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Authors: Abigail Reynolds

Man Who Loved Pride and Prejudice (24 page)

BOOK: Man Who Loved Pride and Prejudice
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   Interposed with recollections of Elizabeth were bitter scenes with his family. He had devised relatives to fit the structure of
Pride and Prejudice
and put in alterations from his own background to disguise his family. Fitzwilliam Darcy came from a dynasty of powerful business moguls, not politicians. His parents were dead, leaving just him and his much younger sister. His aunt and uncle ran the family as if it were a business proposition and Darcy a failed enterprise. He was included at family events but hardly acknowledged, apart from his aunt's occasional attempts to mold him into a leader in high society. His uncle looked on Darcy's refusal to take a role in the family business as a personal insult and behaved accordingly toward him. It was hopeless, yet Darcy continued to hope that someday they would accept him.
   No wonder he was so silent, if there was any truth to this portrait. Anything Darcy said within the family circle was used against him, so he learned to say nothing. His uncle seemed to be the worst of them. Cassie wondered which of Calder's relatives had inspired the portrait.
   After a particularly virulent tongue-lashing from his uncle, Darcy abruptly left the family estate to spend Christmas with old friends of his parents. Cassie closed the book. It was late, and she would need her strength to read this scene. She tucked the book into her briefcase and headed back to her apartment. Each step of the journey seemed painful.
   Once she was in the door, she dropped her briefcase on a chair and went straight to the sink to rinse her face with cold water. As she scrubbed away the last traces of tears, she paused to look at herself in the mirror. She wasn't sure she knew the woman in the reflection. How could she have misjudged Calder's feelings so badly?
   She dried her face with unnecessary vigor. Then, drawn to the book like a magnet, she returned to her briefcase. As she reached for the book, she noticed the open letter from Ryan still sitting on the table where she had left it that morning. It seemed like a lifetime ago. She had meant to write back to him tonight, but the book had made her forget everything. It was a stark reminder that Calder's Elizabeth Bennet was a far cry from the real Cassie Boulton.
   She smoothed the letter between her fingers. She'd write Ryan an extra-long letter tomorrow. For now, she needed to know what else Calder had to say. She folded the letter and then took the book to her favorite old tapestry armchair and opened it again.

He had vaguely dreaded the party, expecting to feel as hemmed in and overwhelmed as he usually did at such affairs, but it was better than he expected. There were several rooms he could move between when the crowd in one became too much for him, and the Carltons' friends were a more palatable group on the whole than the company he was accustomed to with his aunt and uncle. No one made a fuss over his presence, and none of the women he met developed that predatory glint in her eye. God, but he was sick of the women he knew! Sick of them, and done with them, at least for a while. They had done nothing to help him forget Elizabeth; if anything, they made it worse by contrast to what he had lost in her. He preferred to be alone with his memories than to be with other women who could never match up to her. There were tastefully decorated Christmas trees in every room, twinkling with lights, and he allowed himself to imagine what Christmas would be like with Elizabeth. Would she delight in the traditions, or look on them with amusement, her eyes meeting his to share the joke? He could not imagine Christmas with her as the sterile affair it had been for him growing up, where all gifts were "appropriate" and to be received with calm and well-bred thanks. No, Elizabeth would enjoy making other people happy. But
he
would never be the one she would make happy. His moment with her was past.

