They were all still settling into the idea of one another—of what this alliance was meant to be. No warmth. No secrets, certainly, but no softness either. It had never mattered before. That had been the point. And yet now—
Now it was all he could think about.
The scent of pine logs drifted up from the fire. The mantel clock ticked once, then again.
“I presume,” he began carefully, “that you are aware of the nature of the… commentary being passed about town.”
Miss Ashford inclined her head. “It would require a certain deafness not to be.”
Ashford lowered the newspaper with the precision of a man who had read every column more than once. “It was evident enough at the Hayworths’ masque.” His mouth flattened. “The tone of the evening was not what one expects from polite society.”
Darcy’s spine straightened. “I am sorry you found the atmosphere disagreeable.”
Ashford made a low sound of acknowledgment. “I did not say I found it disagreeable. I said it was instructive.” He set the newspaper aside, eyes now wholly on Darcy. “These whispers—about your engagement, about your family—cannot be dismissed as idle mischief. One begins to hear... patterns. The haste of your courtship. The inheritance clause. Your sister’s—situation.”
His gloves had begun to itch. The seam pressed against the base of his thumb like a warning. He flexed his fingers, trying to shift the pressure. It only made the stitching groan.
“No daughter of mine will be made the object of mockery.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. “Nor mine.”
Ashford sat back. “I had supposed you a man of good character. And I have not yet been persuaded otherwise. But I cannot feign ignorance of what is being said. If my daughter is togo forward in this alliance, she must do so with confidence that your name will not be a source of derision.”
Darcy said nothing at first. His hand hovered briefly near his watch fob, then lowered again. A gesture not of uncertainty but restraint.
Ashford continued, his tone more measured. “I am not disobliged to the marriage. You bring resources. Connections. A certain gravity. But that gravity must carry us through the storm, not be the storm itself.”
Darcy lifted his gaze. “I do not disagree, sir.”
That earned him a glance. Not admiration, precisely—something cooler. Assessment.
Miss Ashford folded her hands in her lap. “Do you intend to end the engagement, Mr. Darcy?”
It was so simply put. As though it were hers to dissolve. As though it had not taken every ounce of his family’s calculation to engineer this arrangement in the first place.
He met her gaze. “Not unless you require it.”
“I require only clarity,” she said. “And dignity.”
“You shall have both.” He paused. “I will see to it.”
She did not smile. She never smiled. She did not reach for him or even light up as he entered the room. She never did.
Elizabeth had once smiled at him like the sun had changed course. And he—blast him—he had been too proud to orbit her.
Mr. Ashford cleared his throat. “You understand, sir, that my daughter’s social standing rests upon more than your private assurances. These rumors—this association with scandal—places her in peril.”
Darcy’s hands tightened in his gloves.
They were talking about association. About proximity. As if he had merely stood too near something vulgar.
As if that were all he had done.
“I am aware,” he said flatly.
Ashford’s eyes narrowed. “If you cannot prevent your name from being dragged through the pamphlets, you must, at the very least, preserve hers.”
Miss Ashford spoke again, her voice even. “We must maintain appearances. That is all.”
