For a long moment, they stood frozen, close enough that a single step would bring them into contact, close enough that Elizabeth could see his chest rise and fall with each breath, could watch his pupils dilate and contract as emotions flickered across his face, too quick to name.
Then she stepped back, breaking the spell that had held them suspended.
“Excuse me,” Elizabeth said, her voice cold and formal. “I find I have had quite enough of your company, Mr. Darcy. I do hope the roads clear soon so that we might both be spared any future need to share the same inn.”
She turned on her heel and swept from the room, her book clutched tight. In the passage she had to sidestep sharply to avoid Mrs. Cooper, who was hovering just outside the door listening. She had likely heard every word of that humiliating exchange. Mrs. Cooper’s gaze darted to Elizabeth’s face and softened with sympathy.
Sympathy was the very last thing Elizabeth could bear; she gave the woman a quick nod and walked on.
Only when she reached her chamber, when the door was safely closed and locked behind her, did Elizabeth allow herself to sink onto the edge of her bed, breathing hard, angry and frustrated and unhappy.
And, in some strange way, elated.
Mr. Darcy’s wit was quick, but he was also insufferable. Superior. Presumptuous. Absolutely, completely wrong about her.
And distressingly attractive in his righteousness.
She pressed her palms against her burning cheeks and tried very hard not to remember the way her breath had caught when he had stepped toward her, the way his hazel eyes had darkened when they stood so close, or the uncomfortable truth that some of his accusations had struck closer to home than she wanted to admit.
No. She would not think of it. Would not think of him. Mr. Darcy was nothing to her, and she would be vastly relieved when the roads cleared and they could continue their separate journeys.
Even if part of her, a treacherous, stubborn part she refused to acknowledge, had felt more alive in those heated moments than she had felt since leaving Longbourn.
Chapter Eight
The common room felt too large and too quiet in her absence. Darcy stood precisely where Miss Bennet had left him, his heart hammering beneath the thinnest veneer of composure. The door closed behind her with a soft click that might as well have been the report of a pistol.
He had spoken the truth. The words arranged themselves in his mind, each point sound, each argument unassailable. She was an imposter, a clever actress who deployed tears and trembling hands as other women deployed fans and fluttering lashes. That her eyes had brimmed with moisture, that her face had flushed with genuine distress—these were merely the tools of her trade.
Manipulative. The word soothed his conscience against the faint voice that reminded him of eyes shining with tears that would not fall, of flushed cheeks and small, fisted hands.
He would avoid her. Simple enough even in so confined a space, as she would undoubtedly take her meals in her chambers from now on.
Darcy felt no guilt for sending a young lady fleeing his presence. None.
He did not wish to remain here, claiming a hollow victory in an empty room. Darcy returned to his chamber, climbing the narrow stairs with deliberate steps.
The hour before dinner crawled past. Darcy attempted to read, but the words swam before his eyes. He stood to stare out the small window for a time, attempting to focus on his purpose for reaching London. Speak with Georgiana. Decline his uncle’s offer. When he could be confined to his tiny chamber no longer, he descended the stairs with the grim determination of a man walking to the gallows.
The common room had not yet filled with the usual evening crowd, but two tradesmen were thawing by the fire, a modestly dressed family of genteel travellers sat at the corner table, and servants moved between kitchen and the common room with steaming dishes. The warm smell of beef stew and fresh bread should have been welcoming. Instead, the moment Darcy crossed the threshold, conversation ceased.
Every eye turned toward him.
Darcy took a seat near the window. The common room resumed its ordinary life, except that ordinary life now included people pretending not to notice him.
They did not notice him with remarkable diligence.
Conversations continued in hushed tones. Laughter broke off whenever he looked up. Glances skittered toward him and away again, quick as startled sparrows. It was the sort of discretion that only existed when the subject of discussion sat within earshot.
“Shame how a supposed gentleman treats a princess,” he heard one tradesman tell the other.
Darcy’s anger burned low and hot. It had been a private altercation, how had it become common knowledge? He had spoken to Miss Bennet inthe common room, yes, but they had been alone. She had retreated to her chamber afterwards.
He scowled. Of course. She would have told the companion. Miss Bennet must have poured out a tale of persecution, embellishing it with whatever details would best serve her purpose. Tears, no doubt. Trembling lips. Innocent protestations.
The innkeeper’s wife emerged from the kitchen bearing a tray laden with steaming bowls of stew. She served the family first, setting the bowls before them with a warm smile and a pleasant word about the quality, if not the quantity of the beef.
“There you are. Eat hearty. Nothing like a proper stew on a cold night.”