The word struck him like a physical blow. It could not be. Sudden clarity slammed into Darcy full force, disorienting and undeniable. Elizabeth de Bourgh. Her interest in Lady Catherine, her vague explanations about her background, her eyes. He remembered where he had seen them. Sir Lewis and his brother, Nathan de Bourgh, had the same eyes. Anne had inherited the shape, but not the color.
I am such an idiot.
The thought was uncharitable and wholly accurate. “I must find my aunt.” He moved away from his cousin towards Lady Matlock as he looked around the room, scanning faces with growing urgency. Where is she? He wished to see her, speak with her, bask in her presence. How does she know Lady Hertford?He needed everything to make sense. The room felt suddenly too crowded, the air too warm.
“What do you mean, that chit is here?” Lady Catherine stood with Lady Matlock. “I will not stay if she is in attendance.”
Darcy slowed, dread pooling in his stomach even as he strained to hear more.
“Keep your voice down, Catherine.” Lady Matlock’s tone was sharp with warning. “Your niece has more connections than both of us combined. I will not have you malign her in my house. For what it is worth, they departed after the previous set. Lady Hertford had another engagement. I am merely pleased—nay, honored—that she came here for part of the evening. Her charges are both polite, refined, and elegant.”
“You have allowed yourself to be drawn in. How can you allow such low-born riffraff in your home? Our bloodlines will never recover from the debasement.” Lady Catherine shook her head, her indignation vibrating with long-practiced outrage. She noted Darcy standing there, agape, and snapped her fingers. “Anne needs a partner for the set. You will oblige your cousin.”
“I shall dance with Anne, Aunt.” Bramley stepped forward at once, placing himself between Darcy and Lady Catherine with quiet firmness. “Darcy looks a little ill.”
Darcy nodded. He felt ill. He felt like a fool. Worse than a fool. The room tilted slightly as the truth pressed in from all sides—every clue he had dismissed now assembled into something coherent and devastating.
I will not believe it until I set eyes on her—on them both.
The evidence pointed in one direction, but he could not allow himself to hope. Not without confirmation. Hope had already made him reckless once; he would not grant it power again without certainty. And yet, as Anne and Bramley moved away to take their places, Darcy remained rooted to the spot, heart pounding with the terrible, thrilling possibility that ElizabethBennet—Elizabeth de Bourgh—had been closer to him all along than he had ever understood.
Richard accompanied Darcy back to his house after the ball. He did not wish to retire. The evening lingered about him still—the noise, the light, the impressions not yet settled into sense. He had just handed off his gloves when the butler approached, bearing a salver.
“An express for Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir. Delivered not a quarter hour past.”
Richard, who had been in the act of loosening his cravat, paused and took the letter with a raised brow.
“At this hour? Either I am about to be congratulated or condemned.”
“Given the hour,” Darcy returned, “I should prepare for the latter.”
Richard broke the seal with practiced ease, his expression shifting as he read—not sharply, but enough that Darcy marked it. When he finished, he let out a quiet breath and gave a short, rueful laugh.
“Well. There ends my season.”
Darcy straightened. “What has happened?”
“Orders,” Richard said, tapping the letter lightly against his palm. “I am to rejoin my regiment within the week. Apparently, I have been enjoying myself too thoroughly to be trusted any longer in Town.”
“So soon?”
“So it would seem.” He cast a glance toward the stairs, as though imagining his mother’s reaction. “My mother will be inconsolable. She had, I believe, at least three more heiresses prepared for my inspection.”
Darcy’s lips curved faintly. “A loss keenly felt, I am sure.”
“Profoundly. I shall disappoint them all.” Richard folded the letter and slipped it into his coat with an ease that did not quite conceal the weight of it. “Still, it cannot be helped.”
Darcy regarded him more closely. The levity remained, but it sat differently now—lighter on the surface, less so beneath.
“You will write,” he said.
“If there is anything worth saying,” Richard replied, though his tone softened. Then, after a brief pause, “Take care of yourself, Darcy. And—” he hesitated, only slightly—“do not delay where it matters. Circumstances have a way of deciding for us if we do not decide first.”
Darcy inclined his head, the words striking deeper than their lightness suggested.
“I will remember it.”
Richard gave a small nod, as though satisfied, and with that the moment passed—folded, like the letter itself, into something that would not be easily forgotten.
