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“Mr. Darcy, after you.” Mr. Bennet’s earlier dryness had returned, though it was now mixed with a suspicious calculation. “A matter such as this deserves proper consideration. I have an excellent brandy I have been meaning to enjoy.”
Darcy’s frown deepened, but since no one, least of all Elizabeth, seemed to pay him any mind, he followed Mr. Bennet into the drawing room.
Elizabeth followed; her mother, having discarded her broken fan, gripped her arm with a determination that promised bruises by morning. The sisters filed in their accustomed order: Jane serene as ever, Mary clutching her prayer book, Lydia and Kitty pushing for the window seat where they could whisper and look for officers.
“Brandy, Mr. Darcy?” Her father was already at the sideboard, pouring two glasses.
“I thank you, sir, but I am not thirsty.” Darcy remained standing near the door, his greatcoat still over his arm. “I came only to make my position clear, and I believe I have done so. I have no intention of marrying simply because a dead man commanded it.”
“Ungrateful!” Mrs. Bennet had reversed course with the speed of a weathervane spinning in a gale. “Proud, disagreeable creature!”
“Mrs. Bennet, perhaps you shall advise Lydia on the proper posture for sitting at the window?” Mr. Bennet handed Mr. Darcy a full snifter of brandy. “Now then, I would like to understand your objection to marrying my second daughter. Is she not fine enough for a gentleman of your station?”
Darcy’s hand closed around the glass he had not wanted. “I have no objection to Miss Elizabeth herself.”
“No? Then you find her family distasteful. Her lack of connections, and her mother’s nerves, perhaps, or her sisters’ enthusiasm for officers.”
“I did not say—”
“You did not need to say. You have made your sentiments plain at every assembly and dinner you have condescended to attend.” Mr. Bennet swirled his snifter. “But let us be precise, Mr. Darcy. I wish to understand your objections to my daughter. How would you describe her?”
“That is not a question I can answer to your satisfaction, sir.”
“Try me. I am very easily satisfied, and I have had a trying morning.”
“Papa,” Elizabeth said.
“Hush, Lizzy. The gentleman is thinking.”
He was. She watched him reach each door and find it shut.
“Miss Elizabeth’s worth is not in question.” His dark gaze traversed her face and figure. “She is handsome in her own way, clever with words, with quickness of mind that is—” A pause, as though the words were being extracted under duress. “She would not bore a man, I think. In conversation.”
Elizabeth’s lips tightened at the low regard he held for her—as if not boring a man were a significant mark in her favor.
“High praise indeed,” Mr. Bennet said dryly. “And yet you refuse her.”
“There is no want of merit in the lady.” His voice was flat, but his gaze remained on Elizabeth in a way that made her flush. “There is a want of—”
He stopped, as if regretting what he was about to say. Nobody moved or said anything. Even Lydia turned around, gawking, while Elizabeth waited for the end of that sentence with an attention she would have denied under oath.
“There is a want of freedom in the arrangement,” Darcy said, taking four steps into the room to stand before them. “That is all. I will not be a fortune hunter, Mr. Bennet. I will not have my honor impugned by supposing I would marry for money. Miss Elizabeth has made her feelings plain. I am merely respecting them.”
“Respecting them? You are profiting from them!” Mrs. Bennet, having failed to correct Lydia’s posture, flew toward Darcy, who was now arrayed on the Turkish carpet, his brandy still untouched. “If she does not marry you, you get the money! How is that respecting anything except your own pocket?”
Elizabeth watched Darcy’s jaw tighten. Good. Let him understand that his noble renunciation was not quite so noble when examined in the light.
“I did not write the will, Mrs. Bennet. I cannot explain your brother-in-law’s reasoning, and I will not be held accountable for it.”
“Then explain this.” Elizabeth stepped forward, and something in her voice made everyone turn. “You did not know my uncle. You claim you had never met him. And yet he chose you—of all the men in England—to be the instrument of my compliance or the beneficiary of my refusal. That is not random, Mr. Darcy. That is specific and very personal.”
“I cannot account for the whims of a dead man.”
“Then account for your own behavior. You came to Hertfordshire last autumn with Mr. Bingley. You attended assemblies and balls, insulted half the county, and departed before Christmas. You danced with me once—under duress, I believe—and walked out before the set was finished. And now, three months later, you appear in my uncle’s will as though you had some prior claim on my hand. What am I to make of that?”
“I will not enter into a marriage of convenience, Miss Elizabeth. You ought to know that about me.”
“Then, tell me, Mr. Darcy? What do you require?”
