Page 82 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

Elizabeth looked ahead again and attempted to respond as she had seen Jane do. “That is a difficult position for any woman.”

“It is,” he agreed. “And I handled it badly. I was angry before I entered the room, and proud enough to think I was entitled to show it. When Bingley pushed me to dance, I answered in a manner meant to end the subject. You heard me, and truthfully, I deserved that you should.”

“You deserved that I should?”

“I deserved to be known by what I had said.”

She was silent for a few steps. “That is a severe judgement on yourself, Mr. Darcy.”

Mr. Darcy cleared his throat. “At Netherfield, Miss Bingley expected to lead the ball with me. Despite weeks of my hints and insinuations, of her brother telling her that I was not interested, she chose to believe such a distinction was owed to her. By the time I asked you to dance, she had made it very clear that she considered herself injured.”

“Because you danced with me?”

“Because I had not danced first with her. She felt I had made her appear foolish. But better that than to raise expectations I did not intend to fulfil. Then, during our set, you spoke up for her, a woman who was never more than spiteful to you and who was plaguing me. I was already out of patience, and I did not know how to respond.”

“So you left me standing alone.”

“I did.” His voice was plain. “I should have remained beside you until the dance was done. Whatever passed between Miss Bingley and me, it had nothing to do with you.”

The wind moved through the bare branches above them.

“I am sorry,” he said. “More than I can say.”

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened briefly around the edge of her pelisse. “I wondered at the time whether I had done something to offend you. Now I know that I did.”

“No. You had done nothing.”

“It is good of you to say so, but it was not my place to scold you, especially on behalf of a woman who would disdain my assistance.”

“She would, you know.”

Elizabeth looked across the park. “Miss Bingley was very determined?”

“She was.”

“And you were very determined that your future not be determined by her. Or your mother.”

He gave a short, reluctant laugh. “Yes.”

“That is a great many determinations for one dance.”

He nodded. “Too many, I think.”

Elizabeth bit back a laugh. The apologies had been so dry and the blame so perfectly directed at himself that she was more amused than embarrassed. It was a very good apology. She recalled Mrs. Wickham mentioning her husband’s beautiful apology and thought that she now fully understood what she had meant.

They had nearly reached Aunt Gardiner. Her aunt was admiring the prospect before her with an almost heroic focus, though Elizabeth was quite certain that in the winter there was not enough of a view to occupy her for so long.

Mr. Darcy kept his gaze ahead of him. “I will not ask you to think better of me than I deserve. I am only asking that you know I regret it.”

Elizabeth looked at him. His face gave little away to anyone who did not care to study it, but she had begun to care. If that made her foolish, well, it would not be the first time.

“I do know it now,” she said. “Thank you.”

He raised his eyes to hers, and it was not the haughty Mr. Darcy of Hertfordshire or the distant Mr. Darcy of London she saw in them. He was only a man standing in the cold February wind, who had spoken honestly and relieved himself of a burden. She hoped he had, for he had relieved her of one too.

“My aunt must be growing cold,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course. Allow me to accompany you to the gate. Is your uncle arriving soon?”