Darcy did not respond. He could feel the clock ticking behind every breath.
The dowager moved toward the door. “You would do better to acttoday,if you mean to act at all.”
Darcy remained silent, every thought snarling against the next.
She paused, hand on the doorknob. “What about the auction girl, then? The one who looks at you like she sees through marble. Are you truly prepared to let her go?”
He turned sharply. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet has no fortune, no family standing, and by every measure, she would be an embarrassment for a Darcy to link his name to.”
Her brow lifted. “If you truly believed that, you would not have spoken to her after that picnic.”
His throat tightened, but he sealed his lips shut.
She studied him briefly, then nodded. “I see.”
“She is not suitable,” he said at last, forcing assurance into each word. “And that is that.”
“Very well.”
He crossed to the desk, bracing his hand against the edge. “Iwillact. Today. But it will not be by proposing to Elizabeth Bennet.”
“You will do as you must, I am sure.” The dowager opened the door and left.
Darcy stood alone in the hush, staring into the cold hearth as though answers might rise from the ashes. The note on the desk was still unsealed—a choice he had meant to make today.
But now the choice did not feel like a choice at all. It felt like surrender—neat, bloodless, and irrevocable.
“Excellent, excellent,” said Mr.Ashford, clasping Darcy’s hand with the vigor of a man who had just concluded a particularly profitable businessarrangement. “You must join us for St. Stephen’s, Mr. Darcy. We keep a modest gathering—just family, really, but I do think you will enjoy the company. Perhaps Miss Darcy might join us? I know my younger daughter would be delighted.”
Darcy offered a nod that felt more like a concession than assent. “I am grateful for the invitation. You may expect us, sir.”
“Splendid.” Mr. Ashford all but beamed. “Miss Darcy will adore Susan, I am sure. Very gentle disposition. Fond of birds. And embroidery, of course.”
Darcy made some polite sound and stepped into the corridor. The study door closed behind him with a soft click, and the house seemed to exhale around him—a genteel hush clinging to the wallpapered walls and polished floors.
His future was all but secured.
He moved toward the drawing room with the kind of measured tread one used for funerals or formal obligations. Not because Miss Ashford was unsuitable—on the contrary, she was perfectly respectable. Her family unblemished. Her conversation… endurable. For the most part.
And yet, as he neared the drawing room, the scent of rose pomander and waxed holly met him like a wall. This was what it came to, then. Flowers, candles, and approval inked in patriarchal enthusiasm.
Darcy paused just outside the drawing room, his hand resting lightly against the doorframe. A muffled laugh floated from inside—the musical trill of Miss Ashford, followed by the softer rustle of her mother’s reply.
He straightened his cuffs.
Then he stepped into the room.
Miss Ashford sat perfectly poised at the settee, her gloved hands resting atop a small volume of verse—closed, but clearly displayed. Her mother looked up first, all eager politeness and the genteel satisfaction of a matron whose ambitions had finallyborne fruit. Surely, the maids had already informed the lady of the house that a gentleman caller was in the master’s study. Surely, that would account for the third tea service sitting before her on the tray.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said warmly, rising just enough to signal welcome without risking discomfort. “We are so pleased you could join us.”
He offered the appropriate bow, his mind already ticking through the phrasing that would be required—clear, respectful, irrefutable. Something that could not be misconstrued. Something that would sound like duty rather than capitulation.
“Miss Ashford,” he said, turning to her directly, “might I request a moment of your time?”
Her eyes widened—just slightly. Then she inclined her head and rose.
“Of course.”
