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“Helping these men locate a good husband for Miss Elizabeth,” Fitz replied, all pleasant innocence.
“You do not even like her!” Darcy cried. “You avoid her, you chastise her, you try to persuade me from showing her the least consideration!” Darcy stalked over to one of the windows, placing his hands on either side of the casement and gazing out upon the bleak, muddy fields beyond.
“Are you mad, Darcy?” Fitz shot back. “You are the one who said you would not consider her. I acted to protect her and you. I think Miss Elizabeth is perfect, you great ox!”
Darcy swung back to scowl at his cousin. He could feel himself grow hot with anger. “I beg your pardon?”
Fitz not only rolled his eyes—he rolled his entire head. “Perfect for you, you bird-wit!” He linked his hands together behind his head, something Darcy did himself when he felt short-tempered. “Darcy,” he said slowly, and Darcy could hear the bitterness in his cousin’s words, “you are the one who refuses to see it.” He rubbed the back of his neck tiredly before waving a hand in the direction of the study. “There is an uncommonly beautiful, intelligent, spirited, loyal young woman in that room. I would very much like to know her better, but I never shall. Do you know why?”
Darcy glanced away, ashamed. Of course he knew.
“Indeed,” Fitz said in response to the look of sympathy Darcy wore. “I have my allowance. Should Miss Bennet and I like one another, I could marry her—but when the children come, as they so often do, we would have nothing to give them. They would all of them become the relatively impoverished grandchildren of an earl. As the dependent second son of an earl, I can say that it is not a position I recommend.” He held Darcy’s gaze. “Therefore, I will not approach Miss Bennet. I will not speak with her or try to know her better. We must both of us seek other matches.” Darcy had never seen Fitz so cold, so angry—not with him. Fitz ground out his next words. “That is not your fate. You can afford to marry where you choose.” He paused to regain his composure. When he had, he said, “I have seen how hard you work. I have never been jealous of your good fortune, Darcy. You know that.”
Darcy nodded. “I do know it.”
Fitz’s hands curled into fists. “Then you must also understand how deeply it galls me to see you throw away that gift—the opportunity to seek your own happiness. And for what? You would make yourself forever miserable for connections and fortune you do not require?” He glared at Darcy. “I would plant you a facer if it would not distress Georgie.”
It embarrassed Darcy to think that he had not recalled Georgiana’s situation in some days. She had not written him; she was safe with their aunt and uncle. His aunt said that she was recovering. Still, Elizabeth’s plight had entirely consumed him. He was not certain his sister would be distressed should Fitz follow through on such a threat, and he could not fault her for it.
A deep weariness washed over him, and he wondered tiredly whether Georgiana would like Elizabeth. Before last summer he could have said for certain, but now—well—he thought she might.
It had been a fortnight following his insult at the assembly before he admitted to himself that he admired Elizabeth. Then he had spent nearly a month hiding that admiration from its object. It was during Elizabeth’s sojourn at Netherfield to care for her sister that he had first felt himself in real danger, but he suspected he had been infatuated with her long before he allowed it to be so. He had believed some time away to clear his head was in order, and he had sent for Anders, intending to leave a day or two after the ball with the other guests. Darcy had not yet mentioned anything to Bingley about leaving, but it was not a secret he had sent for his coach. He wondered whether the Bingleys had seen his behavior more clearly than he had himself and acted out of fear their designs would come to naught.
Fitz was still talking. “Miss Elizabeth is a gentleman’s daughter. She would benefit from your wide knowledge of the world, and you would benefit from her open manner. You also trust her. You require someone you can trust implicitly.” Fitz frowned, but something like humor finally kindled in his eyes. “And you cannot marry me.”
“I do trust her,” Darcy muttered, thinking of how she had defended him from the Bingleys. He shot a scowl at his cousin. “More than you, in fact.” In the brief moments when he had thought Elizabeth dead, his world had been torn asunder, and when he realized she was alive . . . He would not lose her again. Family connections be damned, wealth be damned—he could not endure the pain of seeing her bound to another.
Fitz smiled broadly. “Then you had better marry her.”
He knew Fitz was congratulating himself, and he would never hear the end of it. He did not care.
Darcy simply nodded. “I have come to the same conclusion.”
Once he said the words aloud, a little of the weight he had carried around the past weeks lifted from his shoulders. He could not say precisely when it had happened, but marrying Elizabeth had become his dearest wish.
His mother, despite her own decision to marry an untitled man, had expressed higher hopes for her son, and his father had strongly supported her. Darcy had thus always been taught that marriage was an obligation to improve the family’s standing and not an opportunity for self-satisfaction. Yet he could not regret having Elizabeth always with him.
His parents would have been disappointed, and this gave him some pain. Yet he knew that they would have come to love Elizabeth. Perhaps begrudgingly at first. But eventually, they would have seen her worth.
He hoped Elizabeth thought somewhat better of him now than she had at the ball, or even than she had at dinner the previous evening. He gave Fitz a small, sheepish smile. “Do you think that when she realizes I have spoken with her father before her, she will throw another plate at my head?”
Fitz snorted. “I hope she does, you mutton-head. We might have cleared up this question of her reputation days ago had you just admitted I was right.”
Darcy’s heart filled with a kind of cautious joy. He could not help it. He walked past his cousin without a word and returned to the study.
Miss Bennet and Sir William were speaking quietly together. Mr. Bennet was penning a letter at Sir William’s desk.
“Mr. Bennet, sir,” Darcy said, and Sir William smiled knowingly. Mr. Bennet stopped writing and peered at Darcy over his spectacles. Fitz came in behind him and sat in a chair close to the fire.
“Yes, Mr. Darcy?” the older man asked.
Darcy felt everyone’s eyes upon him. He cleared his throat. He had always expected that when he had this conversation, it would be in private. He took a deep breath and attempted to ignore the others. “I request your permission to marry Miss Elizabeth.”
There was a small gasp from Miss Bennet, and Darcy was sure he heard the ghost of a laugh from Fitz. Sir William laced his hands together over his stomach, and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Capital, capital,” he said warmly.
Mr. Bennet carefully wiped his pen and set it on the desk. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “that is a rather unexpected application, Mr. Darcy. May I ask why you have made it?”
To say he was surprised by Mr. Bennet’s inquiry would have been too weak a word. He was shocked. Mr. Bennet’s daughter—nay, all his daughters—were facing ruin. Only minutes ago he had been preparing to send her to an uncle in trade to find her a husband. Surely he was a better prospect?
