The agreement was sealed with a handshake after they signed the papers. Darcy took the folded lease and slipped it into his pocket, feeling the weight of it settle not merely against his coat, but against his conscience. This was the correct course. Necessary, and long overdue.
As they took their leave, Richard mounted his horse with an easy grace, still visibly pleased.
“Well,” he said as they turned onto the lane leading back toward Netherfield, “that is one difficulty neatly resolved.”
“One of many,” Darcy replied.
Richard laughed. “True enough. But a man must take satisfaction where he can. I, for one, am delighted. A household of our own—peaceful, rational, and free of your friend’s increasing…eccentricities.”
Darcy exhaled slowly through his nose. “Bingley will not see it so charitably.”
“No,” Richard agreed cheerfully. “He will take it as a personal slight. Possibly an act of betrayal. Quite likely both.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “That is not my intention.”
“I know,” Richard said easily. “But intention and reception are rarely close relations.”
They rode in silence for a few moments, the rhythm of hooves steady beneath them. The hedgerows slipped past, green and dense, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the road.
Richard broke the quiet first.
“I spoke with Miss Bennet again today,” he said, his tone thoughtful rather than triumphant.
Darcy’s attention sharpened at once, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. “Did you?”
“I did. And Darcy—” Richard shook his head slightly, as though in wonder. “She is remarkable.”
Darcy said nothing, waiting.
“She is attentive,” Richard continued. “She speaks and behaves not merely with courtesy, but with genuine engagement. Miss Bennet asks questions that reveal she has already considered the matter at hand. She does not perform intelligence—she possesses it.”
Darcy felt a flicker of something dangerously close to pride.
“And her wit,” Richard went on, smiling. “Subtle, dry, and perfectly timed. One might almost miss it if one were not paying attention—which, I suspect, many men do.”
“Unlike the ladies of theton,” Darcy said quietly.
“Precisely,” Richard replied without hesitation. “My mother means well, but the parade she arranged was exhausting. Compliments rehearsed, opinions borrowed, ambitions transparent as glass. Miss Bennet speaks of life as she understands it—not as she thinks it ought to sound.”
Darcy glanced at him. “You admire her.”
“I do,” Richard said simply. “Greatly.”
The word settled between them, weighty but not unwelcome.
After a moment, Darcy asked, “Do you believe she prefers you to Bingley?”
Richard considered. “I believe she prefers sincerity to entitlement, conversation to performance, and respect to persistence.”
That was answer enough.
“And you intend to act upon this belief,” Darcy said.
“Yes.” Richard’s voice grew firmer. “I plan to call upon Mr. Bennet and request a courtship soon. Properly. Without games.”
Darcy nodded, though something tight stirred in his chest—not jealousy, but concern. “Just ensure you do so before Bingley. I do not know how Mr. Bennet will react if our friend beats you to it.”
Richard met his gaze, expression sober now. “Yes, of course. I do not enter lightly, Darcy. Nor without intention. And I have the advantage of maturity and strategy.”
