Page 5 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

But had he truly changed? Or had he merely performed the actions of a better man whilst remaining, at heart, as proud and selfish as ever?

The question tormented him through the afternoon.

At dinner, Georgiana made another attempt to draw him into conversation.

“I have been thinking,” she ventured, “about what you said regarding Mr Bennet's daughters. Five ladies without a father's protection. It must be very frightening for them.”

Darcy set down his fork. “It is unfortunate.”

“More than unfortunate, surely. If they are to be displaced from their home as well...” She trailed off, her eyes studying his face. “I wondered if perhaps you knew them better than you indicated. The family, I mean.”

“I was acquainted with them last autumn,” he replied. “Miss Jane Bennet is an amiable woman. Bingley was quite taken with her.”

“And the others?”

Darcy hesitated. How to describe Elizabeth in neutral terms when merely thinking of her made his chest tighten? “The second daughter is intelligent. Witty. She has a lively mind and is not afraid to express her opinions.”

Georgiana's expression suggested she heard what he had not said. “She sounds remarkable.”

“She is.”

His sister regarded him with growing understanding.“I feel I am missing a part of the tale. Pray, will you not tell me the truth? I am not a child, though my actions regarding Wickham might have shown you otherwise.”

He looked at his sister and sighed. She would soon have her coming out ball and join society, and in the not too distance future, she’d be wed. Perhaps his tale might serve as a cautionary one for her.

He nodded then. “There is more indeed. Miss Bennet and I…Well. I was fond of her. I went so far as to propose.”

He paused as his sister stared at him. Seeing himself compelled to give her more detail, he made a report on his true connection to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. One his sister listened to with a sly smile.

“I did not know you had such romantic aspirations.”

“I no longer do,” he replied.

“It sounds as though you still carry a torch for her.”

He shrugged. “Even if I do, she made it clear what she thought of me. No, I am afraid I cannot insert myself into their affairs.”

His sister nodded and did not press the matter further for which he was grateful.

After dinner, Darcy withdrew to his study once more. He attempted to read, but the volume of sermons he had selected proved useless. His mind returned again and again to that morning in April.

He had found Elizabeth walking alone near the parsonage. He had rehearsed his proposal a dozen times, certain of the words, confident in his reasoning. She would accept him. How could she not? He was offering her everything: security, position, wealth beyond anything she could hope for otherwise.

He had not considered that she might value her own self-respect above all those things.

You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.

The words still cut, even in memory. But they had been deserved. He saw that now. He had spoken to her with unforgiveable arrogance, had insulted her family even as he professed admiration for her. He had expected gratitude where he ought to have offered humility.

And when she had refused him, he had responded with wounded pride rather than understanding. The letter he had put into her hands the following morning in the grove at Rosings had defended his actions regarding Bingley and Jane with self-righteous certainty, and had explained his treatment of Wickham without once acknowledging how his own reticence had allowed that villain to spread his lies unchallenged.

In short, he had behaved exactly as she had accused him of behaving. With pride and a total disregard for her feelings.

Darcy pressed his fingers to his temples. Elizabeth Bennet remained beyond his reach, and would be even more so now. A woman in mourning, facing displacement and poverty. Such a lady was hardly in a position to be approached by a gentleman she despised.

The clock struck ten. Darcy extinguished the candles and made his way to his chamber. Sleep, when it finally came, was restless and fractured. He dreamed of Hunsford, of Elizabeth's accusing gaze. He dreamed of Longbourn shrouded in black crepe. He dreamed of reaching for her hand and having her turn away.

Morning brought no relief. Darcy rose early and rode the bridle path in Hyde Park, as if physical exertion might somehow silence his thoughts. It did not.