And here, Darcy felt the full absurdity of it.
This was the arrangement he had chosen. This was the alliance he had pursued to save his name, his sister, his estate.
He was fighting to preserve the possibility of marrying a woman he did not love, who had no expectation of being loved, because the woman he did love was no longer an option.
“Then we proceed,” he said. “On those terms.”
The words felt wrong in his mouth. Not bitter. Not sharp. Just… hollow.
He had always imagined love as something to fight for. Instead, he had buried it—alive—and called it strategy.
Miss Ashford gave a shallow nod. “Very well.”
Ashford stood. “Your time grows short, Mr. Darcy. I suggest you use it wisely.”
Darcy rose. “I intend to.”
He bowed to her again. “Miss Ashford.”
She dipped her chin, the gesture precise and perfunctory.
He walked out without looking back. Not because he did not want to. Because there was nothing to see.
Chapter Thirty-Three
10 January
The knock came justas Elizabeth stood to fetch another log for the fire.
She froze. Mrs. Gardiner, seated nearby with her embroidery, glanced up and gave a small nod toward the door. A moment later, the manservant entered with a bow.
“Captain Marlowe, madam.”
Elizabeth turned, her hand still resting against the back of the chair. She had not expected him until the morrow.
Captain Marlowe stepped into the drawing room with a practiced ease that fell just short of genuine. He made his bow—perfectly crisp, precisely angled—and smiled as though the room, the day, and its occupants could not possibly offer him anything but pleasure.
“Miss Elizabeth. I hope I do not intrude. The hour was idle, and I found myself in the neighbourhood.”
Elizabeth dropped a small curtsey. “Not at all, Captain. The hour is yours.”
He crossed the room in three brisk steps and immediately bent to adjust the footstool by her chair, as though its position might deeply concern him. “I feared the fire might be low,” he said. “Are you quite warm enough?”
“It is more than sufficient,” she said. “Though it does make one nostalgic for frostbite.”
His brow furrowed curiously, but instead of inquiring further, he turned to Mrs. Gardiner. “Ma’am, I trust you are well?”
“Well enough, I thank you.”
He turned back. “I hope I have not interrupted anything of importance.”
“Only a book I have not been reading,” Elizabeth said.
He laughed—a short, polite sound—and took the chair nearest her, leaving a discreet but noticeable distance. His gloved hands rested on his knees. They remained there, still and careful.
For a moment, no one spoke.
The fire cracked, and Marlowe’s eyes darted toward it, as though startled by the noise.
