No one even blinked. The silence that followed Richard’s flippant jest stretched on—long enough for the last of Elizabeth’s heartbeat to slow from its thundering gallop. Her father had sunk into his high-backed chair as though the air had been knocked from his lungs. His face was flushed; the deep creases at his brow had not smoothed. But his voice, when it came again, was quieter. No less furious, but resigned in the way a man is when he knows he has already lost the argument.
“Do not imagine I will condone this,” he said, not looking at her. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the mantel. “You will find no support from me. I will not host your wedding. I will not fund your trousseau. You have chosen to disgrace this family, and it will be borne alone.”
Elizabeth’s eyes blurred. She had hoped… well, that was a foolish idea, anyway. She had lost her father. Her throat tightened, and she sniffed. “I understand.”
That was when Darcy’s hand found hers.
Her father inhaled sharply, as if the sight pained him. “I had always assumed you would do your duty. Not with pleasure, perhaps—but with the sense of obligation you were raised to possess. I did not think I had raised a fool.”
“You did not,” she said softly.
Her father’s lip curled. “You will live in squalor. You will starve in the hedgerows with such a husband.”
“I would rather starve with him than dine alone in a palace.”
Lord Matlock let out a sound that might have been approval. The Countess was watching with frank amusement now, as if the outcome had never been in doubt.
Ashwick’s eyes flicked toward them, and he seemed to realize the game was lost. He looked around the room—at Georgiana’s open admiration, at Richard’s smug and knowing grin, at the Earl of Matlock whose family name would now be further tied to his.
And perhaps worst of all—at Elizabeth herself.
He exhaled slowly. When he spoke again, it was almost a murmur. “I will make you an offer, Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s pulse stuttered. What was this?
Ashwick stood slowly. Straightened his coat. “I will settle a sum upon you—a generous one. Enough for land, for comfort. For your sister’s security. A tidy estate. Respectable tenants. The illusion of a life well-preserved.”
He paused. “But only if you give her up.”
Darcy’s fingers tightened around hers, so briefly she might have imagined it. When he answered, his voice was calm.
“No.”
“Do not be hasty,” Ashwick urged him. “You could build something honorable. You would never want for anything.”
Darcy said nothing.
The Marquess took a step forward. “You cannot build with a scandal. You will never outrun it. But wealth—wealth dulls disgrace. It buys silence.”
Still, no answer. Just a tightening of his fingers around hers.
At last, Elizabeth turned to Darcy. His jaw was tight. His brow furrowed. But there was no hesitation in his eyes. He looked down at her. Only her.
And then he looked back at the Marquess of Ashwick. “Keep your fortune.”
Ashwick let out a slow, bitter laugh. “You are as much a fool as my daughter.”
And then he turned and walked out, the tails of his coat slicing through the air like a blade.
Elizabeth stared after him, her heart full and breaking all at once.
“Was that it?” Richard asked after a moment. “He did not even shout or call for his attorney. I am almost disappointed.”
Lady Matlock rose gracefully to her feet. “Well,” she said, smoothing the skirts of her gown, “now that the unpleasantness is behind us… perhaps someone will call for a fresh tea tray.”
Elizabeth turned to Darcy. He was still watching the door where her father had gone.
But he was still holding her hand.
