The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words

by Joana Starnes

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Darcy could not discern whether her response was meant to be sarcastic or whether she was merely making an honest inquiry, and momentarily closed his eyes to better master his frustration.

  Lord in Heaven. What I would not give to be able to read this woman with any sort of accuracy! If only I was better able to gauge her mood and correctly interpret her cryptic tongue. But Darcy knew such familiarity—such intimacy—could only come with time.

  Though he no longer had much confidence in her uncle’s observations, he did have confidence in the elder man’s wisdom. “You always have a choice,” he told her. “Whether you choose to hear me or whether you choose to wilfully misunderstand me is entirely up to you.”

  From across the room, Elizabeth emitted a soft huff that Darcy could only describe as being both rueful and diverted. He turned to look at her and saw the faintest hint of a bittersweet smile upon her lips. Her smile vanished almost as soon as it appeared, and Darcy was left questioning whether he had seen Elizabeth smile at all.

  “You sound much like my uncle Gardiner,” she replied. Her voice was quiet and her tone reflective and warm. “He is a firm believer in the philosophy of learning from our mistakes, rather than sitting upon our laurels and remaining in ignorance, for misunderstandings and neglect create more confusion in this world than trickery and malice.” She inclined her head. “Very well, sir. You may say your piece.”

  That she could so readily quote Goethe to him was impressive but not the least surprising given her dedication to the improvement of her mind by extensive reading. Darcy’s admiration for her soared to new heights but at the same time, he felt plaintive. Elizabeth’s love of literature, coupled with her desire to know more of the world, would truly be magnificent with Pemberley’s library at her disposal. While the idea of Elizabeth in his home thrilled him so would her rejection pain him. Once again, his emotions were at war.

  Darcy shook off his encroaching disheartenment and shifted his concentration back to the present. Elizabeth had told him she would hear what he had to say, but he hoped she would do more than simply listen to his words. He wanted her to recognise the truth behind them, and his sincerity as well.

  But where to begin? After careful consideration, he decided that perhaps the best place to begin would be the last place they had been. In other words, the exchange he had witnessed the day before between Elizabeth and Lady Catherine.

  Darcy cleared his throat. “I am neither blind nor a simpleton, Miss Bennet. I cannot ignore the fact that your headache coincided with my aunt calling here yesterday; neither can I dismiss it as coincidence. I fear she is to blame.”

  A deep blush spread from the neckline of her gown to her hairline, and Elizabeth turned aside her head. “If you have come to chastise me for my behaviour, Mr. Darcy, you are too late. You can say nothing to me that I have not already said to myself.”

  “I have come,” he said earnestly, “with the hope of finding you better. As for my aunt, what did you say to her that she did not deserve?”

  “A great many things.” She rose from the chaise with an abruptness that startled him and walked to the window on the opposite side of the room, where she drew the curtains aside and stared into the darkness beyond. “I ought to have held my tongue. The things I said to her! I have no doubt Her Ladyship has shared with you the details of our conversation. You need say nothing further on the subject. I can well-imagine what you must think of me.”

  He watched her from across the room, as she raised her hand and angrily swiped at the apple of her cheek. This meeting was not turning out the way he had hoped. Not at all. The last thing he had wanted was to upset her. Now he had made her cry. “Come, Miss Bennet,” he said with as much kindness as he could inject into his voice. “Will you not sit back down?”

  “I thank you, but no,” she replied after drawing an unsteady breath. “I do not wish to sit down, but you may leave if you like, Mr. Darcy. I would never presume to . . . keep you.”

  Darcy sighed. Clearly, he would have to employ another tactic if he wished to make any headway with this conversation. Rather than throw himself into a chair and beat his head against the back of it, like he wanted to do, he walked slowly to her side until they were nearly touching. If nothing else, he would prove to her that his opinion of her was not nearly so low as hers appeared to be of him.

  “Miss Bennet, a moment ago, you told me you could well-imagine what I must think of you. It is not my intent to argue with you any more than it is to cause you distress, but I must defend myself. Despite whatever my aunt said to you yesterday, it so happens that I think very highly of you. In fact, not a single day has passed in the last eight months that I have not thought of you.”

  When she did not immediately speak, Darcy worried he had gone too far. He attempted to think of an appropriate apology—some way to right any potential indiscretion—but his brain would not cooperate.

  Nothing could describe his shock when Elizabeth drew an unsteady breath and whispered, “I think of you as well.”

  She was clearly in distress; there were tears in her eyes, and her voice was barely perceptible, but Darcy felt her words in his heart every bit as much as he saw them form upon her lips. As difficult as it was to manage his composure at such a moment, manage it he must. It would do him no good to act the fool when he had no idea in what capacity Elizabeth did think of him. For all he knew, it was because he had been arrogant and prideful in the past, and his behaviour toward her, as abhorrent as it was, still occasioned her pain. Or perhaps, she only wished to forget him, but could not because she harboured too much resentment toward him for failing to expose Wickham the moment he had set foot in Hertfordshire.

  “I hope,” Darcy said, swallowing around the lump that had lodged in his throat, “in addition to thinking of me, that you also think well of me. That your opinion of me now is better than it was in the past.”

