Page 69 of A Prudent Engagement

“It is not my desire to convince you to change that. I merely want to tell you that it was on that basis, of feeling insulted and belittled by you, that I formed my dislike. It was on that basis that I believed the pretty tales that Mr. Wickham spread about you and your villainies perpetuated against him—”

“So this is what you truly think of me. I understand now.”

“No, you do not! I hardly knew you.”

There was a sob in Elizabeth’s voice.

Darcy looked at her, and then he convulsively turned away from her visage. He could not think clearly while able to see her.

Every time he witnessed her tears he again had the impulse to take her into his arms and hold her, but he now knew that she did not want that.

When he finally turned to look back at her she was staring at him with trembling lips and wet cheeks. There was no smile in her eyes.

“Oh, Elizabeth.” Darcy said her name in a quiet moan. “My loveliest Elizabeth. You need not fear. If you are determined to marry a man you dislike because you must protect your mother, neither my honour nor my feelings will permit me to end the connection.”

“I do not dislike you!” she exclaimed. “I do not. Not any longer.”

“You say that not much more than a week ago you could not stand the sight of me—this is true. You despised my character. It is different from yours. Such a revolution in sentiments in such a short time cannot be credited.”

“Is not gratitude a sufficient motive? I swear, I do not dislike you.”

“But you do not love me.”

She stared at him. Her lips worked.

“You say you do not dislike me—I-I would have hoped for a stronger sentiment from my wife than for her to consider me tolerable enough. At least with the added sweetness of a great fortune and grand estate. Jove, it hurts to look at you. To know what my feelings have been, what they remain—and we still must marry. And perhaps your sister is right—it will make you miserable. We are trapped neatly, are we not?”

“I know you blame me. You deserve better, but please, I…it was not your estate.”

“Then why? Why accept me if you did not love me, if it were not for sordid and mercenary motives?”

“You asked me whether I could imagine a happy life with you, and I answered truly.” She stared at her hands, which were tightly woven together. She then added in a soft murmur that Darcy could barely understand, “I feared that if I did not accept you immediately, you would go away.”

“Why would I have stayed knowing you disliked me?”

“I did not—I had to choose, and it seemed impossible to ask you to wait, to give me more time to know you better.”

“Elizabeth, please, please, cease to speak. I find it painful to hear at present.”

Her chin wavered; she looked down.

Then she pressed her lips together and stood. Her eyes flashed at him. “This is what has always frustrated me—you are so certain of yourself. You listened to Jane, but you do not listen to me.”

“I have heard you. You were frightened, and you accepted me for that reason, despite your dislike for me. I do not blame you. It was very much what any woman would do. Only I had thought better of you, for a time.”

“Can you not listen? I had long since ceased to dislike you when you asked me.”

“Long since? It was less than a week from the date of those letters Miss Bennet received from you. You cannot—”

“It felt like a great length of time to me! Papa had died—all had changed. I—Mr. Darcy, I beg you. I wish to make it right. I wish to make you understand that I do like you. I do like your presence. I do wish to marry you. I wish us to be happy together.”

He turned again to the window.

He would believe what she said—he would forget that she did not love him—if he looked too long at her face.

“You now say you like me. And in what sense do you like me?”

“You make me feel secure and safe.” Her voice cracked. “When you are near—”