Then she wished fervently she had not, for inside, he was no longer silhouetted in the doorway but lit by the hall fire and standing awfully close to her, and she suddenly felt uncomfortably aware of how much larger he was than she. He removed his hat, which for some reason unnerved her further still.
“I was about to walk out,” she whispered, as though it might make him put it back on again and go away. It did not.
“I would advise against it. It is freezing out there.”
“That did not stop you.”
“No. Not much would have.”
The intensity of his gaze was—well, it was wonderful in truth, though it was hardly helping Elizabeth to remain impartial, and thus its effect was to make her angry. It was difficult tosoundangry when one was attempting to be silent, however, which was perhaps why, when she told him again that he ought not to have come, he seemed less distressed by it than before.
“So you have said. Might I enquire why?”
Elizabeth gave a small, humourless laugh at the question, so simple in contrast to the complexity of her jumbled thoughts. She grew increasingly rattled the longer she struggled to frame a response, unable to answer that she dreaded the discovery he was an unprincipled scoundrel or that she had no wish to be tested on the strength of her own principles.
“Because it is snowy,” she blurted at length.
Darcy—most unfairly—gave her another of his intoxicating little smiles. “Snowy?”
She nodded defiantly, incensed that he should be diverted—and handsome—when she was so miserable. Both put her at an insufferable disadvantage.
“Might I be so bold?—”
“Hush! Pray, keep your voice down.”
“Forgive me,” he whispered. His deeper timbre seemed to hit a pitch that reverberated directly in her breastbone. “Might I be so bold as to enquire what is the significance of the weather?”
Abandoning all pretensions to composure, she replied in an agitated whisper. “Because the snow is knee-deep in places, which means you must have come on foot. And anyone who walks three milesanywherein knee-deep snow must have a very particular reason for going there. And if that reason is me, which it is because you have said so, then it makes what I must say even harder.”
“And what is it you must say?”
Elizabeth baulked and blushed deeply. “Obviously, I cannot say it until you have said what you came to say. And it would be better if you said nothing, for then so might I.”
“That would make for a very dull conversation.”
“This is not amusing! Why are you smiling?”
He stepped closer to her. “Because I do not believe you truly wish me to remain silent. Neither do I believe that you wish to say to me what you think you must.”
“You presume a great deal, sir,” she replied, desperate to shoo Darcy away from the truth that he had so readily and infuriatingly discerned. “Pray, what great penetration has convinced you of this?”
“Miss Elizabeth, I know enough of your disposition to be certain that, were you absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would acknowledge it to me frankly and openly, not seek to avoid speaking at all.”
She inhaled sharply, taken aback for a fleeting moment, until her surprise was usurped by a tremble of pleasure that he should comprehend her so well. Her pleasure was just as quickly subsumed by resignation.
“That changes nothing,” she replied bitterly.
“I beg to differ. I came here wholly uncertain of my reception, but you have given me hope that whatever other impediment to marrying me exists, it is not your sentiments.”
A small noise escaped her—exasperation, perhaps, or maybe despair—that he had, despite her pleas, confirmed his intentions, thereby placing the responsibility of behaving honourably squarely at her door.
“Regrettably, we both know my sentiments are immaterial.”
His smile vanished. “Elizabeth, no. Never think that. My insatiable need toknowyour sentiments is why I am here. Perhaps I ought to have paid you court for longer, to nurture your regard. A man who felt less might have, but I could go no longer without discovering whether I had any hope.”
“You have twisted my meaning!” she cried in a voice more whimper than whisper, but he was making this so impossibly difficult, speaking of his hope while she was desperately attempting to quash her own. “But you are right—you have been entirely reckless in coming here in this manner. I thought you disdained precipitance.”
“I do.” His small smile returned. “This was not precipitance. If I had acted precipitately, I should have come to you in November instead of leaving Hertfordshire.”
