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“Lady Catherine thrives on opposing you, sir. But an explicit refusal from her daughter may give her pause. If Miss de Bourgh firmly states that she will not marry you, her ladyship must confront the fact that neither party wishes for the union.”

Darcy considered the suggestion. His own refusals had accomplished nothing; perhaps Anne’s would carry more weight.

“I have ignored my cousin for far too long,” Darcy said, feeling a sharp pang of guilt. “I have allowed my aunt’s assumptions to fester because it was easier than facing the conflict.”

“Then today is the day to rectify that error, sir.” Fletcher handed Darcy a handkerchief. “I believe Miss de Bourgh is in Miss Darcy’s private sitting room. They ordered a plate of cold ham from the kitchens not twenty minutes ago.”

Darcy accepted the handkerchief, his resolve solidifying into unshakeable purpose. He had a strategy. He had a path forward. He had a clean handkerchief.

“You are an invaluable diplomat, Fletcher,” Darcy said, offering a curt nod.

“I merely arrange the cravats, sir.” Fletcher bowed deeply. “The family diplomacy is your department.”

Darcy exited and proceeded down the long passage leading to his sister’s chambers. He walked with a renewed sense of purpose, his dark grey coat aligned, his mind clear. He reached Georgiana’s door and knocked.

“Come in!” his sister called.

Darcy pushed the door open.

His sister sat on the hearthrug in a morning gown that would have drawn a lecture on dignity, a strip of cold ham suspended between her fingers. Anne occupied the sofa with a book open on her knee and Diana’s great head settled in her lap. Apollo had stationed himself at the dish. Both animals turned at Darcy’s entrance with courteous interest. They knew the master of the house and also knew, still more certainly, which of the present company controlled the meat.

“Fitzwilliam.” Georgiana scrambled up, remembered the ham, and put it behind her as if a strip of ham could be hidden from a wolfhound. Apollo’s opinion of this attempt was plain. Anne set her book on the table beside the sofa, tore a large piece from the pile and tossed it into the air. Apollo snapped his jaws, catching the offering flawlessly, swallowing the ham whole without a single chew. Georgiana followed suit, tossing a piece to Diana, who accepted the treat with equal enthusiasm. She then settled on the sofa beside Anne.

“Georgiana,” Darcy started, entering into the room and closing the door securely behind him. “You are feeding the hounds from the good silver platter.”

“They are very hungry, Fitzwilliam,” she replied unrepentant, breaking another piece of meat. “Bates dropped a tray of toast, but Mrs Reynolds swept it up before the dogs could reach it. They were disappointed.”

Anne wiped her fingers on a napkin. She wore a simple morning gown, free from the shawls her mother forced on her. Her complexion appeared brighter, and the perpetual stoop of her shoulders was absent. Away from Lady Catherine’s presence, Anne de Bourgh was a remarkably different young woman.

“Good morning, Cousin,” she said with a dry smile. “I heard my mother exercising her vocal cords on the terrace earlier. Did you survive the encounter?”

“Barely,” Darcy admitted, moving to a comfortable armchair positioned opposite the sofa. He sat down, resting his palms on his knees. “She was displeased by my lack of a coat, and even more displeased by my interest in horticulture.”

“She believes gardens should organise themselves out of respect for her wishes.” Anne tossed a final piece of ham to Apollo and patted the dog’s head. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, Fitzwilliam? You rarely venture into this room.”

Darcy abandoned his usual guarded reserve. He needed to speak with honesty.

“I have come to offer you an apology, Anne,” Darcy said, his tone heavy with sincere regret. “A very long, very overdue apology.”

Anne blinked, surprised by his serious demeanour. She exchanged a swift, confused glance with Georgiana. “Whatever for, Cousin? You have done nothing to offend me.”

“I have done nothing to protect you,” Darcy corrected gently. “For years, I have allowed your mother to herald her plans for our union. I knew it was a fiction, and I knew you had no desire to marry me. Yet, I chose the path of least resistance. I objected, but then I retreated, hoping the matter would simply fade away. By doing so, I forced you to bear her expectations alone. I allowed her to pressure you, and I offered you no support. It was cowardly, and it was dishonourable. I apologise.”

The two ladies fell silent. Even the hounds ceased their tail-thumping, sensing the gravity of the master’s tone.

Anne stared at him, her eyes widening.

“You are a remarkably solemn man, Fitzwilliam,” she said with a fond smile. “You carry the weight of the entire world on your shoulders, and you apologise for things you cannot possibly control.”

“I could have offered you my support,” Darcy insisted.

“My mother is a force of nature,” Anne replied, waving a dismissive hand. “Arguing with her only increases the volume of her demands. I understand why you retreat, and I do not blame you for it. I prefer peace myself.”

“Peace is no longer an option,” Darcy declared. “I must ask you a direct question, Anne, and I require a direct answer.”

Anne sat up straighter, resting her palms on the sofa cushions. “Ask.”

“Do you have any desire, whatsoever, to become my wife and the mistress of Pemberley?”