No visits, no shared authority, and no sentimental claims.
Elizabeth would become Darcy’s responsibility. And Darcy, in turn, would owe a debt to him. Not obedience—but gratitude. The Prince Regent exhaled slowly.
“You are suggesting,” he said, “that by allowing this match, I lose control only to secure it more completely.”
“Yes,” Lady Hertford replied simply.
“And you believe Darcy will understand the privilege extended to him?”
“I believe,” she said carefully, “that he will remember who permitted him to keep what he values.”
The prince was silent for a long time. At last, he waved a dismissive hand. “Leave me.”
Lady Hertford rose at once. “As you wish.”
She paused at the door. “For what it is worth, Your Royal Highness, Darcy is the least dangerous choice.”
He did not respond. When the door closed, the Prince Regent remained where he was, staring at nothing.
He thought of Miss Elizabeth de Bourgh—composed, intelligent, watchful, and every bit her mother. Then, he thought of Charlotte’s sharp eyes, of her quiet questions. He thought of Caroline’s voice, always demanding, always resentful.
Darcy would stabilize all of it. Not because he was perfect, but because he was sufficient. The Prince Regent smiled thinly. Power, after all, was not always best asserted through insistence. Sometimes, it was best preserved by choosing the path that left no further moves to be made.
“Summon Mr. Darcy,” he said softly to the empty room.
And the game shifted—at last—toward its conclusion.
Darcy had been summoned before. His uncle, his father, and even his grandfather once, many years ago, had summoned him like a wayward child. None of those encounters carried the weight this one did. Everything he wished for was contingent on the outcome of the meeting with the Prince Regent.
He knew the corridors of Carlton House were meant to impress rather than merely conduct. The ceilings rose higher than comfort required, the carpets muffled sound to an unsettling degree, and the portraits along the walls were arranged not for beauty but for reminder. Kings, princes,victories rendered permanent in gilt frames. The message was unmistakable: authority preceded him, surrounded him, and would endure long after he departed.
Yet Darcy did not feel fear. Reluctance, yes. Irritation, perhaps. But not fear.
He had not sought the Prince Regent’s notice. He had not cultivated favor, nor angled for advantage. His fortune was his own. The Darcy name stood without embellishment. His independence was not an affectation but a fact, and he had long ago learned that fear was the surest way to invite manipulation.
What unsettled him was not the prince. It was Elizabeth.
She will be weighed as I am weighed,he thought.And that I cannot abide.
He was announced without flourish. The doors opened. He entered.
The Prince Regent stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed enough to be deceptive. He did not turn at once. Darcy bowed low.
“Mr. Darcy,” the prince said mildly. “You have been prompt.”
“I make it a habit, Your Royal Highness.” He did not rise, waiting for the invitation to straighten.
“An admirable one.” The prince turned then, his gaze sharp and appraising. “Sit.”
Darcy stood tall, inclined his head and obeyed. He noted, without surprise, that there was no desk between them. No papers. No witnesses. This was not an administrative meeting. It was a test.
“I am told,” the prince began, “that you have made your intentions known to Miss Elizabeth de Bourgh.”
Darcy met his gaze steadily. “I have.”
The prince raised a brow. “No preamble. No apology.”
“There is nothing to apologize for,” Darcy replied evenly. “Nor anything to disguise.”
