To Refuse Such a Man: A Pride and Prejudice Variation by P. O. Dixon Page A

told her that he was severely wounded. She meant to apologize, but when she opened her mouth to speak, he held up his hand, effectively silencing her.
    His eyes regretful, he said, “I fear I may have overstepped. Forgive me.”
    What on Earth was I thinking? She must think me a savage—lustful and lascivious. He hesitated a moment, hoping she would absolve him of the discomfort he now felt. She did not. He cleared his throat. “It has been a long day. No doubt, you are tired and in need of rest. I shall see you at dinner.”
    He was gone directly. Unable to say whether humiliation or vexation bore the greater share of his attitude, he did not know what to think or how to feel. All he knew was he needed a stiff drink. On his way downstairs to his study, Darcy saw his butler.
    “Will you and Mrs. Darcy be dining in the formal dining parlor, sir, or would you prefer to dine elsewhere?” Here he cleared his throat. “Some place a bit quainter, perhaps.”
    “The formal dining room,” Darcy said, his voice reflecting a hint of his annoyance with himself for allowing his passions to get ahead of him in Elizabeth’s apartment. His idea for an intimate dinner for two, he abandoned. The last thing I wish to do now is to overwhelm my bride.
    He had been most diligent in avoiding a repeat of what had happened that rainy day at Netherfield. Self-reliance had been a near-constant companion of late. Such would surely be the case that night—his wedding night.
    She is young—an innocent. She will need time to adjust to her new situation. I must abstain from such wild carnal, unguarded behavior until she is ready. I will know when the time is right. I only pray I shall not have to wait too long.
    A while later, Darcy and Elizabeth reunited for dinner. Awkwardness flooded the room—its companion, silence.
    Darcy sat at one end of the formal dining table best suited for a party of twenty or more and Elizabeth sat far away at the opposite end. Any number of magnificent silver candelabras separated them, impeding any manner of polite conversation. Those times Elizabeth endeavored to look around the ornate barriers and catch his eye, he seemed especially concerned with the delicate china, the sterling silver utensils, the sparkling crystal glasses—even the wall hangings.
    A host of servants stationed about the room gave Elizabeth to consider that a fitting explanation for Mr. Darcy’s reserve. She certainly hoped such was the case and that he was not nursing the wound she had unintentionally inflicted upon him earlier in her apartment.
    She tasted her soup. It was not too hot, not too cold, but rather just right. What was more it was one of her favorites. She wondered if it were merely a coincidence or if her husband had given himself the trouble to inform the cook of her preferences.
    Her instinct was to acknowledge his consideration, but that would have required yelling across the room. Albeit it was a lovely room and she could well imagine all the delightful dinners she would oversee within those walls, it was far too formal for solely the two of them—far too formal for two young lovers on their wedding night.
    After dinner, Darcy prevailed upon Elizabeth to play something for him and she gladly acceded to his request. He sat on the settee and she sat at the pianoforte. He might have sat next to her, she thought, but then she considered he was brooding still over her inadvertent response to his amorous overture. How she wanted to explain, but in the absence of sufficient encouragement, she said nothing.
    Elizabeth yawned. The long day had taken its toll on her.
    “Pardon me, Mrs. Darcy. I fear I have been thoughtless in asking you to exhibit merely for my own pleasure. You must be thoroughly fatigued. Will you allow me to escort you to your room so you might retire for the evening?”
    She half smiled. Perhaps he was not angry with her after all. She stood and together they quit the room, arm in arm, and proceeded slowly up