“Come now, Mr. Darcy. You have been observing my Lizzy as a cat observes a mouse, though I confess I am uncertain whether you intend to pounce or to toy.” Mr. Bennet’s eyes had lost their humor, growing sharp and assessing. “I wonder—are you collecting faults to add to your initial assessment of her? What was it you said at the Meryton assembly? That she was tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt you?”
The words hit Darcy like a punch to the stomach. He had said that—God help him, he had said exactly that—but he had thought that no one of consequence had overheard. The memory rushed back with mortifying clarity: Bingley urging him to dance, suggesting Miss Elizabeth as a partner, and his own arrogant dismissal of her charms.Good lord! Had Elizabeth heard?
“Mr. Bennet, I assure you—” Darcy began, but the older man was not finished.
“Because if that is your intention,” Mr. Bennet continued, his voice taking on an edge, “you may save yourself the effort and return to Derbyshire without another thought for the Bennet family. It is quite obvious you hold us all in disdain, though I confess I am at a loss as to what we have done to earn your scorn beyond existing in your vicinity.”
Mr. Bennet believed Darcy to be cataloging her faults? Nothing could be further from the truth. “Sir, I must apologize—” Darcy tried again, but Mr. Bennet waved a hand dismissively.
“No need, no need. I merely wanted to inform you that by tomorrow morning, my Lizzy will be betrothed. So whatever game you are playing, it will soon be irrelevant. She will be another man’s concern, and you may continue your life secure in the knowledge that you successfully avoided the contamination of association with the Bennet family.”
The words hit Darcy like a series of blows to the solar plexus. Betrothed? Miss Elizabeth? Tomorrow morning? To whom?
“I see the news surprises you,” Mr. Bennet‘s tone held a hint of cruel amusement. “Did you think us all too poor and vulgar to arrange proper matches for our daughters? Or perhaps you thought Elizabeth herself too proud to accept a clergyman of modest means? I assure you, Mr. Darcy, my daughter understands her duty to her family, regardless of her personal preferences. She has not yet reached her majority. I will not allow her to refuse him.”
Darcy’s mind reeled. This could not be happening. Elizabeth could not…she would not…
But what claim did he have? He had hesitated. He let his pride and his concerns about her connections stay his hand. And another man would act where he had merely watched and wanted.
“I wish your daughter every happiness,” Darcy managed to say, though the words tasted like ash in his mouth.
“How generous of you.” Mr. Bennet’s smile did not reach his eyes.
Movement caught Darcy’s eye. The middle Bennet daughter—Miss Mary, he thought—stood behind her father, a glass of punch in her hand. Her eyes widened behind her spectacles.
She had heard most, if not at least part of their exchange.
“Now, if you will excuse me,” said Mr. Bennet, “I believe the card room beckons. I find I am in need of sensible conversation, a commodity in rather short supply in a ballroom filled with chattering mothers and their simpering daughters.”
Before Darcy could even respond to Mr. Bennet, the gentleman walked away, leaving Darcy frozen in place, his mind racing.
Miss Mary set the glass aside and hurried across the ballroom toward Miss Elizabeth, who was still trapped inconversation with Mr. Collins. The middle daughter bent close to her sister’s ear, whispering frantically, her hands gesturing in agitation.
Miss Elizabeth’s face transformed from practiced ennui to shock, then to fury. Without a word to Mr. Collins, she grasped Miss Mary’s arm and pulled her toward the library.
Something was very wrong.
Darcy surveyed the ballroom. No one seemed to have noticed the sisters’ departure. Bingley danced with Miss Bennet, both smiling with that new understanding Darcy had only recognized. Mrs. Bennet held court near the refreshment table, cackling loudly. Miss Bingley moved through the room, playing the hostess with an air of superiority that grated on Darcy’s nerves. Mr. Bennet had disappeared in the direction of the card room. And Mr. Collins stood alone near the dance floor, looking about in confusion at Elizabeth’s disappearance.
Darcy set down his wine glass and moved toward the library door. He told himself he merely wished to ensure the ladies were well, that nothing untoward had occurred. But even as he formed the justification, he knew it for a lie.
Miss Elizabeth was in distress. And despite his pride, his concerns about her family, his hesitation—he could no more ignore her suffering than he could stop breathing.
He listened at the library door. He could hear voices within—Miss Elizabeth’s voice, raised in a way he had never heard before, acute with anguish and anger.
Darcy opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it softly behind him.
The sight that met his eyes would be forever burned into his memory. Miss Elizabeth paced before the fireplace like a caged lioness, her hands clenched at her sides, tears stealing down her face that she swiped away with angry, impatient gestures. MissMary stood near the desk, wringing her hands, her bearing a mixture of sympathy and helplessness.
“How dare he!” Miss Elizabeth exclaimed, apparently unaware of Darcy’s presence. “How dare Papa decide my future without even consulting me. As if I were no more than a piece of furniture to be disposed of at his convenience. And he dared to share this information with Mr. Darcy before he told me his plans? Me, his own daughter? I will not marry Mr. Collins. I would rather—rather?—”
Darcy purposely cleared his throat.
She broke off as both sisters spun toward him.
No one spoke. Miss Elizabeth’s chest heaved with the force of her emotions, her eyes bright, her face flushed. Even upset—she was magnificent.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Have you come to witness my humiliation? Or perhaps to offer your congratulations on my upcoming nuptials?”
