And if Elizabeth Bennet ever learned the truth—if she looked at him with pity instead of fire—
He would not survive it.
This was not about Georgiana’s scandal at all. This was abouthim.
Bingley was still speaking, something about a tenant’s rent coming due and whether hedges could be charged as part of the maintenance.
Darcy barely heard it.
He had just over five months remaining.
Five months to resolve the matter of his own marital status before his trustees could legally act on the clause in his father’s will and begin “reallocating” the remaining portion of Pemberley’s estate—Georgiana’s share.
And five months was hardly enough time to even allow for decency in a courtship, let alone prudence in the choice.
The funds would not disappear. Not exactly. But they would shift, and with them, so would control. Proof that his house was not in order. That ifsomeone—perhaps someone too clever and too curious for her own good and his—ever pulled at a single loose thread, the entire facade might fall.
Georgiana would no longer be under his sole protection. And the next time a Wickham came to call—letter or no—there might be no one to stop him or the ruin he would surely spread.
Matlock was not simply issuing a family recommendation. He was laying down a marker. If Darcy could not resolve his own affairs, the earl would begin resolving Georgiana’s.
“You are not listening,” Bingley said cheerfully, tugging on his cravat with one hand and finally finding the second glove with the other.
“Iamlistening.”
“What did I say?”
“You were misquoting the rent schedule.”
Bingley squinted. “Oh. Good. That was the boring part.”
Darcy stood, adjusting his coat. The letter was folded and slipped into his inner pocket, though it felt heavier now than it had that morning. Like a verdict waiting to be delivered.
“We are going to Mrs. Philips’ for tea,” he said aloud, mostly to remind himself.
“Indeed, we are.” Bingley’s tone was far too pleased.
“Where there will be people.”
“Many of them!”
“And conversation.”
“Endless amounts.”
Darcy shut his eyes for a single beat. “Excellent.”
Bingley laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “It will not bequitetorture. Miss Elizabeth will be there. You always fare better when she is present.”
Darcy almost swallowed his tongue. Because that, too, was uncomfortably close to the truth—and he had no idea what to do with it.
He followed Bingley out of the study, every step weighted by the paper in his pocket and the woman he was trying very hard not to imagine sitting just a little too close, saying something just a little too clever—just loud enough for him to hear, just sharp enough to lodge behind his ribs.
And he wouldlikeit.
And that was the problem.
Elizabeth had not wantedto attend.
