He paused, the weight of his words settling between them. His thoughts turned unbidden to his aunt, Lady Catherine. She would be livid, unyielding in her condemnation, should she learn that he had chosen anyone but her daughter. Her pride, her expectations, her imagined influence over him would all be shattered. But the thought no longer dissuaded him. If Elizabeth accepted him, he would face his aunt’s fury with resolute gladness.
“I think often of Lady Catherine. She will not be pleased with my choice not to marry her daughter. In truth, she may do all inher power to oppose it. But I have come to understand that love must not bow to pride, nor affection to pedigree.”
Bingley absorbed this in silence, his cue idle in his hand.
Darcy spoke on, more firmly, his words edged with protectiveness. “If you mean Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, I will offer this: Miss Bennet is gentle, and your sister is…formidable. You must not allow your wife to be made uncomfortable in her own home. Miss Bingley will seek to dominate, as she always has. She is clever with her tongue, subtle in her slights. Miss Bennet may not call it out, but she will feel it. It is your duty, Charles, to prevent that—to be her advocate, her shield, her safe harbor.”
“And you, Darcy? Would you apply the same measures with your family? You have always spoken of duty. Would it not weigh against your own sense of obligation?”
Darcy’s reply was steady, without hesitation. “My duty will be to my wife—whoever she might be; above all others. That is the lesson I have learned. A man may inherit title and fortune, but it is love and loyalty that render him worthy of both. The family name is nothing if preserved at the cost of his heart’s happiness.”
His eyes turned distant. “I once believed it my task to uphold every expectation, to see the Darcy name remain unblemished. But I have come to know my truest duty lies not in pleasing my relations, but in cherishing the woman who will stand beside me for all my days. In her happiness, I shall find my honor.”
Darcy stood at the window of his bedchamber, one hand resting against the cold glass as he stared into the inky blacknessbeyond. The candles flickered, their glow casting long shadows across the walls. Behind him, the fire crackled low.
He had spoken the words to Bingley readily enough, but now, alone with his thoughts, he considered them more deeply.
He had never truly examined his stance—at least, not until Elizabeth. From his earliest years, he had been taught that family was everything. Respect, obedience, and loyalty were the pillars of a Darcy’s life. One deferred to the wisdom of one’s elders; he was to uphold the dignity of the family name at all costs.
It was that creed which had driven him to leave Hertfordshire the first time, to walk away from the possibility of love because it did not accord with the standard imposed upon him.
But now…now he knew better. Love, true and abiding, did not disgrace a name. It honored it.
Elizabeth had altered everything.
All that mattered was winning her regard. And if he did, if she accepted him, they might build a life together that would withstand the disapproval of any who objected. Together, they could weather all.
Darcy turned from the window, conviction steady within him. He snuffed the candle by his bedside and lay down. As his eyes closed, it was her face he beheld—the radiance in her eyes, the charm of her smile, the memory of her laughter.
The morrow. On the morrow I shall speak at last.
Chapter Twenty-Five
January 5, 1812
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Themorningdawneddifferentlythan Elizabeth had expected. She had retired with a heart full of anticipation, her mind circling without cease. Sleep had not come easily, and when it did, it was filled with visions of Darcy—tall and steadfast, with his attention fixed upon her alone. In a dream he had taken her hand and spoken words she could not recall upon waking, only the echo of warmth and certainty that they had been uttered in love.
But now, in the still grey light of dawn, her eyes fluttered open. The fire in the grate had long since gone cold, the air in the chamber biting as she drew the covers close about her shoulders. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, willing herself to wake, andturned her head instinctively toward the small table beside her favorite chair.
Empty.
Her heart plummeted. Surely not. She threw back the counterpane, pulled on some wool socks, and crossed the cold floor, her breath catching in her throat as she reached the table. Still nothing. No ribboned parcel, no folded note, no surprise. Eleven days of wonder, of tokens so carefully chosen, each one feeling more like a secret avowal of devotion, and now, on the final day—nothing. A chill deeper than the room’s cold settled upon her as she sank into the chair.
What had changed? Had she mistaken everything? Her thoughts raced, doubt seeping into the fragile hope she had nurtured. What if Charlotte had been right? What ifhewere not her Darcy, but rather, a gentleman already bound by marriage, and all this merely some cruel amusement at her expense? She choked back a sob. What gentleman would woo with such care, only to withdraw at the last? Surelynot Darcy!And if it had not been he—then who?
Anger rose, but it was fleeting, soon giving way to sorrow. She had wanted it to be him—hadbelievedit was he. His presence these past weeks, his steady attentions, the way he regarded her when he thought himself unobserved—it had all seemed so real. She pressed a hand against her heart. The ache was more bitter than she expected. She had dared to hope.
A knock on her door startled her.
She turned in haste, brushing her eyes as the maid entered with a small curtsy. “Pardon, miss. I have a note for ye.”
Elizabeth blinked. “A note?”
“Yes, miss. I am terribly sorry. I overslept and—” The maid looked down and fell silent.
