Page 23 of Honor Requires

The question lingered, unwelcome but persistent.

Hargrave had grown bolder. That much was evident. Whether such boldness sprang from desperation or design, Darcy could not yet say.

There must be some means—legal, proper—by which the man might be made to cease his pestering altogether. To continue thus, pressing his claim through insinuation and repetition, was an impertinence Darcy had tolerated long enough.

He would write to his solicitor.

Yes—that would be the first step. A formal notice, perhaps. A clear declaration that no further correspondence would be entertained. If Hargrave persisted beyond that, then—

A light knock sounded at the door, interrupting his thoughts. Before he could respond, Georgiana entered. She did not so much walk into the room as glide in with barely contained energy, though there was a touch of indignation in her expression that immediately caught Darcy’s attention.

“Brother!”

Darcy turned, the tension of his earlier reflections easing at once. “Georgiana.”

She came toward him quickly, her composure struggling against visible frustration. “Mrs. Younge is insufferable.”

Darcy lifted a brow. “Indeed?” His sister had thus far given him no reason to doubt her companion’s suitability.

“She attempted to prolong my lessons—quite unnecessarily, I might add—declaring that they must be completed before I engaged in, and I quote, ‘frivolous fraternization with lowly tradesmen.’”

Georgiana’s imitation of Mrs. Younge’s tone was so precise—so severe in its affected gravity—that Darcy could not suppress the faintest hint of amusement, though it was quickly overtaken by displeasure.

“She said this to you?”

“Yes. And in such a manner as to imply that our engagement this afternoon is both improper and beneath consideration.”

Darcy’s expression cooled. “I informed Mrs. Younge of our plans,” he said. “She has no authority to interfere.”

Georgiana’s annoyance vanished at once, replaced by bright satisfaction. “I knew you would say so.”

“You are to attend,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “Your engagements are not subject to her approval.”

Georgiana beamed. “Then I shall go and prepare at once.”

“Do so.”

She turned, her earlier frustration entirely dispelled and moved toward the door with renewed lightness—very nearly a skip in her step.

Darcy watched her go, his expression thoughtful. The moment the door closed, he crossed to the bell and rang it. Mrs. Farr appeared promptly.

“You sent for me, sir?”

“I did. Pray inform Mrs. Younge that I wish to speak with her.”

“At once, sir.”

Mrs. Farr withdrew, and Darcy returned to the hearth, though his thoughts were no longer upon Hargrave.

Mrs. Younge. There had been, of late, a tone—subtle, but persistent—in her remarks. A certain inclination toward judgment, particularly where new acquaintances were concerned. Darcy had tolerated it thus far, attributing it to caution, perhaps even to misplaced zeal.

But this—To speak so to Georgiana. To attempt, however gently phrased, to direct her conduct contrary to his own expressed wishes—It would not do.

A knock sounded once more.

“Come.”

Mrs. Younge entered with her usual composed demeanor, her expression arranged into one of respectful attentiveness. “You wished to see me, Mr. Darcy?”