Darcy saw Richard’s mouth twitch, as though he were enjoying the spectacle far more than was charitable.
Bingley stepped closer, lowering his voice—though not enough to make it private. “You could have told me. I am the master of this house.”
Darcy held his gaze steadily. “Then behave like it.”
Bingley blinked, as if the words had struck him more keenly than any accusation. For a moment, his anger wavered—uncertain whether to sharpen or retreat. Pride won.
“I do behave like it,” he insisted, too quickly. “I have obligations and burdens you do not trouble yourself to understand.”
Darcy’s patience frayed at the edges. “Do not mistake my concern for meddling.”
“Concern,” Bingley repeated, and the word came out bitter. “Is that what you call it? You and your cousin disappear to Longbourn without me, leaving me to endure Caroline’s complaints and Hurst’s jests alone, and you call it concern.”
Richard’s tone remained light. “I endured far worse in Spain, Charles. I assure you, a breakfast invitation is not an act of war.”
Bingley rounded on him. “No, it is not. It is strategy.”
Darcy’s head turned sharply. “Strategy?”
“You know precisely what I mean.” Bingley’s eyes flickered, not at Darcy but toward the drawing room—toward the women, toward the scrutiny of the house. “You wish to keep me from her.”
Darcy felt something cold settle in his chest. “From whom?”
“From Miss Bennet,” Bingley said, and there was a possessive edge to his voice that Darcy had never heard before. “You bring Fitzwilliam here and set him upon her like—like some polite hunting dog, and you think I do not see it?”
Richard laughed outright. “Set me upon her? I have never been anyone’s dog, polite or otherwise.”
Bingley did not laugh. He looked instead like he might strike something if he did not speak.
“I am done being managed,” he said hoarsely. “I am done being—guided—like a child. I purchased this estate without you, Darcy, and I will run it without you. I will court whom I please. I will—”
Darcy stepped forward and cut him off. “Not here.”
Bingley’s jaw tightened. “Why not? Are you afraid your cousin will hear the truth?”
“I am afraid,” Darcy said with deliberate calm, “that you will make a spectacle of yourself in front of your household and give your sister fresh ammunition.”
Miss Bingley’s eyes narrowed, but she remained silent—whether from obedience to Bingley’s earlier command or from a desire to listen, Darcy could not tell.
Darcy held Bingley’s gaze a moment longer, then inclined his head toward the study.
“Come,” he said quietly. “If you have grievances, air them where they will not poison the entire house.”
Bingley hesitated, his chest rising and falling too quickly, then gave a sharp nod. “Very well.”
Darcy turned without looking back. He heard Richard’s boots follow a step, then stop.
“You do not need me,” Richard said softly.
“No,” Darcy murmured. “I do not.”
Behind them, the great house continued to breathe—servants moving somewhere out of sight, a faint clink of china from the breakfast room, the hush of carpets swallowing sound. Darcy could feel the attention that lingered like a scent in the hall. Miss Bingley would make an account of this the moment she could. Mr. Hurst would laugh over it later. Even the footmen, no matter how well trained, would remember a master’s raised voice.
In the study, Darcy closed the door firmly.
Bingley did not sit. He paced instead, running a hand through his hair and then yanking it back, as if the motion might restore sense to him. He turned suddenly, eyes bright. “You did it on purpose,” he said.
Darcy did not move. “If you mean I chose to accept an invitation to breakfast, then yes. It was purposeful. I wanted to see Elizabeth.”
