Pride and Papercuts: Inspired by Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice

by Staci Hart

  “I’ll text you.”

  And I was off as quickly as I could go without looking urgent. Even if it felt like the last chance I’d ever have to speak to her.

  Georgie stood in her office with Laney, the two of them chatting happily despite the sadness behind Georgie’s eyes. They quieted as I approached, Georgie’s face slipping from laughter to worry when she saw me.

  I stopped just inside the threshold. My gaze stuck on Laney, drinking in the sight of her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. Of the bloom of color on her cheeks. Of the sharpness of her eyes, their blue otherworldly. Electric. Her lips were pinched at the corners, but it didn’t change the bow, the swell. My own lips knew their shape, longed to taste them again, tingled with forever unfulfilled desire.

  Georgie’s eyes bounced from one of us to the other. “You know what? I forgot—I needed to check something out with accounting. Be right back.” And then she walked out, offering an encouraging smile as I passed.

  Laney didn’t move. I thought maybe it was because she wanted to stay, but I quickly realized that might have been because I was directly between her and the door.

  “Please tell me you’re not going to apologize again,” she warned. “Actually, please don’t say anything. I’m leaving.”

  She’d already started walking, reaching me quickly in her hurry. But I couldn’t let her go, not this final time. I caught her by the arm, squeezing gently, appreciating the last taste of her skin against my fingertips.

  Heat flared behind her eyes, but not the angry kind, not at first. It was an open look into her heart, a streak of pain and longing I felt in my marrow. It mirrored mine.

  “Please,” I said softly. I was left without any other words as I waited for her answer.

  When she turned to face me, I let her go.

  “I’m leaving,” she blurted, her face tight. “The firm. I’m leaving and going back to the bookstore.”

  I was struck still.

  “I sent my design resources to Georgie, and Caroline can take over whatever duties I had.”

  “Is this because—”

  “I’ve been working three jobs, and it’s not sustainable,” she lied. “Between the bookstore and my family’s business, I don’t have time to be here, where I’m not needed. Or wanted.”

  You’re wanted. I want you. “What happened with your family?”

  I didn’t think her look could darken more, but it did. “Just busy on the front lines of a little corporate warfare. Someone’s sabotaging Longbourne. I thought that was over with Evelyn in jail, but I guess your aunt picked up the torch.”

  My brows gathered. “Catherine?”

  “No, your other aunt who hates us,” she snapped.

  “How do you know it’s her? It could be anyone.” Even as I said it, the possibility niggled at me.

  “She practically threatened me when we first met. Would you put it past her?”

  My frown deepened.

  “Not that it matters. All I know is that I can’t stay here, not with her scheming and not with you. You’ve put me in a prison, and I need to be free of it. Of you.” She said it in such a way that I didn’t know if it was spite or sadness in her voice.

  “I understand. I … I won’t stop you. I just wanted to give you this.”

  I slipped my hand into my coat, pulling the letter out. Her eyes followed it as I extended it.

  She didn’t move to take it. “What’s this?”

  “A letter.”

  Her eyes took a turn. “What’s in the letter?”

  “If I wanted to talk about it, I wouldn’t have written it down.”

  “God, you are insufferable.” With a pop, she snatched it from my fingertips, glaring at me. “Goodbye, Mr. Darcy. May we both be so lucky as to never see each other again.”

  With an angry rush of air, she was gone.

  And so was I.

  27

  Two Truths and a Lie

  LANEY

  The world was a blur around me as I left his office, stopping by my desk to blindly stuff my things in my bag, including the letter.

  Thoughts fired like a machine gun, too fast to pick one out of the hail. They pinged in my skull, too loud to hear anything else, a cacophony so overwhelming, my body was on autopilot, carrying me out of the building and toward the subway. But I didn’t head for Longbourne like I’d planned. I boarded the train to take me home with a name echoing in whispers in my mind.

  Liam.

