“But he does defy them eventually?”
“After hundreds of pages, in three volumes, mind you, of agonizing vacillation, yes. He finally realizes that his pride and his family’s expectations are worth precisely nothing compared to Cecilia’s happiness. He proposes. She accepts. They marry. His family name survives the catastrophe of becoming Beverley, and everyone lives tolerably well ever after.”
“Then the ending is satisfactory.”
“Yes, barely,” Elizabeth said. “However, the journey is excruciating with considerable suffering on both sides and a resolution that arrives rather later than the heroine deserved.”
She was looking directly at him now, and Darcy found he could not look away.
“Does this species of stubbornness remind you of anyone, Fitzwilliam?” Lady Sophia’s voice was deceptively mild.
Unwarranted heat climbed Darcy’s neck, spreading toward his ears. He was acutely aware that both women watched him with expressions of perfect innocence that fooled no one.
“I cannot imagine I am acquainted with anyone by the name of Delvile,” Darcy denied. “Besides, the parallel fails entirely. Mortimer had a quite distinct and valid reason for his hesitation, as his esteemed mother was still alive to object to the match. A gentleman cannot simply override a maternal command without a severe breach of filial honor.”
The words left his lips, and Darcy wasn’t sure why both women stared at him as if he had sprouted antlers.
Elizabeth’s eyes went wide, her lips parting in a small, breathless circle of sheer astonishment. Beside her, Lady Sophia slowly lowered her chocolate cup to its saucer, a slow, predatory smile dawning across her ancient features.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice vibrating with uncontained delight. “Youhaveread it.”
Darcy froze. A dark, violent flush rushed up his neck, burning his ears a brilliant, undeniable crimson.
“Not entirely,” he stammered. “My sister read the volume last winter and… she was remarkably vocal regarding the plot. I merely recall a few names and particulars.”
“How very attentive of you.” Elizabeth’s voice was honey and thorns. “To remember the specific maternal objections of a fictional hero based entirely on a sister’s casual review. You must have an extraordinary memory for… rigid families.”
“The question,” Lady Sophia said, her voice soft but pointed, “is whether a man can learn from Mortimer’s example. Whether he can recognize the pattern before a thousand pages have elapsed and choose to act while there is still time.”
Darcy looked at Elizabeth. She was watching him with an expression he could not quite read—challenge and warmth and maybe hope, but carefully guarded. If she and Lady Sophia wereneedling him about their failed romance, he would not take the entire blame.
He drew himself up and strode to the window, his shoulders blotting out the light and casting a shadow across her book.
“No sensible gentleman I know requires instruction from a novel designed merely to entertain the impressionable. The comparison fails entirely.”
“Does it?” Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, though her fingers tightened against her book. “In what way?”
“In every way that matters,” Darcy countered. “A man who is bold enough to step forward and offer a proposal of marriage should not be compared to such a vacillating character. Whatever his faults, a man who declares himself openly demonstrates a courage that demands serious consideration—not the ridicule one reserves for a fictional idiot. If a lady refused the man, the ensuing misery cannot be laid at the gentleman’s door. I ask you, did Cecilia refuse this Mortimer?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. The mockery vanished, replaced by a flush that rivaled any rose. The trap she and Lady Sophia had set had snapped shut—on her.
“No,” Elizabeth was forced to admit. “She did not refuse him because he never made a declaration. She spent hundreds of pages weeping in the dark because his pride kept him silent while her heart was entirely his for the asking.”
“In this, we see clearly the fiction that this man was even a hero.” Darcy was aware he stood over her, looming and unyielding, keeping his eyes fixed on her lest she dispute the verdict.
Lady Sophia watched them both over the rim of her porcelain cup, her pale eyes alight with the satisfaction of a strategist who had provoked a lion into showing his claws. She yawned. “I do say, the morning is well spent, and Miss Bennet has a matter of business requiring your signature. I believe I shall take a well-deserved nap right here by the hearth. Do not let my snoring disrupt your ledgers, Fitzwilliam.”
Elizabeth took the graceful distraction Lady Sophia provided, reaching for the trust documents with alacrity.
“I have been studying the portfolio,” she said, her voice higher than usual as she forced the conversation onto the safe, dry ground of commerce. “The trust documents you provided, the income summaries, the dividend schedules.”
Darcy adjusted his cuffs, the dangerous heat slowly receding from his jaw as he accepted the pivot. “You have been remarkably thorough.”
“I have been sleepless, which is nearly as effective.” She spread the papers between them, ink-stained fingers betraying only the slightest tremor. “Fifteen thousand a year: seven from Consols, five from canal shares, three from Bellwood Park. Is that correct?”
“Approximately.” Darcy moved a step closer, still looming over her. “The canal dividends vary somewhat from year to year, and Bellwood’s rents depend entirely on the autumn harvest. But the Consol income is stable. Government bonds at five percent. The safest investment available in the kingdom.”
“Yes, I had worked that out.” Elizabeth traced a line on one of the documents, her finger following the neat columns of her angular handwriting. “Which is why I have decided to give it away.”
