Pride and Proposals

A red stain had appeared in his cheeks. “I beg you to reconsider. You would be doing me a great service as well. As you know, Pemberley needs a mistress, and I need an heir. I am sure you would suit the role admirably.”

Elizabeth supposed she should be flattered by these compliments, but it felt as though she was being hired for a position on his staff.

“And of course, I would do my very best to appreciate and cherish you.” He reached out and took her hand in both of his.

With a shock, Elizabeth realized that he had removed his gloves. The feeling of skin on skin was unexpectedly … new. Naturally, she had often clasped hands with Richard, and she treasured the memories of the warmth and companionship they had shared in those moments. But Mr. Darcy’s touch was … shocking, exciting, electric. Somehow that single touch sent thrills coursing throughout her body and made her painfully aware of his proximity.

Some deep part of Elizabeth responded to him and wanted him to cherish her.

No, she chastised herself. He obviously did not desire her in that way.

He wanted a mistress for Pemberley, a mother for his heirs, and an opportunity to be of service to his dead cousin. He had said it quite plainly. She could not allow inexplicable and unexpectedly warm feelings to overcome her discernment or judgment.

But … his thumb caressed the back of her hand, creating the most delightful sensations. How did he do that? He regarded their clasped hands as if amazed. However, his words were at odds with the feelings. “It would settle much of the scurrilous gossip about you, and the Darcy name would help insulate you from future rumormongering. Your family at Longbourn would be protected as well.”

The longer she contemplated the rational and unfeeling nature of his words, the angrier she became. She must quit the room before losing the reins on her temper!

“Again, I thank you for your concern—”

Mr. Darcy continued, his voice soft, “A single woman living alone faces many dangers—”

“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth raised her voice to get his attention. “I do not wish you to make such a sacrifice!” His head jerked up as his eyes fixed on her face. “With a marriage contracted under such circumstances, I cannot believe we could make each other happy.” Immediately, she mourned the loss of warmth as his hands retreated to rest in his lap.

Mr. Darcy’s eyes shifted away from hers, and his head turned as he focused on the door, but for a moment, did she detect a glimmer of despair? No, she must be in error. He felt nothing beyond friendship; her refusal could mean little. She spoke again: “I do not desire to occasion you pain. Your friendship is meaningful to me, and I hope we can continue it.” She paused, but he made no reply. “I thank you for the honor of your addresses.”

A muscle in Mr. Darcy’s jaw twitched, and his eyes blinked rapidly. Otherwise, his face, in profile to her, might have been carved from stone.

She stood on legs shaking so violently they could barely support her. “I beg you to excuse me. I have an urgent appointment this morning.”

“Of course.” A polite, indifferent expression settled over his face. Obviously, his feelings were not touched.

His chair jolted back from the table with more force than necessary. “I apologize for detaining you. Good day.” Mr. Darcy gave a very proper bow and hastened from the room.

Rather than climb the stairs to ready herself for her invented appointment, Elizabeth sank back into her chair. Her heart pounded, and every nerve in her body seemed alive with agitation. Her entire body thrummed with excitement, confusion, anguish—and anger. But she did not completely understand why.

After all, Mr. Darcy’s reasoning could not be faulted—and he had done her a great honor. His family would object to an alliance with her, but he would overlook them for the sake of her comfort and security.

Yet nothing in his address suggested that he wanted her, Elizabeth Bennet. He needed a wife. She needed protection. He sought to solve two problems with one marriage.

Such a cold, disinterested analysis actually provoked a shiver down her spine. Somehow, the unfeeling nature of the proposal was … distressing to her.

Of course, most marriages within the ton were arrangements for mutual benefits rather than love matches. Why then should it disgust her when Mr. Darcy thought of her so dispassionately? Perhaps because he was already her friend, she longed for a more emotional connection?

Despite her efforts, Elizabeth could not understand her own feelings. Every emotional thread she examined became hopelessly entangled in other considerations—and led her once more to the same confused snarl. Finally, Elizabeth’s agitated thoughts brought about a headache, and she decided to retire to her bed chamber for the remainder of the morning. Perhaps sleep would bring some clarity.

*** Darcy had been drifting aimlessly some time before he thought to wonder about his location. By then, he was already at the river, staring at Westminster Bridge. The sun was high in the sky, making the white stone of the bridge gleam and emphasizing the dingy color of the bridge’s footings near the water. The shouts of river men and merchants who populated the streets near the bridge carried over the gentle lapping of the water on the banks.

Elizabeth had refused him.

The awful memory occupied his mind, leaving no space for any other thoughts. He had been prepared for a declaration she did not love him; he had expected it. Nevertheless, he had believed the proposal would appeal to her reason…her desire to provide security for her family. In truth, he had not prepared for rejection.

Nor had he been prepared for anger.

When he had recognized how fury fueled the paleness in her face and the trembling in her hands, he had felt ill—sick with despair. How had he offended her? The words of his proposal had been so carefully selected with the design of explaining his reasoning and demonstrating the desirability of their alliance. How had his plans gone awry so completely?

Black despair seized his chest and rendered breathing difficult. He leaned against a tree, taking deep breaths that he hoped would calm his wildly beating heart. It was a beautiful day; the sun made the waters of the Thames glisten and shine. Usually, Darcy found the moving current of the river and the gentle sway of the plants on the bank to be soothing, calming. But today, nothing would help.

Since reading Richard’s letter, Darcy had allowed a small seedling of hope to grow in his chest, but in the space of only a few moments, it had withered and died—and, he was certain, would never be resurrected.