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“One most certainly cannot tolerate the winter garden at this time of year,” Louisa interjected. “The beds are colorless, the walks are dreary, and the wind cuts straight through one’s pelisse. I cannot imagine why anyone would venture outdoors when a perfectly good fire is available.”

“Then you are welcome, Mrs. Hurst, to enjoy the fire with your sister,” Elizabeth said as she and Darcy turned toward the doorway.

“Enjoy your walk, Darcy,” Caroline said. “I do hope the cold air proves as clarifying as Miss Eliza promises. Louisa, is that not the most charming bonnet ribbon you have ever seen? I believe it was a proper ribbon once.”

“What I am most concerned about is the propriety of it all, or should I say impropriety,” Louisa said. “We would not wish Miss Eliza’s reputation to suffer any further… strain.”

“Miss Elizabeth’s reputation is in no danger,” Darcy said coolly. “I shall see her home myself when our business is concluded.”

He guided Elizabeth toward the garden door, acutely aware of Caroline’s pointed glare following them. As they stepped into the corridor, he heard her parting shot, delivered at a volume that was certainly intended to carry:

“Eighty thousand pounds, Louisa. And yet all the money in England cannot take the mud from the miss.”

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on his arm, not in distress, but, he suspected, to prevent herself from turning back and delivering a retort that would only have earned her another quarter hour in Caroline’s company.

“Miss Bingley’s gift for hospitality,” Darcy observed, as he opened the garden door and the March air rushed to greet them, “is exceeded only by her talent for knowing precisely when it is least required.”

Elizabeth glanced up at him. “I had not taken you for a man who makes jokes, Mr. Darcy.”

He flashed her a smile; she promptly looked away and cleared her throat, as if the garden’s brisk air required her full attention. The beds, though disciplined by winter, offered the first hints of rebellion: crocuses in purple and white pressed through the frosted earth, and daffodils stood at attention against the March wind.

“I came to speak to you about our circumstances.” Elizabeth clutched a list in one hand and her bonnet in the other, having evidently decided it was less trouble to carry than to wear. The wind, ever opportunistic, had already begun its campaign against her hair, tugging loose strands across her face—an annoyance to her, a distraction to Darcy.

“You wished to discuss terms,” he said when they had walked far enough from the house that the windows no longer seemed to watch them.

“I did. I do.” She consulted her list, though he suspected she had memorized its contents and the paper was merely a prop. “First, the matter of… arrangements. I would request that we maintain separate chambers until such time as mutual consent is established.”

“Agreed.” He noted that she had already conceded the marriage and was not quite sure what to make of it. That in less than a fortnight, he would be taking his bride back to Pemberley. The thought was both frightening and exhilarating, much like being named in Henry Bennet’s will.

She looked up sharply, as though she had expected argument. “You do not object?”

“Miss Elizabeth, I have no intention of imposing myself upon you in any capacity you find unwelcome. If separate chambers provide you with peace of mind, then separate chambers you shall have.”

“Second, the matter of correspondence. I would retain the right to write and receive letters without inspection or interference.”

“I would not dream of reading your correspondence. Unless, of course, you wished me to assist with a particularly troublesome Latin translation, in which case I am at your disposal.”

She cast him a sidelong glance, as though suspecting he had mistaken her conditions for mere pleasantries.

“Miss Elizabeth, you have my assurance about both of your conditions.”

“I am not finished.” Her lips twitched. “You thought I walked three miles for two conditions?”

“I would not dream of doubting your endurance.” He kept his gaze on the gravel path.

She pressed on. Her sisters must be welcome at any time, for any duration, without negotiation. Her trust funds would remain under her sole direction. She would not be compelled to entertain his relations without proper notice and the right of refusal. She would choose her own reading, her own friends, her own pursuits, and walk wherever and whenever she pleased, without lectures on distance or duration.

Darcy nodded at every clause, muttering his assent and wondering whether her list was longer than an only son’s St. Nicholas list.

“I will not be condescended to,” she said. “Whatever this marriage is, I expect to be treated as your equal in private, regardless of what convention demands in society.”

“I was not aware I had given you cause to expect otherwise.”

“You have not. I am ensuring you do not.” She glanced at him, and for one unguarded moment her expression was less combative than he anticipated. “That is the end of my conditions.”

“I agree to every one of them,” Darcy said, stopping by the stone balustrade where the formal gardens gave way to the wilder parkland beyond. “Though I must confess, Miss Elizabeth, given your extensive catalog of grievances, I should have thought you capable of conjuring a dozen more.”

“Are you condescending to me, Mr. Darcy?” She raised an arch eyebrow, her shoulders stiffening against the wind.