Settling back against the cushions, his fingers steepled. “I saw a man who did not mock you when he discovered the duel would be chess rather than weapons. Not once did he question your skills or suggest that a woman could not possibly challenge him intellectually. He simply sat across from you and played.”
Elizabeth quickly pointed out, “Poorly.”
“You are correct. He did not show himself to his best advantage.” Her father’s eyes twinkled. “When do you think he began to realize he was trapped in that first game?”
“When I moved my queen.”
“Did he forfeit or claim some sort of trickery on your part?”
“He did not,” Elizabeth reluctantly said.
“Did he lose his temper, overturn the board scattering the pieces in the grass, or storm away as many men might have done?”
She folded her arms across her chest, saying nothing.
“Lizzy dear, he accepted his humiliation with remarkable grace, did he not?”
She sighed, frowning, her fingers twisted in her lap. “I…I had not thought of it that way. Of him that way.” The taste of that admission was bitter on her tongue.
“Lizzy, please consider that the man quickly learned from his mistakes. During the second game, he fought back, showing considerable skill. He did not pretend to let you win, did he?”
“No, he did not.” Elizabeth barely kept from squirming.
“You accused him of lacking a heart and brain, a cutting remark that was well-deserved, given his insult to you. Did he defend himself? Did he make excuses or argue?”
“He said he deserved my worst.”
“Do you not see, child? He allowed you to set the terms. How many men of his station would grant a female such authority over him? How many would humble themselves to that extent?”
“You approve of him?” Elizabeth shifted in her seat.
“I am surprised to find that I do,” her father said mildly. “Underneath his pride—and he has pride, make no mistake—there is a man willing to admit fault, who chose accountability over arrogance. His apology was sincere. His conduct during the games was honorable. And his willingness to learn a lesson from the woman whom he dismissed as merely tolerable speaks to at least a measure of good in him.”
“What are you suggesting?” Elizabeth asked warily.
“Merely that beneath Mr. Darcy’s unfortunate first impression is a character that deserves…consideration.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “You cannot be serious, Papa.”
“I am rarely serious, as you well know. But in this, I think I am.” He patted her hand. “I am not suggesting you forgive him immediately, mind you. Nevertheless, if you are able to let go of your resentment, to not close the door entirely on him, you might end up with a valuable friend.”
“I do not know if that would ever be possible.”
He smiled. “Well, time will tell, I suppose.”
Elizabeth turned back to the window. Why, despite everything, could she still see his face as he had laid his king down before her—defeated, yes, but somehow still dignified?
She pushed the insignificant thought away, but her certainty wavered. Surely, her father was wrong. Surely.
Darcy’s coatlay discarded over a chair. His cravat hung loose around his neck, unknotted in his agitation. He tried to sit at his desk three times and failed, propelled to his feet by energy that had nowhere to go.
He needed a plan. He needed…
“You are going to wear a path through the carpet.” Richard stood under the lintel, arms crossed, observing his pacing with concerned amusement.
“I am thinking.” Darcy stopped by the window, gripping the frame.
“Of course, you are.” Richard smirked. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “You are wondering if she is thinking of you. Hating you. Laughing at your defeat.”