  He invoked a feeling singular to him, a reactionary mixture of frustration and resentment and disdain, combined with longing and rejection and unwanted desire. And I hated myself for it. How could I want a man so uncommonly unworthy? Why did every insult sting deeper than skin—not for the words themselves, but for the disregard of the man who’d spoken them? Why, oh why, had I been haunted by that kiss, the one that made undelivered promises? Why couldn’t I forget the way it felt to be held by him, why I felt safe in his arms when he was the most dangerous man I’d ever known?

  I’d spent a long time chastising myself, but never so much as sitting on that train with his letter in my bag. I couldn’t figure out what it was. An apology? A teardown? A list of puns? Blueprints for his summer home? There was no way to guess what he could possibly think. I suspected it mostly consisted of zeroes and ones, peppered with the occasional insult and swear word.

  But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to read it. Historically, when I was through, I was through, and we were well past over it. Whatever was inside wouldn’t deter me, but there was a very high likelihood that it would make me angry. So I’d throw it away. No, I’d burn it. Or tear it into fifty pieces and flush it down the toilet. Or just throw it in the subway trash and never think about it again.

  But I didn’t throw it away. I stormed off the train and all the way home, stomped up the stairs to our empty apartment, tossing my keys into the little dish next to the door with a clang. Bag off with a thump. Shoes off with twin clunks. Hands on my hips, I stared down at my bag, the letter all but glowing through the leather flap. I could light a candle, lavender maybe. Get all calm and Zen and watch that piece of paper get eaten up by a flame. I imagined it would be satisfying, but a niggling in my heart reminded me that not knowing would be much, much worse than knowing. It’d probably keep me up at night for the rest of my days.

  So I knelt. Opened the flap. Reached in and retrieved the letter. It weighed a hundred pounds between my fingertips as I sank onto the couch, my name written in black ink by his hand in script with a calligraphic flourish on the L and the Y. It was almost too perfect to be someone’s actual handwriting, and I wondered why he would school himself to write with such precision. Another of Darcy’s many mysteries.

  I slipped my thumb into the envelope flap, separating it from itself. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, my fight-or-flight kicking in with a rush of adrenaline.

  I probably should have fled.

  The paper was thick, folded in thirds, and when I opened it and saw my name again—this time in a strong, square, uppercase print—something in me snapped and flew away, released from an unseen tether.

  Laney,

  First, don’t worry—I have no plans to repeat the admission you found so repulsive when we last spoke. I write this without the intention to hurt you or to humble myself by dwelling on things I can’t have. I wouldn’t have asked you to read this if my character didn’t demand that I write it. And I’m sure something I say will offend you—it’s my way, isn’t it?—so I can only tell you in advance that I’m sorry.

  I was accused of two offenses—the first that I played some part in keeping Jett from Georgie, and the second that in defiance of honor and humanity, I ruined Wickham and Georgie along with him.

  I have seen my sister in love many times, and each time destroyed her in some small way—in Wickham’s case, ruined completely. And so I watched her with Jett, noticing instantly that I hadn’t seen her so happy since Wyatt. I watched Jett too, and though he seemed cha
rming and true, we’d all been fooled before. I didn’t trust him, and I didn’t trust Georgie, and in that, I was wrong. I was misled by that error, and I hurt them both. I wanted to find his faults, but not because I wished it. Only because I wanted proof of my suspicions—that he wanted her money and would break her heart.

  I have always been protective of Georgie, but after Wickham, I am incapable of restraint.

  There is, of course, the matter of your family. The situation with your mother and my aunt grew to a proportion I couldn’t have anticipated. Catherine is my only living family besides Georgie, and this company is my legacy. But Catherine has the power to strip me of both my title and my family. In my frustration, I’ve said many things to you that I didn’t mean, not the way I wielded the words—like weapons designed to cut to the bone—but the situation with your family couldn’t be ignored. Your standing and status matter, though not to me. To Catherine.

