Every letter, every step, every conversation for the past nine months had been dedicated to shielding Georgiana—from shame, from exposure, from herself.
And it had worked. For the moment. But it had cost him everything else.
Now the season for house parties and quiet courtships was over.
The best prospects, those with connections, some maturity, and a bit of readiness to wed, were already betrothed or married. This year’s debutantes, still wet behind the ears and unbearably fresh upon the social scene, would surely be too surrounded by new suitors to consider settling for him before the ball season had truly begun.
Parliament may have just reconvened, yes—but society had not. The drawing rooms were still shuttered, the invitations unwritten. The most eligible families remained at their country estates, not yet lured back by politics, parties, or pressure.
He could go to London, certainly. He could stalk the echoing corridors of his club, make empty calls on half-deserted households, and endure thin conversation over cold tea. But it was a waste of time for at least another month.
Futile as it seemed, his best chances at the moment seemed to be here. In Hertfordshire, with only… well, one or two prospects who looked remotely conceivable.
He rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead.
It was Bingley’s voice he heard next—a memory from earlier that afternoon.“She does seem to have a particular talent formanaging you. Most cannot get a word out of you, but Miss Elizabeth has you arguing before you have even sat down.”
It had been said with a grin, meant only as amusement. But the words had stuck.
Managing him.
And then, before he could stop himself, the thought had taken shape.
What if I married her?
It was absurd. It was desperate. It was exactly the sort of notion a man had when the walls were closing in and the deadlines were loud and the only woman he could not stop thinking about had once promised to marry him as a joke.
Just marry Elizabeth Bennet.
She could hardly refuse him. After all, her circumstances were even less lustrous than he had imagined, and shehadpromised. A pact made in the heat of a foolish afternoon in Derbyshire. If neither was married in five years...
Well. That December deadline now loomed like a gallows.
She had laughed when she said it. But shehadmeant it. Or had meant it enough.
And if he were desperate—
Darcy stood abruptly and crossed to the window.
The thought should not have stuck. But it did. It should have passed. But it lodged.
Sharp as a hook.
And every heartbeat tugged on the line.
It clung, not because it was reasonable—it was not—but because she would not leave his mind. She was there, vivid as ever, standing across that miserable parlor this afternoon, meeting his gaze like she wanted to strike him and then write about it in that infernal journal of hers. She had seen too much already. The cracks. The edges. The fury he thought he had buried.
And she had laughed—and then leaned closer. If he let her in—even an inch—she would find the rest.
The shame. The fault lines. The fire.
He could not breathe properly when she was near.
And worse, she looked at him as if she could not, either.
Marry Elizabeth Bennet?
He exhaled slowly, hand resting against the window frame. With a family like hers and connections that would do nothing to pull the Darcy name out of the potential scandal that Georgiana had created?
