Page 40 of Love Drunk for Mr Darcy

Darcy took a rather larger swallow of brandy. "Yes. You have mentioned that."

"And now everything is..." Bingley appeared to search for a word expansive enough to encompass his happiness. "Well, wonderful."

"Good," Darcy growled.

From a chair near the fire, Fitzwilliam laughed into his glass. He had been watching the exchange with enjoyment and now stretched his legs before him. "Leave him alone, Bingley. The poor devil has spent the entire evening watching two other men paw at their wives while behaving towards his own as though she were some distant relation he had only just met."

Darcy gave him a dark look. "No one was pawing anyone."

"Well, you certainly were not, cousin. Is something amiss in the hallowed halls of Pemberley? I know the marriage was a little… rushed. But Anne was certain that there was a real connection between you."

Darcy stared into his brandy. "She wants to be friends."

Fitzwilliam choked on his own drink. "Friends?"

"Yes, friends." Darcy spat out the word. "I have spent more than a week trying to behave like one and, damn everything, it is torturous."

"Friendship is nice," Fitzwilliam said mildly.

Darcy knew perfectly well that his cousin was provoking him, but after an entire evening of holding himself in check so tightly he thought he might snap, he had very little patience left. "She is my wife. I am in love with her. Of course I wish to be her friend, but I do not wish to be only her friend. The sight of her, the smell of her, knowing she is sleeping one room away..." He broke off and dragged a hand through his hair. "It is enough to drive a man mad."

"I fail to see why you are so damned glum." Fitzwilliam swirled the brandy in his glass. "Those looks she was giving you across the table did not appear particularly friendly to me."

Darcy stilled. "What looks?"

Fitzwilliam stared at him. "Good God, man."

"What looks?" Darcy repeated, feeling a very strong desire to haul his cousin up by the lapels and shake him.

"The ones where it seemed the thing she most wanted to devour at the table was you."

"She was being pleasant," he said at last, though the certainty had gone from his voice.

Fitzwilliam gave him a long look. "Darcy, you are a complete and utter dunderhead."

"We are friends. She has asked that we be friends. I am being friendly, as is she."

"You may say the word friend as many times as you wish, but I have served across half the Empire and witnessed every variety of foolishness between men and women. Believe me, Darcy, that look was not friendly."

Bingley nodded solemnly. "Jane looks at me like that."

Darcy regarded him with disgust. "You are no help at all."

Fitzwilliam leaned forwards, resting his elbows upon his knees. "Darcy, there is a difference between respecting the lady's wishes and withdrawing so far up your own backside that you are left wallowing in your own misery. Go to her. Talk with her. Be with her." He accompanied the last sentence with an unfortunate waggle of his eyebrows.

Darcy stood abruptly and began to pace. "I am a gentleman. I will respect a lady's wishes, and I will not take advice from two lovestruck buffoons who have apparently been sent here for the sole purpose of driving me mad." He stopped long enough to glare at them both, then drained the last of his brandy and set the glass down with a clatter. "Goodnight."

Chapter Seventeen

Elizabeth retired to her rooms as early as politeness allowed. Darcy had failed to rejoin their guests with the other gentlemen, so she had done her best to ensure everyone was comfortable before she could reasonably slip away. She was angry with him for his rudeness, angry with him for the feelings he inspired in her and angry with herself for being so entirely incapable of understanding what she wanted from him.

Her maid followed her inside and began preparing to help her undress, but Elizabeth shook her head. "No, thank you. I can manage perfectly well tonight." The young woman hesitated, surprised, but wished her goodnight and withdrew.

Elizabeth remained before the looking glass. She had thought herself looking very well earlier, having put an embarrassing amount of effort into her toilette. All so that Darcy might look at her. Which he had, she supposed, before proceeding to tell her that she looked very well. Very well. It was the sort of thing her father might say to her mother without ever actually turning his head in her direction.

"Very well indeed," she muttered. Her own face stared back at her, flushed and discomposed. Slowly, her gaze shifted towards the connecting door which led to the sitting room between their apartments.

This had gone on long enough. Could she really walk through it? And if she did, would he even receive her? He had not so much as said goodnight. Anger and frustration drove her across the room and then she stopped, one hand hovering over the handle. For more than a week she had listened from this side of it, like a child eavesdropping. And on whom? Her own husband.