the entrance hall and attempted to regain at least the appearance of composure.

"Darceeeeeey. Darcy! Is that you? Attend me at once."

His aunt’s voice carried from the drawing room in a nasal tone that felt like someone had applied a hammer and chisel to his brain. Darcy closed his eyes for one brief moment. He had endured quite enough humiliation for one afternoon without submitting himself to Lady Catherine’s interrogations, but to ignore her would only bring her in search of him, which would be considerably worse.

He straightened his coat and ran a hand over his hair before realising that the gesture had likely pushed his damp curls into further disorder.

"Darceeey!"

"I heard you, madam."

"Then I cannot imagine why you have not yet attended me."

He took a slow breath and entered the drawing room. Lady Catherine sat upright in her usual chair beside the fire, one hand resting upon the silver head of her cane. Anne occupied the sofa with a book lying open upon her lap. Fitzwilliam stood near the window and turned as Darcy entered, his expression shifting from mild boredom to open curiosity.

Lady Catherine looked him over with no attempt at discretion. "Where have you been? You look as though you have walked here from London. Your face is flushed, your cravat is crooked." She craned her neck to further inspect his person. "Is that mud upon your boots?"

"I have been walking outside. There is generally mud outside in spring, Aunt."

"I can see that for myself, although why you think it acceptable to track it into my parlour I cannot imagine. I asked where you have been. Anne has been most desirous for your company." She cooed the last sentence and tilted her head towards her daughter, as if the right words and affectation could push Darcy towards feeling something that he never would for his cousin.

Darcy saw Anne roll her eyes and crossed towards the empty chair farthest from the fire, but found himself too restless to sit. "In the park."

Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. "Which part of the park?"

He looked at her, struggling to contain his frustration. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me. You have been absent for more than an hour and returned looking as though you have been chased through the woods."

Fitzwilliam turned back towards the window, though the slight movement of his shoulders suggested he was enjoying the exchange much more than Darcy.

"I walked towards Hunsford," Darcy said at last, resting an arm on the mantel and attempting to draw his face into the usual mask of reserve he adopted whenever he was in the presence of his imperious aunt.

"To the parsonage?" she asked.

The question was fired so directly that every muscle in his body tightened. He forced himself to meet his aunt’s gaze. "I passed near it."