And he had no one to blame for that but himself. As time passed, he saw more and more clearly the opportunity he had missed. Why had he given up immediately when she told him it wouldn't work? He never told her his feelings, or tried to talk to her about what her needs were in her work, to see if there was a way for him to fit into them. He would rather have a small part of Elizabeth than all of another woman. He never even asked her what she wanted. He just passively accepted her decision, never considering whether the outcome could have been different with Elizabeth than it had been with his parents. Had he the chance to do it over again, he would at least have
tried
to convince her. But self-recrimination was useless. The past was over and done. With a sigh, he realized he had not been attending to the conversation for several minutes. It was a sign he needed to leave. He excused himself politely, planning to spend the rest of the evening in his room, but he was only halfway down the hall when he found himself face to face with the very woman who had been haunting him. It took him a moment to recognize she was real and not just a particularly vivid fantasy. "Elizabeth," he said slowly.
The familiar glint of mischief appeared in her eyes. "Will." She matched his tone. "Why, fancy meeting you here."
He could not get over seeing her in the flesh—in the flesh and a low-cut, close-fitting dress of midnight blue that accentuated the body he remembered so well. "What are you doing here?" She raised a mocking eyebrow. "I was invited, as it happens. I'm here with a friend. And you?" His senses were robbing him of coherent thought. That look in her eyes—did it mean she was glad to see him? The sight of the curves her dress revealed made him think of running his hands over them, feeling her body against his, hearing her soft moans of pleasure as he touched her, losing himself in her. Her eyes bewitched him. He could not let her go again.
Something must have shown in his face, because she said, "Are you all right? You look pale." The concern in her voice nearly undid him. "No, no, I'm fine. Just surprised to see you here. I was thinking about you earlier." "Nothing too horrible, I hope!"
"No." He searched desperately for something to say when all he wanted was to see her smile at him. "You look very nice."
She laughed. "I think you mean you're surprised to find out I don't always look like I'm headed straight for the marsh."
"That's not what I meant." His eyes were already seeing what she would look like divested of the little she was wearing. He could not think clearly with her so near him. As if he could not help himself, he stepped closer yet to her. "It's good to see you again."
She gave him a hesitant smile as he reached for her, as if unsure what he was about. He touched her cheek first, marveling at the miracle of her soft skin under his fingers again and then tasted her lips gently. He meant it to be an innocent kiss, one that would not be unreasonable as a greeting to a former lover. But he had underestimated how intoxicating her lips would be, how overwhelmed he would be by the remembered scent and taste of her. Before he even knew what he was doing, his tongue was exploring her mouth and he was holding her, seeking to replicate those moments he had replayed in his memory so often. And, oh God, she had her arms around his neck and was responding to his kiss just as he had dreamed of. The rest of the world faded away. He needed her with an intensity and an urgency that left room only for the thought that he had to get her to his bedroom before this raced completely out of control. But he could not stop kissing her either, for fear she would disappear like a phantom in his arms.
She was the one who finally pulled back. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes held that look of desire he remembered so well, but perhaps a bit of doubt as well. "Merry Christmas to you, too," she said.
He reached for her again to bring her back into his arms where she belonged. At first he thought she was going to resist, but then she melted into his arms, making him shake with desire. His fingers could feel the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her dress, and he wanted to touch more and more. She arched against him when his hand slid gently up her spine until it rested on the exposed skin of her upper back. He felt her shiver and knew he was lost.
He stopped kissing her just long enough to whisper, "Let's go somewhere more private." She seemed to freeze at his words. She stepped away from him and crossed her arms as if to protect herself from him. A chill went through him. Surely the universe could not be so cruel as to give her back to him just for those few minutes, only to yank her away again?
"So how is Charles?" she asked, as if she had not been pressing her body passionately against his a moment earlier. "Charles?" he repeated blankly. "He's fine."
"Has he found a new plaything yet? Or does he save that for summertime?" Her voice had sharp edges.
He struggled to free his mind from the haze of desire. "Plaything? I don't know what you mean." "Why, Jane, of course. He got tired of her, and I was just curious if he'd found a new model yet." "He didn't get tired of her. He realized it wouldn't work. He wants a woman he can spend time with, and with Jane trying to finish her PhD and get a teaching job, it was going to be years before she had any time for him."
"Oh, I see." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "How very
clever
of him. I'm glad he didn't waste any time worrying about how
she
would feel about it." She hesitated, and her expression suggested a confusion her words did not express. "Nice seeing you again, Will."
Before he knew what was happening, she turned and walked away, leaving him stunned. What had gone wrong? How could she have gone from kissing him like there was no tomorrow to being angry with him? He could not understand it. Or perhaps he could, he thought, running their conversation through his head again. God, yes. He had said about three sentences to her and then kissed her and suggested they go to bed. No wonder she backed off.
How could he have been so idiotically out of control as to scare her away the moment she appeared? He remembered his earlier regrets about not fighting harder for her. Through a great stroke of luck, he was being given a second chance, and he would not let her get away again, not without giving it his best try. Decisively, he strode after her.
   She closed her eyes. She could feel the sharp pain come, as if it were a physical injury. She forced herself to keep reading, hoping somehow it would turn out differently in the story. Unfortunately, the rest of the scene was practically word-for-word what she remembered. The words blurred on the page before her when she reached the part where she walked out, leaving him to believe she was glad to be rid of him.

He stood on the steps, watching the tail lights of her car disappear, feeling as if he had been kicked. He had not only failed his second chance; he had learned that he never had a chance in the first place. God, had she really hated him this whole time? Could it be true that all this time while he was dreaming of her kindness and tenderness, she was thinking he was arrogant and rude? Why had she ever gone to bed with him? Why had she kissed him like that? And why,
why
did he still care? At least before he had the illusion she cared for him in her own way, even if she put her career first. Now he knew better; he meant less than nothing to her. And God help him, he was still in love with her. That was the one thing he had learned for certain tonight. Any doubt about that had been laid to rest the minute he saw her.

To think earlier he had been fantasizing about spending Christmas with her. As if she would ever spend any time with him of her own accord! How could he have mistaken her veneer of politeness for love? It was nothing more than desperation on his part.
Despite everything, all he wanted was to see her smile, and to know she was happy. "Merry Christmas, Elizabeth," he whispered to the cold, empty night air.
He did not go back to the party; that would have been impossible. Instead he went to his room and hid there for hours until the last guests left. He alternated between pacing and sitting in the chair staring into space, unable to focus on reading and registering only pain as he listened to the laughter and music from downstairs. The physical weight of loss added to his sense of his own failure, that a woman like Elizabeth would have nothing but dislike for him. And why should she feel otherwise? What had he ever done to give her a good opinion of him? He had assumed that she, like all the women who pursued him, would want to be with him, and he had missed the basic truth. Those women had not wanted him, but only his money and his name. He was just what they had to tolerate to get what they wanted.
He chastised himself for sliding into self-pity, but with the painful ache in his gut of knowing that the woman he loved wanted nothing to do with him, he could think of little reason why anyone
would
want to be with him. He liked to think of himself as concerned about other people's feelings, but as Elizabeth had so correctly pointed out, he never once considered how Jane might have felt. And then there were all the women he used while trying to forget Elizabeth—well, they had been using him too, but he had made no particular effort to make sure he did not hurt them the way Elizabeth hurt him that summer. No, she was right; he was selfish. At least she could not dislike him more than he disliked himself right now.
His head was starting to ache, making him wonder if the headache Elizabeth claimed to have was real or an excuse to get away from him. Probably the latter, given the way she left him so abruptly after he kissed her. He went to the medicine closet in the bathroom, took some painkiller, and went to lie down on the bed until his head felt better. If only there were something as simple he could take for the ache in his soul.
BOOK: Man Who Loved Pride and Prejudice
13.22Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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