Her mother beamed. “Shall I pour the tea while you are out?”
Darcy gave a short, practiced smile. “That will not be necessary.”
They stepped out into the adjacent conservatory, an agreeable space full of potted camellias and the scent of orange blossom water, warmed by a small iron stove humming discreetly beneath a lattice of ivy.
Miss Ashford glanced about with visible delight. “Oh, how charming! I adore winter flowers. So stubborn, do you not think?”
Darcy did not reply at once. He turned toward her, posture rigid with formality, hands folded neatly behind his back.
“Miss Ashford, I…” he began, and then stopped.
Began again. “Your father has kindly given his approval to a proposal I now wish to place before you.”
Her lips parted. Surprise? Or the calculation of surprise? “I am honored by your attention,” she said at last.
Darcy nodded. “I have given this matter serious thought. I believe our families are well matched, and that we share a sufficient foundation of mutual respect to proceed.”
Miss Ashford gave a small nod. “That is very—practical of you.”
“I do not offer this lightly,” he said. “You deserve security, and peace, and a future of calm prosperity. I believe I can provide that.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then she said, “Yes.”
A quiet word in a quiet room. No blush, no tears, no poetry. No swooning or impassioned embrace. No sense that he had changed the course of anything but a calendar. A line written in ink, signed before it was read aloud.
“Yes,” she repeated, a little more brightly. “I should be glad of it.”
Darcy inclined his head. It was done.
They returned to the drawing room with her arm linked in his, where her mother gasped, clasped her hands, and called for sherry.
Darcy allowed himself a single breath.
It was done. It was settled. And now he could begin the rest of his life. Georgiana’s care would not be distributed among his relatives, the disposition of her portion no longer subject for “reallocation.” It could not be siphoned by the Countess, nor could his sister be steered by Lord Matlock into any alliance more beneficial to his pride than to Georgiana’s peace. Lady Catherine would find no foothold for her ambitions, and Anne would never bear the name he had, for a time, feared he might be forced to give her.
So why did he feel like he had just signed a condolence letter to himself?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
21 December
The ice on theSerpentine was glassy and treacherous, reflecting the pale winter sun with a brilliance that made Elizabeth squint. Skaters glided across its surface, their laughter mingling with the crisp air.
The fire crackled cheerfully at the edge of the skating green, hemmed in by pines and a tidy arc of iron braziers. Elizabeth adjusted her mittens, fingers still stinging from the cold despite the wool, and turned toward Jane with a sigh of contentment—or at least something meant to resemble it.
“Without nutmeg, as requested,” said a voice just beside her.
Elizabeth turned to find Captain Marlowe standing there, breath clouding the air, one gloved hand extended with a tin cup of cider. The steam curled upward, fragrant and promising. She blinked once. Twice.
She accepted the cup, careful not to let her surprise register. “Well. That is terrifyingly specific of me.”
His smile flickered—pleased, but uncertain. “I pay attention.”
She tilted her head. “I cannot recall when I might have said such a thing.”
Marlowe cleared his throat. “It was... at Lady Haversham’s musicale. You declined the punch—Mr. Darcy, I believe it was, he brought you something else, and you said nutmeg reminded you of a childhood illness.”
Elizabeth blinked. That had been three weeks ago, and she had not given the remark—or the drink—a second thought. Even Captain Marlow himself had not stuck in her memory, because she had not been introduced to him yet.
