He straightened, wiping the dampness from his cheeks with a trembling hand. The broadsheet lay crumpled on the floor, and he left it there.
Drawing a shuddering breath, he reached for a fresh sheet of paper, the familiar act of writing offering a semblance of control. With deliberate strokes, he began to pen a letter, each word solidifying his resolve to seek solace in duty, if not in love.
To the Right Honourable Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs,
I trust this letter finds you well. In light of recent developments and my unwavering commitment to serve His Majesty’s government, I respectfully request consideration for an overseas assignment where my skills might be most effectively employed. Portugal, given its current strategic importance, appears a suitable station, though I remain amenable to deployment wherever the need is greatest.
I await your esteemed consideration.
Yours faithfully,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
He sanded the letter, watching as the ink set into the fibers. Folding it slowly, he pressed it with the seal of his office. Summoning a passing clerk, he extended the missive.
“Ensure this reaches the Foreign Secretary’s office without delay.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
June 30, 1812
Thesilverteapotrattledfaintly as Elizabeth lifted it to pour her father’s tea. No one else had entered the breakfast room—not a footman, not a maid—and the only sound was the swish of liquid against porcelain. She replaced the pot and folded her hands in her lap, listening for his approach.
The door opened without ceremony.
“You refused him,” the Marquess of Ashwick said by way of greeting, striding to his place at the head of the table. No kiss, no “Good morning, my petal,” not even the customary inquiry after her health.
Elizabeth inclined her head. “I did.”
He sat, the napkin flicking crisply over his lap. “Without so much as a word to me.”
“I did not think your answer would differ from mine.”
“In that, you are entirely incorrect, but that is not the point.”
She said nothing, reaching for the toast rack.
He snorted, watching her with a gaze sharpened by disbelief. “Her Majesty’s favor is not offered lightly, Elizabeth. And Prince Nikolaos is a suitor blessed with royal sanction. A German principality may not be a throne, but it is hardly something to dismiss over your morning tea.”
Elizabeth looked up. “You promised, when I came out, that I would be allowed to choose my own husband and that I would be granted time to look round.”
The marquess’s lip curled. “Yes, within reason. I had rather thought that implied youwouldchoose someone. Eventually.“ He picked up his spoon and stirred his coffee with more force than necessary. “But it has been over a year since your curtsey to the Queen, and your affections remain a mystery to everyone—including, it seems, yourself.”
Elizabeth’s eyes cooled. “Not a mystery. Simply a matter I keep private.”
His brows lifted faintly. “So thereissomeone.”
She reached for her own cup. “That is not what I said.”
He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. “Then explain why you have refused a prince. And why you persist in asking to travel to Hertfordshire, of all places. What do you imagine I will believe, Elizabeth?”
“My imagination is as vivid as the scope of your beliefs, Father.”
His fist fell on the table—for the first time in Elizabeth’s memory, his temper flared, his face reddened, and he was glaring… ather. She startled and straightened in her chair.
“It would not have anything to do with that Member of Parliament from Hertfordshire, Henry Audley, would it?”
Her eyes flashed with indignation. “Mr. Audley and I have hardly spoken to one another more than twice. Besides, he has a weak chin.”
