“Especially myself.”
The words settled between them with a weight that the room could barely contain. Elizabeth’s expression underwent a series of adjustments too rapid to track, and what emerged at the end was not the fortress or the wit or the bright defensive armor but something quieter and more dangerous. She saw through him, clearly, and she had not yet decided what to do about it.
“Our first meeting was memorable,” she said. “As I recall, you stood at the side of the room at the Meryton assembly and declared a particular member of the company barely tolerable.”
“I did. And within her hearing. It was not my finest moment.”
“It was a remarkably efficient moment. You managed to insult a woman, confirm every prejudice the county held against you, and provide conversational material for three months, all in a single sentence.”
“I have always been thorough.”
“And now you wish to dance the supper dance with the woman you found barely tolerable.”
“She was never barely tolerable. My proposal at Hunsford, however badly expressed, should have proved that much.” He held her gaze, standing his ground regardless of the cost to his pride. “A man does not offer marriage to a woman he finds tolerable. He offers it because he cannot conceive of a life constructed without her.”
Color rose in Elizabeth’s cheeks, vivid and immediate, and Darcy felt an answering warmth in his own face, because the words were true.
“Your proposal,” Elizabeth said, “also included the observation that your affection existed despite every effort to suppress it, and that you loved me against your will, against your reason, and against your character. A woman does not easily forget being told she is a disease a man contracted involuntarily.”
“The words were flawed, and I have regretted them.”
“How convenient.” Her chin lifted, and the lift was pure Elizabeth—defiant, testing, alive. “Fifteen thousand a year can inspire a remarkable quantity of regret.”
Darcy’s jaw dropped at the same time his heart stopped.
“You cannot be accusing me of… Miss Elizabeth. I—” And then he recovered. “You are right that I cannot prove a negative. I can protest, but you would still see me as a mercenary. I can only tell you that I offered you marriage when you had nothing, and the offer was genuine. The expression was abominable, and if I could reconstruct that evening, I would say everything differently and mean everything the same.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened, for a moment softening, but then the composure returned, and the smile was different, sharper and yet warm, dangerous but alluring. He leaned into it, anticipating the pain.
“Tell me, Mr. Darcy. Are you still the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry?”
The deliberate reversal caught him off guard. Those were her words—hurting ones, and she was asking him?
“You are quoting yourself, Miss Bennet. And misquoting, rather liberally. I believe the original placed you in the role of judge and executioner.”
“I am aware of the original casting.” Her eyes held mischief. “I am merely inquiring whether the production might be restaged with the roles reversed. Am I the last woman in the world whose acceptance you could imagine?”
“Perhaps so,” Darcy said. “You have gained quite a reputation for refusing proposals of marriage, Miss Bennet. A prudent man would study the odds before attempting the field. I wish the next gentleman who tries considerably better fortune than his predecessors enjoyed. Perhaps I should issue a warning printed boldly on your dance card.”
Elizabeth stared at him for two full seconds in absolute silence, and then she laughed—a full, rich, unguarded laugh.
“Mr. Darcy.” She pressed her hand to her chest as though the laugh had physically winded her. “You made a joke.”
“I have been known for my good humor.”
“I doubt it to be so. You make observations that people find inadvertently amusing. This was a deliberate, premeditated joke, and I am—I confess I am genuinely astonished.”
“Your astonishment is noted, and rather unflattering.”
“On the contrary, it is the highest compliment I can pay. I had believed you constitutionally incapable of humor, and discovering I was wrong is—well.” The brightness in her eyes left him completely undone. “It is rather like discovering a portrait can wink.”
“I shall endeavor to wink more frequently.”
“Please do not. The effect would be terrifying.” She was still smiling, and the smile had transformed her face from beautiful to radiant. Darcy committed the transformation to memory with the thorough attention of a man who knew he might not see it directed at him again. “But to answer your question: perhaps Sir Geoffrey Hale has just taken the position of last man in the world. Which promotes you, Mr. Darcy, to next-to-last. High praise.”
“Next-to-last. I shall endeavor to deserve the elevation.”
“The elevation may be temporary. Frederick Davenport’s mother is very persistent, and there are two Arthurs yet to be ranked.”
