Darcy’s expression softened, hope and tenderness warring across his features.
“But,” she continued, the word costing her dearly, “my life is not wholly my own. You know this. The Prince Regent retains authority over my future. His approval is not a courtesy—it is a necessity.”
Darcy’s jaw set, not in anger, but in resolve. “Then I shall request an audience,” he said at once. “I will not allow your handto be bargained without my voice being heard. If I must place myself before him and state my intentions plainly, then I shall do so.”
Elizabeth searched his face, moved beyond measure by his willingness to confront power on her behalf. “You would do that?”
“I would do more,” he replied simply. “I would do anything that honor permits. To know you wish to be my wife…It is hope.”
She smiled then, tender and resolute in equal measure. “I will speak with Lady Hertford,” she said. “She can ensure the request is received. If this is to be decided, it shall not be done in whispers or assumptions.”
Darcy lifted her hand, pressing his lips lightly to her gloved fingers—a gesture so restrained, so deeply felt, that it left her breathless.
“Then we proceed together,” he said. “Whatever the outcome.”
Elizabeth met his gaze, her heart full and unguarded. “Together,” she echoed.
They resumed their walk, hands still joined, the future uncertain but no longer faced alone. Whatever authority sought to shape her destiny, Elizabeth knew one truth beyond all doubt: she was loved, wholly and honorably. And that knowledge gave her strength enough to face even the will of a prince.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Prince Regent disliked surprises. They suggested disorder—an imbalance in a system that relied upon anticipation and control. And yet, as he stood at the tall windows of his private sitting room at Carlton House, he acknowledged that the matter of Elizabeth de Bourgh had already slipped beyond the realm of neat management. She had not been meant to complicate things.
She had been introduced into the Season with purpose, placed with care, guided by a woman whose loyalty was beyond question. She was to be observed, assessed, and—if necessary—directed. A useful presence. A manageable one. Instead, she had become visible. Worse—interesting.
He turned as the door opened, schooling his expression into one of indulgent impatience. Lady Hertford entered with her usual composure, her gown impeccable, her manner calm, her eyes already measuring him. They seated themselves and were silent for a moment before the lady spoke.
“You sent for me, Your Royal Highness?”
“I did,” he replied mildly. “You have news.”
She inclined her head. “Yes.”
He waited.
Lady Hertford did not rush. She never did. She crossed the room with unhurried grace and took the chair opposite him without being invited, which told him everything he needed to know about the nature of the conversation to come.
“Mr. Darcy has proposed to Miss de Bourgh,” she said.
The words landed cleanly. No embellishment nor apology.
The Prince Regent did not react at once. He reached instead for his snuffbox, tapping it once against his palm as though considering the matter entirely dispassionately.
“Has he?” he said at last. “How…enterprising.”
Lady Hertford’s lips curved faintly. “Not enterprising. Deliberate.”
He glanced at her sharply. “You sound as though you approve.”
“I do not disapprove.”
“That is not the same thing.” He reached for a glass of port and downed it in one gulp.
“No,” she agreed smoothly. “But it is closer than I expected to be.”
The Prince Regent leaned back in his chair, studying her. “You encouraged him?”
“I did not,” Lady Hertford replied without hesitation. “Nor did I discourage him.”
