The servant bowed and withdrew, his face betraying no curiosity about the letter that had transformed his master’s countenance from controlled composure to barely suppressed fury.
Alone again, Darcy rose from his desk and strode to the window. Below, a fashionable couple strolled arm in arm, the lady tilting her parasol to smile up at her companion. The sight twisted something inside him—a sharp reminder of foolish hopes he had briefly entertained regarding Elizabeth Bennet.
Fool. He had been a complete and utter fool.
Not only for believing she might accept him, but for imagining she possessed the discretion and good sense he had attributed to her. That she would immediately share the details of his proposal with Wickham, of all people—the man Darcy had explicitly warned her about—spoke to a thoughtlessness he had not anticipated.
Or perhaps it was deliberate cruelty. Perhaps she had sought Wickham out specifically to ensure Darcy’s maximum humiliation.
And now, what of his standing in society? If this story reached London—if it reached Lady Catherine—he wouldbecome an object of ridicule throughout theton. Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, rejected by a country nobody who then gossiped about his private affairs with a militia officer. The very thought made his stomach turn.
He ripped Wickham’s blackmail missive, the tearing sound perversely satisfying. Wickham would not see a ha’penny from Elizabeth’s indiscretion.
A sudden, cold clarity descended over him. There was another way—one that required neither payment nor capitulation.
Denial.
His word against hers. The respected master of Pemberley versus the daughter of an obscure country gentleman. Who would society believe? Who would Wickham believe when Darcy refused to acknowledge any proposal had ever taken place?
The elegant simplicity of it crystallized in his mind. Let Elizabeth Bennet face the consequences of her indiscretion. Let her learn what it meant to mock Fitzwilliam Darcy to his enemy.
He returned to his desk and pulled out a sheet of his finest paper. His hand remained steady as he dipped his pen.
Wickham,
Your letter has been received and its contents noted.
I am at a loss to understand your reference to any proposal to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. No such event occurred during my stay in Kent. I did, on occasion, encounter the lady during her visit to her friend Mrs. Collins, but never in circumstances that could be considered improper or unchaperoned.
Whatever tale Miss Bennet has spun for your amusement, I suggest you consider the source. A tendency toward exaggeration and romantic fantasy isnot uncommon among young ladies of limited prospects and lively imaginations.
As for your financial difficulties, they remain your own concern. My father’s generosity toward your education was more than repaid when I settled your considerable debts and provided you with three thousand pounds upon your refusal of the Kympton living. You will receive nothing further from me.
Should you persist in spreading falsehoods regarding myself or fabrications regarding Miss Bennet, you will find yourself facing consequences far more severe than financial distress.
Fitzwilliam Darcy
He read over the words, satisfaction curling through him like frost. A necessary correction to Wickham’s schemes and Elizabeth’s indiscretion.
Darcy sanded the ink, folded the letter, and sealed it with wax pressed by his signet ring. The act felt final, decisive.
He pulled the bell rope beside the fireplace. When Barany appeared, he was once again the picture of controlled composure.
“This letter must be delivered to Hertfordshire today. Find someone discreet.”
“Of course, sir.”
The letter was a masterstroke. If Elizabeth insisted the proposal had occurred, she would appear either delusional or dishonest. If she remained silent, Wickham’s threats would crumble. Either way, Darcy emerged with his reputation intact while teaching them both the price of making him their entertainment.
The Elizabeth Bennet he had imagined—intelligent, discerning, honorable—was a figment of his own creation. Thereal Elizabeth had proven herself as shallow and thoughtless as the rest of her family.
His traitorous mind kept returning to the memory of her eyes, the grace of her movements, the quick wit that had both charmed and challenged him. Yet it was she who had violated the basic principles of discretion and respect. She had accused him of arrogance, yet thought nothing of sharing his most private moments for the entertainment of others.
He would ride to his club, he decided suddenly. Circulate among his peers, demonstrating through his calm demeanor that nothing was amiss.
Fitzwilliam Darcy did not yield to blackmail. He did not reward betrayal with protection.
And he certainly did not love Elizabeth Bennet.