  As I said, I won’t deny my wishes to separate my sister from your brother. But Georgie’s happiness is my purpose, always. On learning the depth of her feelings, I told her I would support her, and I would have. But it’s our aunt who stands in their way, not me.

  On the matter of having damaged Wickham, I can only refute it by laying out the truth of what happened between us all. Wyatt was once my closest friend, and though he knew Georgie then, it wasn’t until she started at the firm that he sought her out. It never felt right, the two of them. I know now that it was because lies clung to him, only visible in glimpses—a slip of his mask, a moment when he thought no one was looking—but Georgie loved him and was happy. Any attempt to talk to her about my suspicions resulted in a fight. When they got engaged and he refused to sign the prenup I had drafted, there was no more trusting Georgie’s heart.

  So I did some digging, hired an investigator. And I learned the truth for myself.

  Wickham had developed a gambling addiction, one that put him into six-figure debt. I believe he loved my sister, but addiction changed him. His “business trips” were spent in Atlantic City, his debt spread out over a dozen credit cards and a handful of bookies. His rush to get married came on the heels of threats to his person from the people he owed. He claims I paid him to leave, and I did pay him, in a sense—I gave him the money to clear his debts. Not that he cared—I’d cut off his access to the coffers, an offense he’d never forgive. But I never threatened him, and I certainly never threatened Georgie. When presented with the truth, Georgie made up her own mind.

  This is why I believed he was using you—partly because he uses everyone and partly because I suspect he has designs on revenge. I don’t know if you’re aware, but he’s been in contact with Georgie, asking to see her. And I can’t imagine he has noble purposes.

  This is the truth as I know it, and if you haven’t already rejected it, I hope you’ll absolve me of these two accusations—I won’t ask for anything more. I should have told you all of this the moment I learned what he’d accused me of, but I wasn’t master enough of myself to know what I could or should say. I don’t know what lies he’s told you, but my only hope is that you’re now aware of who you’re dealing with. If he hurt someone else I care for, I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t try to stop it.

  If your hatred of me makes this letter valueless, please talk to Georgie. She’ll tell you everything.

  You won’t hear from me again. But know I wish you all the happiness in life, Laney.

  —Liam Darcy

  My hand covered my mouth as I read it again, too upset for comprehension, especially when it came to Wyatt.

  I wanted to deny it, to believe it all a lie. For a moment, I did. I folded up the letter, put it in its envelope, and threw it in the trash. Within minutes, it was back in my hand, unfurled so I could read it again. I pored over the accusations while my mind worked the problem of deciding who was lying. I remembered the day Wyatt had told me about Darcy, the pain on his face and the bald honesty in his words. Had any of it been true?

  Again, I read it, hesitating as I weighed it out. Because if this were true, Darcy was no villain after all. Haughty in his explanation, sure. Controlling enough to hire a private investigator to spy on Wickham. But he was faultless in Georgie’s broken heart beyond uncovering the truth. The lies Georgie had endured, the pain Wyatt had caused her … it was almost too much to stomach, somehow so much filthier than the lie that Liam had interfered without reason.

  If it were one of my brothers, I might have done the same.

  Everything slid into focus. The new perspective shook me as I replayed conversations with Wyatt and Darcy both. It all made so much more sense. And where Darcy had nothing to gain and no reason to lie, Wyatt had quite the opposite. Wyatt’s lie shielded him, gave him a way to hide his true self. Maybe he thought I could provide money for his addiction. Maybe he got off on lying to women. Or maybe I was just a doorway he could use to punish Darcy or get to Georgie again.

  At the realization of my error, I was overcome with shame.

  I was wrong. I was so deeply wrong, the foundation of what I held true crumbling and sinking into the mud of my disgrace.

