“I do not know what to believe,” he admitted. “Wickham’s claims were public and specific. I cannot dismiss them without?—”
“Without questioning my honor.” She completed his thought, her voice still unnaturally calm. “Without determining whether I am the kind of woman who would align myself with a man like Wickham
Darcy had seen many displays of feminine emotion throughout his years in society. He had witnessed Caroline Bingley’s practiced swooning, designed to draw his attention. He had endured Lady Catherine’s theatrical outbursts, calculated to bend others to her will. He had even seen Georgiana’s genuine grief after Wickham’s betrayal.
This was different. This was fury contained by sheer force of will—the outrage of a woman whose very character had been impugned.
“I understand this is… difficult,” he said. “But I must have clarity on this matter.”
Elizabeth turned to face him, her chin lifted slightly in a gesture that reminded him of her refusal at Hunsford. “You suggest I might have formed an alliance with Wickham against you. Do you truly believe that my character is so fundamentally corrupt?”
The question pierced him unexpectedly. Did he believe it? He thought of her dignity during their previous encounters, her intelligent questions about Pemberley during their conversations at Rosings, and her forthright rejection of his proposal when a mercenary woman would have accepted despite her personal feelings.
These were not the actions of a woman without principle.
She took a step toward the door, her back rigid. “I believed my indiscretion in sharing your proposal was my greatest error in judgment. I see now that my true mistake was in thinking you might ever regard me with the basic respect due to any woman of character.”
Darcy watched her transformation from controlled politeness to contained fury. Beyond the insult to her honor and the impropriety of his questioning, he was causing her genuine pain.
The pain in his shoulder flared sharply as he shifted forward, as if he could physically prevent her departure. “Miss Bennet…”
“If you believe me capable of such depravity,” she continued, her voice breaking, “then I cannot remain here.”
She turned fully toward the door, her hand trembling as she reached for the handle. In that moment, with her back to him, profile illuminated by the window’s light, Darcy was struck by an unwelcome truth—despite everything, he still found her utterly captivating.
“Elizabeth.”
Her given name fell from his lips without conscious thought. It tasted unfamiliar yet somehow right, as if he had been waiting to speak it aloud.
She froze, her back still to him.
“I do not wish to believe it,” he said quietly. “But I must know the truth, whatever it may be.”
“The truth is, Mr. Darcy,” she turned to face him, cold fury glistening in her eyes. “The only gentleman with whom I have ever been unescorted is you, sir—a fact of which you are well aware.”
“At Hunsford,” he said slowly, “I ought to have told you that my feelings would not be repressed—that they would not alter, even in the face of your refusal.”
She stared at him, clearly surprised by this change in direction. A single tear escaped, trailing down her cheek in silent testimony to her distress.
The sight affected him more than he could have anticipated.
“I believed then that I knew your character,” he continued, the words coming with difficulty.
He paused, searching for words adequate to the moment. “I have known Wickham since childhood. I have seen his ability to deceive those of good character. My own sister—” He broke off, unwilling to speak of Georgiana’s near-ruin even now.
“I know his methods,” he continued more carefully. “I know how he uses charm and sympathy to gain confidence. Even the most discerning can be deceived by him.”
Elizabeth remained silent.
“But I also know what I see before me now,” he said. “And what I see is not deception or artifice.”
“What are you saying, Mr. Darcy?”
“I am saying,” he replied, meeting her gaze directly, “that I believe you.”
The three simple words hung between them. Elizabeth’s eyes widened, her carefully maintained composure faltering.
“You believe me?” The question was barely audible.
