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“Yes, I’m sure he gave off that impression,” Darcy said. “And what wereyoudoing in here when there is a perfectly good party happening downstairs?”
“As you might have already guessed, I’m not much fond of parties.”
Darcy brought the tumbler to his lips, then lowered it. “Yes, that is something you and I have in common.”
He didn’t think he and this man could have anything in common. In fact, he knew they couldn’t be more different. “You seemed quite in your element to me.”
“I like to consider myself a wallflower.”
“A wallflower?” Bron repeated. “I find that hard to believe.”
“What is there not to believe? It is my lifelong goal to be a piece of furniture.” Darcy smirked. “And I profess your judgment of character to be at leastslightlyoff-kilter.”
Bron thought then of all the times at St. Mary’s when he’d confided in his peers: in Joseph Simcox, whom he’d once declared his love for in the sixth year and who never spoke to him again; in Bertie Barrett, who touched him in otherwise barren places, but who ignored him the rest of the time. Of Harry, who’d once made up his entire world, but who now barely acknowledged his existence. “You know, I wouldn’t usually disagree with that assessment, but something tells me I’m slowly becoming better at it.”
“And what makes you think that?”
He wracked his brain for an answer. Finding none, he took to looking into the fire.
“I see. Well, after all, isn’t there something left unsaid? Something you’ve forgotten to say to me?”
He knew it would come to this, that Darcy would force him to apologize for his behavior outside the house, or threaten to dismiss him from his job at once. But he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. Not for all the world. The truth was he’d been besieged by this man’s need to offload his opinion, and he had no desire to hear it. He couldn’t have helped his fight-or-flight response. Why should he apologize for defending himself? No, he wouldn’t do it.
“If you insist on talking about it, then I cannot say I regret what happened between us, only that I wish it didn’t happen at all. The way I choose to—” But his impassioned speech was quickly interrupted by Darcy’s awful sniggering, the holding of his head in his hands.
“God.”
“What?”
“I only meant that you’d forgotten to wish me a happy birthday, Bron.”
“Oh,” he said quietly under his breath, wanting to die right there and then—fuck my actual life—before covering his mistake with what he hoped was an assured “Oh, well then, happy birthday.”
It was almost too much to bear, the constant silence that ensued. Darcy took to stirring the fire in the hearth. Threw in another piece of wood. But it was the sound of the mantel clock’s ticking that filled the air. Bron could have swooned to the back and forth of the pendulum if he’d let himself.
“So how old are you now?” he asked, but regretted the question as soon as he’d voiced it.
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Should a queen ever reveal their real age?”
“Um …” There was something very awkward about Darcy’s referring to himself as a queen, the unnatural way it sounded in his voice, wrapped as it was in a playful tone.
“How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.” Ada had told him it was Darcy’s twenty-ninth birthday, so he thought it only polite to shave off a couple of years. “Twenty-seven?”
“Hah, now that is treacherous. I look twenty-five at most?”
“I don’t place much value on people’s appearances. It has never served me well.” He hadn’t expected the accusatory inflection of his voice.
“I see. Am I so unforgiveable for my moment of lapsed judgment after that little incident at college? Because I am quite sorry for it.”
Bron appreciated this seemingly honest admission, thought it resembled something like remorse. Or was he being fooled? How best to arrange his next words. “Well, I suppose I could start thinking about forgiveness.”
“And then I’m off the hook?” Darcy teased. “That would be most welcome. And as I have already shared my thoughts, perhaps I should extend the option to you … allow you to do the same? I suppose that would be reasonable.”
“That what would be reasonable?”
“Go on, go on—don’t be shy,” Darcy quipped, settling into the armchair and tapping at his thighs like a schoolboy. “Tell me what you think of me.”
