Page 25 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

He nodded. “I appreciate your warning.”

As if on cue, Mary began playing her scales. “That is Mary, my middle sister. She has claimed the pianoforte as her instrument and is very accomplished playing it.” Elizabeth’s chest swelled with pride. Mr. Darcy had ensured that they had access to the finest masters, and Mama, whose purpose in life was to make certain her daughters satisfied society’s standards, had secured the instruction of every one. Each music tutor, without exception, praised Mary’s skill at the instrument.

“Kitty is the artist. Her paintings adorn the halls and rooms.” Like Mary, Kitty flourished under the tutelage of her instructors, each one adding to and improving her technique.

“Lydia is vivacious. There is not an accomplishment she has not thrown herself into, though she has yet to settle on one to master.” Of all her sisters, Lydia was the one who challenged the tutors and patient Mrs. Hexam the most.

“And Jane…” Elizabeth smiled. How could she describe her eldest sister in a few words? “Everything Jane touches becomes more beautiful for her attention to it.”

Mr. Robinson watched her, and she wished she could read his thoughts. She did not know why she had felt compelled to extol her sisters’ accomplishments. Now she feared she had shared too much.

“You are proud of your sisters,” he stated.

She was. It was a relief to know he understood her.

He began clearing another section, and she resumed her search. She would have to explain the Darcy Arrangement, but she was loath to do it just then when their work was already weighty.

“Have you always had an interest in estate management?” Mr. Robinson asked, his gaze still fixed on the objects on the shelf above his head.

Elizabeth bit her lips together. Most gentlemen would not approve of her reply, but she heard no judgment in his question. Given what he already knew about her family’s situation, such an admission could hardly worsen his opinion of her. “Papa did not have any sons to teach, and I have always been an eager student. It is rewarding to read about a technique, put it into practice, and see how it benefits the estate and everyone who lives on it.”

“You improve an estate that you will never inherit?”

Her stomach clenched. If he remembered that detail, then he most certainly remembered the other one she would rather not mention. She would have to explain the arrangement sooner than later. Drat!

Her motive was difficult to put into words, so she replied as she always did whenever her father asked the same question. “It is satisfying work that engages my mind and benefits others, including my family. Why would I not take an interest in our estate?”

“I hope the heir presumptive appreciates your efforts.” He placed another stack of books on her desk for inspection.

“I doubt that.” She opened a book, turning it upside down to allow any loose papers to reveal themselves. “We have never met the man.”

“Like Mr. Darcy?”

The suddenness of the change in subject stole her breath. But she had expected this, had she not? This was a perfect opportunity to offer the explanation. She looked down and composed herself before replying cautiously, “A family of the first circles took an interest in my future prospects. As a result, I have been named in the gentleman’s will.” That was a safe answer. She did not need to add that her inheritance was not a porcelain figurine, a tea set, or an ottoman, but instead was the heir of Pemberley.

Mr. Robinson’s brow furrowed. She was close enough to see the muscles at the side of his jaw clench. She had not mentioned the ottoman aloud, had she? The room seemed to shrink around them. She fanned her face with an advertisement for a discourse on the subject of astronomy that had been held over two years ago.

When he spoke, his tone was angry. “Some gentlemen, especially those of considerable wealth, interfere where they should not.”

She would have uttered a flippant reply, but her humor evaporated at the sight of his eyes, which were scorching in their intensity. Pulling an account ledger to her chest, she lifted her chin and met Mr. Robinson’s stare levelly. “I am in the will—not to receive an inheritance of value, some token of appreciation or final word of wisdom to guide me. I am to be given away to a man I have never met and who has shown no interest in knowing me.”

She ought to be ashamed of her defiance and the bitterness of her words, but it was a heady sensation to speak on the subject candidly for once. Something about Mr. Robinson suggested that he valued honesty. She watched closely for his reaction, hoping to be proven right.

CHAPTER 12

Aman who has shown no interest in knowing me. It was not so much the falsity of the words that hit Darcy in the gut but the disdain with which Miss Elizabeth said them. She hated him, and he deserved it.

The temptation to tell her everything, to justify himself, overwhelmed him. His arms shook, so he crossed them over himself. She misunderstood him, and he had to allow it. If he revealed himself right now, Mr. Bennet would expect them to marry immediately. Darcy could not do that to her. She would lose too much: Longbourn, her freedom, herself…

He wished to understand her better. He would help her first, and then he would tell her. What use was Fitzwilliam Darcy to her when Daniel Robinson’s skills were more fitted to this situation? He was both, was he not? More Robinson than Darcy. At his core, this was him. If he was to be allowed to see her true character under duress, then should she not be allowed the same courtesy?

Miss Elizabeth turned to the tottering stack on top of the writing desk, focusing on a paper with an intensity that could stoke a fire, the redness tipping her ears blossoming in her cheeks. Eight weeks to save Mr. Bennet from prison and his family from ruin. Six weeks until the reading of the will, where Darcy would have to reveal the full truth of his identity. Less if Wickham saw and recognized him.

He remembered her smiles at the marketplace, in the assembly rooms; heard her laughter. And he knew what to do. Relaxing his expression, he quirked an eyebrow and the same side of his lip. “You are the inheritance?”

A bitter laugh choked her. “I might as well be a painting or a chair.” She blinked rapidly, rebelliously.

He leaned ever so slightly toward her and dropped his voice. “I hope the son appreciates your value, that he strives to be worthy of you.”