With great care, he placed the book on the floor, never taking his eyes off of me as if I were a wild animal who might strike at any moment.
"You say there are misconceptions onmypart?" I asked, my tone hinting that there was only one acceptable answer which was of course: "No, I am very sorry, I did not mean that. I am an idiot."
"Yes, your part," Darcy replied because he is, in fact, an idiot, "You seem to hold the strange belief I despise you, despite the many indications I have given you to the contrary."
Well . . . fine. He has done things, said things that indicate he may not completely despise me. But feeling something slightly more positive than outright loathing for each other is hardly an achievement in a marriage. And it doesn't mean I have to forgive him for anything.
"I never meant to hurt you," Darcy continued, "I should not have worded my rebuke of your behavior so harshly. I should not have said what I said about your family. I should not have made any mention of your family at all—"
"Why ever not? If you thought your words to be true, why not speak them?" I demanded.
"One does not need to say everything that comes to one's head."
"No, but you have made your disdain for my family so obvious it was almost a relief to hear you speak of it. I had nearly fooled myself into believing you are not a snobbish arse," I said. If Darcy was shocked by my coarse language he did not show it.
"I do not disdain your family," he said very carefully, the way a person speaks when they want to convince the listener they are not lying. Which of course was the surest sign he was lying.
"I have the utmost respect for your family—"
However. I just know there is going to be a however.
"However—"
Told you.
"—I cannot pretend the conduct of your mother does not distress me—"
Of course you could.
"—or that your father's negligent attitude concerning the finances of his estate and the behavior of his wife and younger daughters does not irritate me."
How dare he say such things about Papa . . . even if they are true.
"My perturbation is on your behalf. That your parents should act thusly without consideration for your reputation and prospects pains me—"
"It pains you for my sake, does it?" I interjected, unable to listen to any more of this nonsense. For a man who claimed to value candor he was awfully good at deluding himself about his own motivations.
"It does, and you cannot deny it pains you as well. I saw the look in your eyes when your mother spoke foolishly. I witnessed you trying to rein in your sisters as your father ought to have done."
"Yes, I sometimes find my mother and younger sisters ridiculous, and sometimes I wished Papa would be more attentive and intervene. But they are my family to find ridiculous—"
"They are my family now as well."
"Yes, and that is truly what bothers you, isn't it? That you are forevermore associated with the Bennets."
"I respect your family," Darcy reiterated.
I laughed hollowly. "Yes, yes you respect my family but you cannot rejoice in the inferiority of my connections. Have you ever considered that I perhaps do not rejoice in my new Darcy connections?"
"Indeed?" Darcy asked incredulously, unable to disguise a sneer.
"Though I certainly like all of your family—most of your family," I amended thinking of Lady Catherine, "You cannot deny they come with their own absurdities, their own unfortunate circumstances."
He is going to say 'indeed' again in his usual haughty tone.
"Indeed." There was no question in the word this time, nor was it a statement of agreement. He might as well have said, "Your ideas are most foolish, but I will humor you by pretending to listen."
"Yes,indeed. You have one aunt who condescendingly graces everyone with her inane opinions whether they wish to hear them or not, another who will not leave the house forthe shame of being made destitute by her husband—speaking of said husband however much you would like to pretend you have thrown off any connection to Mr. Vane he is your uncle and, if your great aunt is to be believed, he may rise from the dead at any moment.
