How simple it looks, she thought. How uncomplicated.
Darcy fell into step beside her, though he did not speak at first. The silence stretched, weighted but not uncomfortable. She sensed his tension before she saw it—the rigidity in his posture, the way his gaze moved restlessly across the path ahead.
They reached the park, where early walkers strolled beneath budding trees and the gravel paths gleamed faintly in the morning light. Bramley guided Jane toward a broader avenue, leaving Elizabeth and Darcy momentarily behind.
“Miss de Bourgh,” Darcy began at last, his voice low and careful, “may I speak with you candidly?”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “You may always speak candidly with me.”
He stopped walking.
Elizabeth did the same, startled by the suddenness of it. Darcy turned to face her fully, his expression unguarded in a way she had rarely seen. There was no reserve now, no careful composure—only earnestness, edged with something perilously close to desperation.
“I must know,” he said earnestly, “whether I have any hope with you at all.”
Her breath caught. For a moment, she could not speak.
This is it, she thought.The question I have both feared and waited for.
Elizabeth forced herself to meet his gaze. “You deserve the truth,” she said at last. “And the truth is…complicated.”
His jaw tightened, but he did not interrupt.
“You know already that my presence in Town is not entirely my own choosing,” she continued. “The Prince Regent has taken an interest in my future—one that extends well beyond polite concern. My associations, my prospects, even the timing of my presentation are subject to political consideration.”
Darcy’s eyes darkened. “You are being managed.”
“Yes.” She did not soften the word. “My future is being shaped deliberately. Not maliciously, perhaps, but decisively. I am weighed for usefulness.”
He exhaled slowly, as though steadying himself. “And I am one of the weights placed upon the scale.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then nodded. “Lady Hertford has already remarked upon your attention. She spoke with the prince regarding your suitability.”
Darcy went very still.
“So I am to be judged,” he said. “By a man who knows nothing of me beyond my name and connections.”
“And by what you might offer,” Elizabeth added. “Not what you feel.”
A bitter smile crossed his face. “Then I understand far more than I wish to.”
They resumed walking, slower now, the space between them charged with unspoken emotion. After several steps, Darcy spoke again, his voice subdued.
“There has been much about you that never made sense to me,” he confessed. “Your manner in Hertfordshire—so composed and refined amidst your neighbors. The absence of any explanation for your circumstances. Your circumstances, spoken of only in hints.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved faintly, though there was little humor in it. “That is an apt description of my life.”
“It unsettled me,” he continued. “And instead of asking, instead of trusting my own discernment, I allowed that uncertainty to restrain me.” His voice tightened. “That is my greatest regret.”
She looked at him then, truly looked, and saw the depth of his remorse. It struck her with unexpected force.
“I should have asked you for a courtship,” he said. “Then. When I had the chance. Your circumstances should never have mattered. Ever.”
The sincerity of it pierced her composure. Elizabeth felt her eyes sting, and she turned her face away, unwilling to let him see how deeply his words affected her.
“You cannot know,” she said softly, “how much that means to hear.”
Darcy stopped again, though this time he did not face her at once.
