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Darcy dragged a hand through his dark curls. “No, of course not.” He sighed. “I understand your anger, but do not allow it to push you into hasty decisions.”
Anger. The word struck Bingley forcefully. Anger is such an ugly emotion; I should rein it in. But avoiding anger had only allowed his sisters and friend to deceive him and dictate the course of his life.
Perhaps I need the anger.
Darcy straightened in his chair. “What of Miss Roman?”
Miss Winifred Roman was the latest in a long string of young ladies of good family who Bingley had met—at Caroline and Darcy’s behest. They had conversed at a dinner and danced twice at a ball. She was perfectly pleasant and utterly forgettable and in no way measured up to Jane Bennet.
“What of her?” Bingley asked coldly.
“She is fond of you—”
Bingley rolled his eyes. “She is no fonder of me than she is of the dozen or so other men seeking her attention. At least Jane Bennet appears to favor me.”
“It has not been long since we quitted Hertfordshire. Surely your yearning for her will fade with time.”
Bingley’s anger melted slightly in the face of his friend’s incomprehension. Perhaps Darcy really did not understand such sentiments. “Do you truly not know what it is to be in love, Darcy? I think about her every hour of every day. Sometimes every minute. I pass a woman on the street who reminds me of Miss Bennet, but when I turn my head for a second look, it is always someone else—and then I miss her anew.”
Darcy regarded him with his mouth hanging open.
“Several times a day, I hear a piece of music that reminds me of her, or read a passage in a book, or I wish to share something with her. And I turn, but she is not there. Her absence is like a vast hole in my life—a void that only she can fill.”
Darcy now stared at Bingley so intently that he was tempted to check whether a monster had emerged through the window behind him. Why did his frien
d look as if he had seen a ghost?
Compelled to break the tension, Bingley waved his hand. “Perhaps you have not experienced such things. It is no matter.”
Darcy remained frozen in place for a moment, but then he cleared his throat. “Yes. I…no, of course, I do not experience…have not experienced such things…as you do.”
Bingley set aside the mystery of Darcy’s uncharacteristic reaction; this conversation was not about him. His friend had not even apologized for his egregious breach of decorum. The fire had not abated, and the sight of Darcy’s unrepentant face only fanned the flames. “If you cannot entrust me with the directing of my own affairs, then perhaps I should not remain under your roof.”
Darcy jerked with shock and grabbed the arms of his chair.
Bingley strode to the door. “I will have Harvey pack my trunk; we will depart from Darcy House within an hour.”
Darcy stood, his hand outstretched. “That is not necessary. I am happy to have you continue as my guest.”
Bingley put his hand on the doorknob. “But I am not happy to continue here!”
“I beg you to reconsider.”
Bingley shook his head. He could not imagine sharing breakfast every morning with a man who had knowingly deceived him.
A muscle twitched in Darcy’s jaw. “I do apologize for my interference. Such deception is beneath me, and I should have known better.”
Bingley took a deep breath but did not release his hand from the knob. “I thank you.” Darcy’s words drained some of the anger from his body, but it remained stiff with tension.
“Can you forgive me?” Darcy asked.
Bingley said nothing, unsure how to respond.
Darcy paced the length of the room to the fireplace, seemingly under the power of some great inner agitation. “I must—” He took a deep breath as if gathering his strength and turned to Bingley. “I will not deceive you again.”
Bingley sensed a deeper meaning. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “Have you misled me about something else?”
Darcy shook his head. “Nothing that concerns you, but I was not honest with you—or with myself—in Hertfordshire.” He held himself stiffly, as if bracing for a blow. “I…at the time…harbored tender feelings for Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
