“Why would myfamilytell me that I am a princess if I am not?” she inquired.
“I do not know. I assume—”
“You assume a great deal,” she said. “You assume that my uncle, who has raised me as his own daughter, has lied to me all my life. You assume that Sir Reginald and Mrs. Hobart are villains. You assume I have no judgement. You assume—”
“I assume,” he cut in, “that you are quick and brave and unused to suspecting ill in others, and that you have an unsettling tendency to laugh at danger.”
“I donotlaugh at danger,” she retorted. “I only refuse to imagine it behind every bush.”
“That is not what I—”
She flung him a look that was half anger, half hurt. “You thinkme a fool.”
“I do not—”
“Oh, but you do,” she said. “If I had any sense at all, I would know that it was impossible for me to be a princess. That is what you are thinking.”
Frustration snapped the last of his restraint. “Allow me to finish, if you please.”
She waited, but he could see that he had lost her.
“If you had more sense,” he burst out in a harsh whisper, “you would stay where you are known and loved, instead of trusting your future to the first man who calls himself a king’s envoy!”
Darcy leaned towards her as though drawn by an invisible string, placing one hand against the wall beside her head, trapping himself as much as her.
His eyes were upon her lips and he bent his head.
Her breath came in short puffs as her eyes met his.
They remained there, caught in the terrible space between wanting and having, until a door slammed downstairs and Darcy’s last shred of reason reasserted itself with brutal force.
“I cannot,” he said, voice rough and low. She was not a princess. He could not allow himself to give in to his feelings for her until she admitted that or simply realised that it was not true. He pushed himself back from the wall. “Forgive me,” he said hoarsely.
Elizabeth stared at him, colour high, eyes suddenly bright.
Darcy wished he could take it all back. That he couldmakeher believe him. It struck him then, that she must feel the same way about him.
Buthewas right.
Elizabeth recovered first. “I thank you for your courage in the hollow,” she said before he could order his thoughts and speak again. “But I must beg your pardon, I had not understood that your assessment of my judgement was quite so poor. I will take care not to trouble you with the expression of it again.”
“Miss Bennet—”
“You have made your opinion abundantly clear,” she went on. “You think me reckless, easily deceived, in need of your superior guidance. I, in turn, cannot adopt your habit of suspecting the worst of everyone I meet. Sir Reginald was an envoy for the Thurnian court four years ago; he is an envoy for the Thurnian court today. I am afraid we must be content to differ.”
He wanted to say that was not what he thought of her at all; that he admired her character more than any woman he knew; that it was preciselybecausehe valued her so highly that he could not bear to see her risk herself. The words jammed in his throat. Pride, temper, something ugly and ungenerous, all tangled together.
He bowed, as far as he could in their close quarters. “Very well, madam. Good evening.”
Her curtsy matched his bow for cold propriety. “Good evening, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy turned toward his chamber, leaving her there atop the staircase. Every step away from her felt like a mistake, but he could not make himself turn back.
She did not understand him. Worse—it was his fault.
He entered his chamber, where the fire had been made up and a teapot with a single cup waited on the table by the hearth.
Everything was in its place. Only his thoughts refused to follow the example.