Mr Bennet remained seated.
“You requested this interview, sir,” he said, folding his hands loosely over his stomach. “I assume you do not mean to discuss the weather.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly to the gentleman before him. He did not resume his seat.
“No, sir.”
He moved a step away from the chair, preferring to stand. The posture steadied him. “I will speak plainly. I love Elizabeth.”
A flicker of something—shock, or perhaps interest—crossed the older man’s face, though his mouth curved faintly, belying his earlier indifference. “Indeed.”
Darcy clasped his hands behind his back, more to still them than from formality. “I respect her intelligence and her independence as much as I love her. I have already lost time with her through my own arrogance, and I do not intend to risk such folly again.”
Mr Bennet’s gaze sharpened. “You are very candid, sir. I had not expected you to display such frankness with a man you clearly believe beneath you.”
“I believe candour is owed to you as Elizabeth’s father. Your daughter has made it abundantly clear that I have been too haughty in the past. If I have behaved as though I were above you, I apologise. We are both gentlemen, sir, and I claim no superiority here. We both love Elizabeth and desire what is best for her. In that, at least, we stand on equal ground.”
Silence stretched between them for a moment after his words. When Mr Bennet did not reply, Darcy continued.
“At present, Elizabeth does not require your permission to marry. She is of age and entirely capable of choosing for herself.” He held Mr Bennet’s eyes deliberately. “However, she desires your blessing. You are her father, and she loves you. It would wound her to marry without your approbation.”
“You are confident she would marry you regardless?” Mr Bennet asked, deceptively light.
“I am.”
He did not allow his voice to waver, even slightly. He knew what Elizabeth felt for him; it was one of the matters they had discussed in the carriage.
Mr Bennet regarded him more closely now, some of the irony draining from his expression. “You possess remarkable assurance, Mr Darcy.”
“I am certain of Elizabeth,” Darcy replied. “She does not give her heart lightly, and she has told me it is mine.”
That earned him a longer look.
“We have discussed the matter extensively during our journey from Derbyshire,” he went on. “We intend to apply for a common licence and to marry within a fortnight.”
“Within a fortnight.” Mr Bennet repeated it as though testing the weight of it. “A speedy courtship. I had not realised I was in such danger of losing my daughter at once.”
“Part of the haste,” Darcy said, keeping his tone controlled, “arises from the scandal involving Miss Lydia. We wish to prevent further speculation attaching itself to Elizabeth by proximity. Without full knowledge of what had taken place in Brighton, we made the most prudent arrangements we could.”
“And the other part?” Mr Bennet asked.
Darcy did not hesitate. “My pride has already cost me more than it ought. I will not allow idle speculation to dictate our future.”
The older man’s fingers stilled.
“There is also the matter of accommodation,” Darcy continued. “Gardiner wrote to his brother, Mr Philips, regarding a short lease of a house in the area. I will not expose Georgiana to unnecessary discomfort or scrutiny, which would be unavoidable during a prolonged stay at an inn.”
Mr Bennet’s mouth twitched faintly. “You are attentive to your sister.”
“I have had reason to regret past inattention,” Darcy said quietly. “I do not mean to have such cause again.”
That, more than anything, seemed to alter the tone in the room.
The sardonic ease slipped from Mr Bennet’s expression. He regarded Darcy in silence, studying him as though weighing him anew.
“You speak of your faults with inconvenient frankness,” he said at last.
“I have had cause to examine them carefully—particularly after your daughter pointed several of them out to me in the spring.”
