Mr. Bennet’s expression shifted, almost imperceptibly.
“And her faults?” he asked quietly.
Darcy’s lips curved faintly.
“She is inclined to assume she understands a man entirely after two conversations.”
A pause.
“But she is also willing to revise her judgment when presented with truth.”
Mr. Bennet’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment.
“You speak of her as though you respect her.”
“I do.”
“And you would not silence that wit once it is inconvenient to you?”
“I would not dare,” Darcy replied dryly.
The faintest huff of laughter escaped Mr. Bennet before he could prevent it.
He rose and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back.
“You must understand, Mr. Darcy, that Elizabeth is not easily governed. She has spirit.”
“I would not wish her otherwise.”
“She may laugh at you.”
“I hope she will.”
Mr. Bennet turned.
“And if she grows tired of Derbyshire? Of expectations? Of… your relations?”
Darcy’s expression sobered. “I would hope that would not be the case, but she will have my support in all things that are right. And she will have a home where her judgment is valued.”
The room was quiet.
At length, Mr. Bennet sighed.
“I confess, sir, I expected to find more arrogance in you.”
“I have been accused of it before,” Darcy said evenly. “Sometimes justly.”
Mr. Bennet studied him one final time.
“Elizabeth is dearer to me than any of my children, though I do not often show it. If you injure her, I shall consider it a personal affront.”
“You would be justified.”
A beat passed.
“Very well,” Mr. Bennet said at last. “You may court her.”
Darcy did not exhale, though relief surged through him. “I thank you, sir.”
