Darcy did not move. The study seemed to shrink, the air dense with perfume and power.
“I shall write to the Archbishop myself,” she announced. “I have connections you cannot fathom. We shall have a special license within the week. It will be done.”
She lifted her chin with finality, her expression alight with triumph—as though the matter had already been signed and sealed.
Darcy stared at the page, the lines of it curling faintly at the edges from the warmth of the hearth. The letters—precise, polite, and unmistakably final—might as well have been etched in stone. Each word hit like a tally against his chest.
He could say yes. He could nod once, let her take over, let her do what she had always wanted. A proposal, a wedding, a dutiful cousin bride—and no more scandal, no more noise.
No more Elizabeth. It would be over.
Good Lord…
“Leave me,” he mumbled.
Lady Catherine made a sharp noise of objection, part snort, part protest. Her cane snapped once against the floor. “Do not be absurd. This is precisely the moment when—”
But the dowager rose before she could finish, unfolding herself from the chair like an empress descending from a throne. “We shall leave you to your paperwork,” she said with a glance toward the desk. “No doubt the ink still believes it holds power.”
Lady Catherine scoffed, but her argument dissolved beneath her mother’s glare. She turned sharply, skirts flaring, muttering something vicious about betrayal and imbeciles. Her cane tapped a path toward the door, one step behind her dignity.
The clerk, who had made himself near-invisible beside the window, bowed hastily and clutched his folio as though it might deflect fury. His eyes flicked to Darcy and then away again, unsure whether to offer condolence or congratulations.
Only the dowager remained, like a sentry at the threshold. Her cane rested lightly against the floor, more scepter than support. Her expression had shifted—no longer imperious, but assessing. Her mouth drew to a fine, deliberate line, and her eyes narrowed, not with sympathy, but with something more dangerous: understanding.
She took one step back into the room.
“What will you do now?” she asked. Not unkindly, but without softness either. She asked as though it were a chess problem, and the pawn left had been left exposed.
He said nothing. The letter in his hand was answer enough.
After a moment, she inclined her head. “Then you had best decide before someone else does.”
And with that, she turned and departed, her cane clicking once against the polished floor. The latch clicked closed behind her.
Darcy remained where he was.
The fire crackled. The folded letter drooped in his hand, the wax seal already broken but still cruelly intact in his memory. The paper rustled slightly in the heat, like breath from something dying.
No reply.
No recourse.
Only a void where a signature ought to be, and a place in his heart that would never be filled.
The wind cut sharplythrough the narrow streets, chasing dust along the cobbles and stinging Elizabeth’s cheeks with cold. She tightened her scarf and kept her eyes forward as Captain Marlowe offered his arm. She hesitated—just for a moment—then took it. His sleeve was stiff beneath her gloves. Too stiff. Not from starch, but from unfamiliarity. It was like linking arms with a desk chair. One with polished manners and excellent prospects, but no heartbeat to speak of.
He did not fit.
Nor, if she were honest, did she.
He had arrived at the Gardiners’ townhouse that morning with precise punctuality and his usual handsome manners, suggesting a walk “for the nerves” before the weather turned any worse. Elizabeth had agreed. It had seemed preferable to remaining indoors, where every ticking clock reminded her that a marriage—hismarriage—was likely underway even now. Fitzwilliam Darcy, steady and proper, would not be late to his own wedding.
Marlowe’s gait was even, his posture correct. But he kept glancing toward the church spires peeking between rooftops—St. George’s, perhaps? Or some other Mayfair monument to eternal vows. Elizabeth tried not to see it.
“I hear the Ashfords are to host a wedding breakfast of ten courses,” Marlowe remarked, nodding toward a passing carriage. “They do not seem to believe in modesty.”
Ten courses. Yes. The bride would sip something rose-colored from a crystal glass, and Darcy would stand tall beside her, quiet and correct, marrying someone else with faultless posture.