  “It is,” Elizabeth replied with feeling. “I do think highly of you.”

  Despite her words and the emotion behind them, Darcy was disheartened to see she would not meet his eyes. “Are you in earnest, Miss Bennet?” he asked, meaning to tease her. “Or are you merely seeking to gratify my vanity by professing sentiments you do not feel.”

  Her response was not what he expected. There was no fire in her tone, and when she looked at him—finally looked at him—her eyes held none of their usual impertinence. Instead, what he saw only served to confuse him further, for in their depths Darcy recognised sorrow, bleakness, and shame.

  “Indeed, I am in earnest. Since we met in Derbyshire, not a single day has passed when I have not thought of you, and thought of you in all the best light. However, I doubt you can say the same whenever you think of me.”

  Darcy shook his head. “I have already told you I think very highly of you. You must know I consider you—”

  “Please, do not,” she said, both her voice and expression pained. “Surely you must know, Mr. Darcy, that you should not consider me in any way. I am not as impractical as the rest of the world, nor am I the least bit optimistic. Because of my mother’s indulgence and my father’s neglect, not only is my youngest sister selfish and spoilt, she is lately married to a man who has wronged you in the most reprehensible way. Lydia’s union is a sham, implemented by my uncle to avoid casting my family in the shadow of total disgrace. While Mr. Bingley is none the wiser, you, sir, know of our troubles and our humiliation. There is nothing I have not told you; you know it all. The fact remains: Mr. Wickham is now my brother. Much as I loathe him and my connection to him, nothing can be done.”

  “No,” Darcy sombrely agreed. “Nothing can be done in that quarter, and for that I am sorry. But I hope you do not think so little of me as to believe I am overly bothered by your connection to him. By now, I would hope you are well enough acquainted with my character to know I am not so fickle as to withdraw my good opinion of you because of my poor opinion of him.”

  Elizabeth a
verted her eyes. “And I, sir, would not blame you if you did.”

  Darcy could only stare at her. “Do you truly think so little of me, then?”

  She would not answer him and, in a momentary lapse of discretion, he took hold of her shoulders and asked her again. Elizabeth’s intake of breath was as immediate as the stiffening of her spine, and Darcy, aghast that he had overstepped the boundary of propriety in such a manner—that he had dared to take such a liberty—released her at once.

  “Pray, forgive me,” he said, thoroughly shaken as he raked his fingers through his hair and desperately tried to forget the way she had felt to him when he touched her: delicate, soft, and warm through the fine muslin fabric of her gown. “Obviously, Miss Bennet, you are justified in holding such a low opinion of me.” His voice was full of self-rebuke, and Darcy found he could not bear to meet her eyes.

  In his periphery, he saw Elizabeth raise her hand and slowly extend it toward him before dropping it once more to her side. Her voice was as soft as he imagined her skin must be. “I forgive you, sir. I can only hope you can extend the same courtesy to me.”

  Darcy glanced sharply at her, his brows furrowed in confusion. Why on earth was she asking him for his forgiveness when the fault was quite obviously none but his own? “Miss Bennet, you have done nothing wrong.”

  “I have,” she told him, and he could hear the earnestness in her voice as clearly as he could her distress. “My conduct over the past year has been . . . regrettable. In fact, I can think of many instances throughout our acquaintance, and one instance particularly, in which my behaviour toward you has been reproachable. I assure you, I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”

  Darcy shook his head in disbelief. “Miss Bennet, let us not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening. The conduct of neither will be exemplary; but since then we have both, I hope, improved in civility.” He swallowed thickly, knowing he was but a moment away from losing his composure and apt to do something rash, if not lamentable.

  And speaking of regrets, there was one particular thing the master of Pemberley wished to say; one particular question he very much wanted to know the answer to, no matter how much that answer might devastate him. The time had come, for if Darcy did not say his piece now, he may never have another opportunity again, never mind the fortitude.

  He spoke. “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes remain unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”

  Elizabeth gaped at him. “How?” she all but exclaimed, and Darcy could see her own composure was hanging by a thread. “After my sister’s shame; after Mr. Wickham’s treachery; after the deplorable things I said to you in Kent . . . How can you still desire a connection with me, never mind want me for your wife?”

  That she could think for one moment that he would never want anything to do with her was absurd, as absurd as forgetting her. As absurd as going about his life and never, ever seeing her again. His reply was as simple as it was honest. “Because I love you,” he told her earnestly. “Because I will always love you.”

  Though he had proposed to her once before, Darcy had never felt so vulnerable as he did in this moment. In Kent, he had thought only of the honour he was bestowing upon her, for he was arrogant enough to believe she had been wanting, nay, expecting his addresses.

  But Darcy was not the same man now as he was those many months ago; nor, he was willing to bet, was Elizabeth the same woman. He was neither arrogant, nor confident enough to think that just because he wanted her, she would automatically surrender to him. In fact, it was she who would bestow the honour upon him should she answer him favourably. Standing before her now in her mother’s parlour, Darcy was not the master of Pemberley. He was simply a man who loved a woman with all his heart, and it was because of his love for her that he was willing to risk his heart in the first place.

