Impatient. Impatient barely covered it. He was fuming. Utterly enraged. But, at the moment, impatience dragged hardest. For the debacle to be over, the well-wishers to be on their way. For him to retire to his room and nurse his grudge and his hang-over. Retire to his room? He glanced cautiously at his bride. She would come too. And – if the spectacle of their first meeting was anything to go by – he would have no peace.
He sighed, flashes of it coming back to him. The cold air outside and the hot whisky within. The collision of the lady into him, and the shock of her lips on his. He shook his head in disgust. The clamour and panic of being found. Her mother – he'd found out later it was her mother – crying and shouting and-
"Darcy." He looked up, dazed, and found Bingley shaking his hand. "I'm sorry." He swallowed, his affable nature at a loss in this circumstance. "You're a man of honour, though, and- I wish you happiness as such you can find." He finished in an embarrassed rush, and left abruptly. It was probably for the best.
Sighing, he turned once again to his bride. "Come," he said, then with some effort, "Mrs Darcy." The name tasted sour in his mouth.
The woman at his side flinched at the appellation, turning blank eyes up to look at him. He sighed again. "We may as well leave; there is nothing for me here."
She stared at him for a moment, then, softly, sadly even,"There was never anything for me here, it seems." He was sure he had never heard so many words come out of her mouth at once, and it seemed like a strange topic to choose to exert herself on. She felt bitter, perhaps, for her family forcing her to accept the consequences of her actions.
Well, he thought, grimly. If nothing else, he was a man of honour, and they'd live with her foolish impulsiveness for better, for worse, 'til death do us part.