  I had been a fool, and I had behaved badly. I prided myself on discernment above all, but I shouldn’t have. Because I was wrong. Wrong about Darcy, wrong about Wyatt. Blinded by vanity. Never had I seen my faults so clearly, so painfully.

  Until this moment, I never knew myself.

  I swiped tears from my face, changing quickly, needing to get out of the apartment, into the sunlight and open skies where I wouldn’t suffocate. And then I was off, heading into Central Park with a full mind and an empty heart, looking for answers among rustling amber leaves.

  28

  (Im)possibility

  LANEY

  Two days passed, and I was lost in myself.

  The news about the competition didn’t at all lift my spirits, not when I found out that we both won.

  Wasted Words loved both proposals, deciding on Liam’s tag line for the store and my fill-in-the-blank idea for the events and crossover marketing. The artistic approach would be somewhere between the two, using elements from both to create a new, comprehensive art set.

  I’d been hoping he would win so I could extricate myself from the situation completely with no trace left behind. But now all the marketing would be an amalgamation of the two of us when all I wanted was to forget him.

  But I couldn’t. I didn’t know that I ever would.

  I hadn’t told anyone about the letter, not even Jett, the weight of my wrongness humbling, silencing, too great to share until I found a way to swallow that shameful truth about myself.

  I didn’t know how to admit it aloud. I’d only just admitted it.

  So I sat at a booth in Wasted Words that morning, making whatever idle chatter I could. Jett knew well enough that something was wrong, but he didn’t press. I’d tell him soon, tonight maybe. But I just wanted a minute longer to keep my shame to myself before opening up to be judged by anyone the way I’d judged Darcy, whether they would judge me or not.

  Fortunately, I had plenty of work to keep me busy.

  I’d taken to the routine of working at Wasted Words in the mornings and Longbourne in the afternoons. We’d lost a few of our new staff but nothing major, and Lila thought she was close to finding out who’d been poaching her clients. Georgie had understood completely when I told her I wouldn’t be back unless they absolutely needed me, and the relief from having that particular job off my plate was palpable. I could stay away from Darcy and his vile aunt and work on my real job and my family. I didn’t have time for anything else, especially not that family’s drama, Georgie excluded.

  And that was where I was when Wyatt walked into the bookstore.

  He looked like a little slice of heaven, tall and blond and beautiful, his eyes bright and smile sincere. Or what I’d thought was sincere before I learned he was a rat.

  Wyatt strode over like a king, slipping into the booth across from me. “So you are alive,” he tea
sed.

  I didn’t so much as smile. “What are you doing here?”

  “You weren’t answering my texts, so I thought I’d swing by, make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine.” I closed my laptop with the intent to flee to the back where he couldn’t follow without an invitation. And I wasn’t offering. “I actually have a lot of work to do, so—”

  Confusion flickered across his face. “What’s going on? I thought … well, I thought we were going on a date when I got back.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I slid my laptop into my bag and flipped the lid closed.

  “What’s changed?” he asked, and then it hit him. His eyes narrowed. “What did he tell you?”

  “A very different story than you did.”

  “Whatever he said, it’s a lie.”

  “And why would he lie to me? He has nothing to gain—we hate each other.”

  “Revenge. He hates me too.”

  A dry laugh shot out of me. “You’re just as conceited as he is. Maybe he just told me because it was the right thing to do? By the way, how was Atlantic City? I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

  The light Wyatt pretended slid into darkness like a thunderhead blotting out the sun. “I can’t believe you’d trust him over me. After everything he’s done to you.”

  “Darcy might be a lot of things, but he’s not a liar. You, on the other hand, I don’t know at all. Please, don’t deny it. I don’t want to have to ask Georgie, not after all she’s been through. I guess I just want to know why. Why did you choose me? Were you trying to get to Georgie again, or do you just get off on torturing people? Or maybe Liam was right. Maybe you just want to piss him off.”

  “It isn’t very hard, is it?”

  “No. But you seem to take a particular sort of pleasure in it.”