  He realised his hands were shaking, and to distract himself, attempted to think of something other than gathering Elizabeth in his arms or cupping her cheek in his hand or pressing a lingering kiss upon her lips; but the task was easier said than done. If Darcy had learnt anything in the past year, it was never to make any assumptions about Elizabeth Bennet. He held his breath and awaited her answer.

  “My feelings,” she replied in wonderment. “You honestly do not know?”

  “No,” he said at once. “I have misread you so many times in the past that I dare not trust my own judgement.”

  “Then you must allow me, Mr. Darcy,” she softly said, “to tell you my feelings are very different. In fact, they are quite the opposite.”

  And just like that, Darcy could breathe.

  “When? When did you realise you loved me?”

  Elizabeth laughed and Darcy felt his chest swell with joy and gratitude, for it had been far too long since he had heard her laughter. “I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words which laid the foundation. I was in the middle before I knew I had begun. But I do,” she said feelingly as she gazed at him, and in her eyes, he could see her affection for him as clear as day. “I do love you.”

  Overcome with emotion, Darcy closed the distance between them and extended his hand to her, wishing, hoping she would not deny him this one liberty. He was overjoyed when she not only placed her hand in his own, but boldly stepped into the circle of his arms and laid her cheek against his chest. Though he still wore his greatcoat, Darcy swore he could feel the heat of her blush.

  “Dearest, loveliest, Elizabeth,” he said, tenderly stroking the tendrils of hair that fell upon her neck. “You have made me so happy. I promise to do all within my power to make you as happy as you have made me tonight. Whatever you wish, I shall do.”

  “I am afraid, sir, that such compliance will make for a dull marriage indeed. If I desired a tractable husband, Mr. Darcy, do you not think I would be much better off with someone like Mr. Bingley, or perhaps Mr. Collins?”

  Darcy was pleased beyond measure that she was teasing him again, and so said, “Then I shall endeavour to engage your mind rather than my purse strings. Perhaps we can attend the theatre, or visit a museum? Hyde Park is delightful in the spring.”

  “They all sound lovely,” she said, lifting her eyes to his with a brilliant smile.

  “You are lovely,” he told her, tracing the tip of his index finger along the curve of her neck. “Beyond lovely. I have always thought so.”

  “Liar,” she said, but the smile she wore belied her accusation. “There was a time when you did not think me quite so handsome as you do now. Admit it.”

  “I shall admit no such thing. I will take a leaf out of your own book, and remember the past only as it gives me pleasure.”

  “Then kiss me,” Elizabeth told him.

  If it was at all possible, the violent blush that coloured her countenance made her all the more lovely, and Darcy sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she was his—really and truly his—at last. He released her, but only so far that he could place his hands upon her shoulders and draw them down her arms at an agonizingly slow pace. The muslin of her gown was soft to his touch, but it was nothing compared to the exquisite suppleness of her skin.

  His hand found hers and Darcy found himself spellbound; entirely captivated by the feel of her flesh beneath his fingertips. Pale and warm, as smooth as the finest silk, he was certain he could go on touching her forever. He traced the tip of his forefinger along the delicate veins of her wrist and marvelled at her sheer beauty. How did he ever become so fortunate as to win her love?

  Elizabeth’s breath hitched and Darcy shut his eyes. He had dreamt of this moment for what seemed an eternity. Now that it had finally come, he wanted to take his time and savour every single second; but he felt Elizabeth sway toward him, closing what little distance remained between them to nothing more than a hairsbreadth. Whether she was aware of her boldness, he had no idea; he was only g
rateful that she appeared as eager to express her affection for him as he was to express his for her.

  Their lips met, the barest press of flesh, but it was as though a fire had been ignited. Darcy felt Elizabeth’s gasp as much as he heard it, and took the liberty of deepening their kiss. Nothing could describe the taste of her, and Darcy knew, beyond a doubt, there was no other flavour in the world he would ever crave more than the flavour of her lips.

  Before long, the sensation of having her in his arms threatened to become his undoing, and Darcy slowly withdrew from her. His heart was pounding wildly as he endeavoured to calm his breathing and regain his composure. Elizabeth was in a similar state with flushed cheeks and fever-bright eyes.

  Their eyes met, and Darcy reached for her hand again. She gave it willingly and he raised it to his lips.

  “I stand corrected, sir,” she said, still out of breath, “I am beginning to see the advantage of having a compliant husband after all.”

  Darcy laughed. Compliant, indeed —and kissed her again.

  Susan Adriani is the author of The Truth About Mr. Darcy, and Darkness Falls upon Pemberley. While formally trained as an artist, she discovered her passion for writing nearly a decade later, after the birth of her daughter. She currently lives in rural New England, where she and her husband regularly take rambling walks together in the countryside, much like Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy. You can connect with Susan on her Facebook and also through her website www.thetruthaboutmrdarcy.weebly.com.

  Without Affection

  Jan Hahn

  “In such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself.”

  Miss Elizabeth to Miss Jane Bennet, Chapter LIX.

  Ah, there she is, my Elizabeth.