23rdDecember 1811
Still morning
I turned away from the door to find Darcy making Bored/Irritated/Tired/Condescending/Haughty Face at me.
"We do need to talk," he said, his tone everything reasonable and mature. Yet this show of equanimity is a lie.
He wants a row.
Other people might not see it, they might look at him and think him the picture of relaxed composure, but I can see from that blazing look in his eyes (a look similar, yet so different from the blaze of desire) he wants another argument as if a rematch might have some other outcome, like he might find himself cast in a better light if he can draw me into battle, force me to unleash all this venom I am holding, making myself as villainous as he made himself last time.
This could easily happen if I do not keep my temper. Which is exactly why I am so determined to do so.
I know now I was wrong about some things: Jane's indifference, my own foolish schemes to get Mr. Bingley and Jane together. I was wrong.
But Darcy was wronger.
He said hurtful things without care for the pain they would cause, if my distress bothers him now—well, splendid. I am glad to know he can be concerned for the feelings of others. But his discomfort at my wounded feelings is not enough to absolve him. Not yet.
For now he can just sit there in his wrongness and be wrong.
Or stand there, as it were, since that is what he is doing, standing there all haughty and looking at me. I tamped down another flare of rage. This is why I have been avoiding him. This is why I didn't even want to hear his name. Just seeing him makes me want to doviolence to him.
Because everyone thinks he is so bloody great. So much the gentleman. And he is.
But he also isn't.
I was so wrong about him. But I was also right. It is all too confusing. I cannot think properly. I cannotfeelproperly.
I just socannotright now.
Ignoring his invitation to converse (argue), I walked past him. He sighed dramatically in response. The man practically begs to be coshed over the head. His is a murder that will be easily solved. Mrs. Darcy—in the library—with the candlestick.
I am jesting. Mostly. I did not used to be such a violent person. Of course I did not used to be Mrs. Darcy.
"What are you doing?" he asked as if I had not made my intentions obvious by picking through the shelves for something to read.
"I am going to read until Georgiana returns."
"We do need to talk," he said again, just in case I had not heard him the first time. I suppose, a failure to hear properly is probably the only reason he can think of that a person would not mark his opinions. Intentionally not being listened to must be an extremely rare circumstance for Darcy.
"You may say whatever you like," I said, choosing a book at random. "I cannot stop you." I mean Icould. . .with a candlestick of sufficient weight.
I settled into my favorite chair. It was already warm which meant he had not been brooding at the desk as I had thought but in this chair.Mychair. The rational part of my mind knew he had lived in this house long before I had and thus it was truly me who had taken his chair. But I was far beyond being rational.
I did not want to share things with him. Not things so much in terms of material goods, but likes, dislikes. I wanted nothing in common with this man who thought so little of my family. So little of me.
I could not get comfortable in this chair without the ottoman. Where was the bloody ottoman? Of course, there it was, on the other side of the room with my husband blocking my path to it. My bloody husband who was just standing there staring at me.
Well, there was nothing for it. The solution to my problem was completely indecorous, but then Darcy already thought my behavior indecorous, didn’t he?
I felt rather than saw Darcy's brow rise when I threw my legs over the arm of the chair. Indecent display of ankles aside, this was much more comfortable than propping my feet on the ottoman anyway. It was my chair in my library in my house (fine, all of those things actually belonged to Darcy but he was myhorrible husband so that made them mine) and there were no guests about so I could sit however I liked propriety be damned.
He can raise those eyebrows as high as he likes, I hope they get stuck in his hairline.
"Good book?" he asked after what felt like several hours of silence had elapsed.
"Yes." I had not read one word. I had been too busy ignoring him to read.
