Bingley’s mouth opened, then shut again. He seemed genuinely stunned by the bluntness.
“And,” Darcy added, because he would not half-speak it now, “I wanted Richard to have an opportunity to converse with Jane Bennet without you hovering as though she were already your property.”
“She is not property,” Bingley snapped. “She is—she is—”
“Free,” Darcy supplied. “And until you request a courtship and obtain her consent, you have no claim.”
Bingley’s face twisted. “You speak as though I am some villain.”
“I speak as though you are a man in danger of becoming one,” Darcy said coldly.
The words hung between them, heavy and undeniable. Bingley stopped pacing. For a moment he looked younger than Darcy had ever seen him—young not in years but in spirit, the weight he carried having dragged his easy charm into something strained.
“You think I am not worthy of her,” he said quietly.
Darcy exhaled slowly, forcing himself to temper the sharpness that rose instinctively. “I think you are not steady.”
Bingley’s eyes flashed. “And you are?”
“Yes,” Darcy said, and if it sounded arrogant, he could not help it. “I am. Where it matters, I am.”
Bingley’s hands clenched. “You speak as though you are above temptation.”
“I am not above it,” Darcy replied. “But I do not indulge every impulse merely because it pleases me in the moment.”
The silence that followed was taut.
Then Bingley turned away abruptly, as if the conversation itself had become unbearable. He moved to the sideboard, poured himself a glass of brandy with shaking hands, and took a long swallow, though it was hardly yet noon.
Darcy watched the tremor in his fingers. He watched the way Bingley’s shoulders lifted and fell, too fast, as if he were trying to outpace his own thoughts.
“Why,” Darcy asked at last, his voice lower, more controlled, “are you truly angry?”
Bingley froze. For a moment, he did not answer. Then, with a rough laugh that held no humor, he said, “Because I am tired, Darcy.”
“Tired,” Darcy repeated.
“Yes. Tired.” Bingley whirled to face him, eyes bright with frustration. “Do you think I enjoy arguing? Do you think I wanted to stand in that hall and shout like a fool? I have had…matters pressing on me. And you choose now, of all times, to take sides against me.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “What matters?”
Bingley’s jaw tightened again. “Estate matters.”
“Then discuss them with me,” Darcy said. “That is why I am here.”
Bingley’s laugh turned sharper. “That is precisely why you are here. Because you believe yourself indispensable.”
Darcy felt his temper stir. “I believe you require counsel, whether you like it or not.”
Bingley flung a hand outward. “You always do this. You always push.”
“Because you always evade,” Darcy returned.
Bingley’s face reddened. “I am not evading.”
“Then tell me,” Darcy said, taking a step closer. “Tell me what has happened.”
For a moment, Bingley looked as if he might refuse out of sheer stubbornness. Then he exhaled hard, dragged a hand down his face, and muttered, “I must go to town.”
