But he had controlled himself because Amelia had made it impossible for him to claim their son.
“It would destroy you,” she had said, her hand pressed to the swell of her belly, her eyes bright with that fierce independence he had once found so captivating. “A child born out of wedlock to the master of Pemberley? Your reputation would never recover. Let George claim the child, as he cares nothing for reputation and has none to lose.”
“But I wish to marry you,” he had said. “I have proposed honorably, and I can still marry you, even now,” he repeated, for perhaps the twentieth time. “I could give the child my name legitimately.”
“And I become your property? No, thank you.” She had laughed—actually laughed—as though his proposal were an entertainment rather than an offering of everything he had. “I will not trade my freedom for your protection, Fitzwilliam. I will not become Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley, bound by your name and your expectations and your infernal propriety. Let me have my scandal and keep my independence. Let George sign and disappear to wherever he disappears to, and let you and me remember what we had without the cage of marriage to corrupt it.”
She had been magnificent in her refusal—magnificent, maddening, and, in every particular, heartbreakingly mistaken.
Now she was dead, and George held the legal claim to their son, and Darcy had built his entire defense on the assumption that George would stay bought by the very least, half-brotherly interest. What he hadn’t counted on was a higher bidder.
Darcy did not know how long he stood there, the letter crumpling in his fist, before a knock at the door recalled him to the present.
“Enter.”
Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, cheeks bright from her walk and trailing the scent of grass and spring. Harley, it seemed, had remained with Thomas, though her skirts bore the unmistakable signature of the puppy’s muddy devotion.
“I hope I am not interrupting,” she said. “Only Thomas wished me to inform you that Harley has learned to sit on command. He demonstrated this skill precisely once before forgetting it entirely, and Thomas considers this a significant triumph.”
Darcy found his features arranging themselves into something resembling a smile, though it sat oddly upon the turmoil beneath. “A triumph indeed. We may yet make a sporting dog of him.”
“I suspect he is destined for a lap, whatever our ambitions.” Elizabeth’s gaze sharpened, noting details Darcy had not realized he betrayed. “Is something amiss? You look rather pale.”
“Estate business.” The falsehood slipped out with disconcerting ease. “Nothing to trouble you.”
“I’ve never known you to be so pale and troubled over estate business unless perhaps it arrives by post and fine stationery.” She nodded toward his hand, where the crimson wax and scattered fragments of the Apethorpe crest remained visibleagainst his knuckles. “That is rather grand correspondence for tenant negotiations.”
He should have hidden it better. But Elizabeth noticed everything—it was one of the things he loved about her, and one of the things that made deception so impossible to maintain.
“A family matter,” he amended. “Distant relatives with concerns, and nothing that cannot be managed.”
“Very well.” Elizabeth studied him, crossing her arms. “If the distant relatives become too demanding, you might consider sharing the burden. I am told that wives occasionally prove useful in matters of family management.”
“I shall remember that.” He heard himself speak before the thought had fully formed. “Perhaps we shall dine alone tonight? In my chambers?”
Her cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze, too long for comfort, perhaps suspecting a deflection, before saying a simple, “Yes,” before immediately withdrawing with a small smile that contained more questions than she had voiced.
The door closed behind her, and Darcy closed his eyes briefly against the lies building between himself and the woman he loved.
The afternoon felt interminable as Darcy’s heart raced and his legs paced, wearing out the carpet between stacks of books deep inside the library. He had dispatched a servant to fetch Blythewood within the hour of receiving the Apethorpe letter, and his solicitor—a man of admirable efficiency and regrettable honesty—arrived by late afternoon with his clerk and a leather case stuffed with documents.
The consultation offered little in the way of comfort.
“The difficulty, Mr. Darcy,” the solicitor began, adjusting his spectacles, “is that the christening register constitutes the legal record. Whatever private understandings may have existed, the register names Mr. George Wickham as the child’s father. In the eyes of the law, he possesses paternal authority.”
“And the letter Lady Amelia wrote? Entrusting Thomas to my care?”
“A letter of intent, sir. Morally compelling, perhaps, but not legally binding.” Blythewood had shuffled his papers with evident discomfort. “A mother may express her wishes, but she cannot override the rights of the legal father. If Mr. Wickham were deceased or if he had formally relinquished his claim through the courts, the matter would be different. But as it stands… a woman’s word does not override the rights of the father.”
“He signed a document.” Darcy’s voice emerged harder than he intended. “Before he departed for India. A declaration that he had no interest in the child and wished me to assume guardianship.”
“Yes, I have reviewed that document.” Blythewood’s expression suggested he had found it wanting. “It is… informal, sir. A private agreement between gentlemen, witnessed but not sworn. It was never entered into Chancery, never registered with any court or given the weight of formal legal process.”
“Because I did not wish to draw attention to the arrangement.”
“Understandably so.” Blythewood met his eyes then. “But the consequence is that the document carries no more authority than a gentleman’s promise. And a gentleman’s promise, Mr. Darcy, is only as binding as the gentleman’s honor.”
George’s honor. The phrase was nearly laughable.
