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And here, his gaze dropped to her mouth. “The same affection I believe you require. I do not believe for one instance that you would wish to enter into this… arrangement but for eighty thousand pounds.”

The drawing room door opened, and Charlotte Lucas appeared, looking like a woman who had expected to find her friend at needlework and instead found a battlefield.

“Forgive me. Hill said I might come through, but I see you have company.” Charlotte’s eyes swept the room, taking in the tableau: Mrs. Bennet trembling with rage, Mr. Bennet with his brandy, the sisters ranged along the walls like spectators at a prizefight, and Elizabeth and Darcy squared off in the center like the main attraction.

“Charlotte!” Mrs. Bennet seized upon the new arrival with the desperation of a drowning woman spotting driftwood. “You must help us. You must talk sense into this—this proud, disagreeable⁠—”

“Mrs. Bennet.” Charlotte’s voice was calm. “Perhaps I might speak with Elizabeth privately for a moment?”

“There is no time for private moments! Mr. Darcy is about to walk out that door and take eighty thousand pounds with him!”

“I am not taking anything,” Darcy said. “I am declining to participate in an arrangement I find distasteful. The money will come to me only if Miss Elizabeth refuses to marry me by Lady Day. She has three weeks to change her mind. I suggest she use them.”

“Change my mind?” Elizabeth’s laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. “You are the one refusing, Mr. Darcy. You are the one who has declared yourself too honorable to marry for money. How exactly am I to change my mind when you have already made yours?”

“I have made no decision. I have stated my position. Those are not the same thing.”

“Then what would change your position? What would convince the great Mr. Darcy of Pemberley to stoop to marriage with a country gentleman’s daughter he once declared not handsome enough to tempt him?”

Charlotte made a small sound—warning or surprise, Elizabeth could not tell.

“Mr. Lefevre,” Darcy said, and the tenor in his tone stiffened Elizabeth’s spine. “I believe you danced with him at Netherfield—twice?”

Of all the grievances he might have aired, he chose to air her association with the Irish poet who loved to dance, quite at odds with his own sensibilities.

“Mr. Lefevre is Charlotte’s cousin. We are acquainted.”

“Acquainted.” He let the word sit in the air between them, turning it over like a coin. “I counted seven dances throughout autumn. Eight, if one includes the reel he was teaching you behind the hedgerow. I had not realized ‘acquainted’ was such a vigorous state.”

“I was not aware you were counting my dances, Mr. Darcy. How flattering. How exceedingly thorough. Tell me, do you keep a ledger? Should I expect a quarterly report on my social activities?”

“Mr. Bennet, I must go.” Darcy addressed her father. “I might have written, but I judged it better to come. You will allow that it was more courtesy than the case demanded.”

“But what am I to do?” Elizabeth flew to face him. “My uncle’s will specifies…”

“I need to do nothing,” Mr. Darcy said, setting down the brandy snifter. “The fortune, should you decline to meet your uncle’s terms, will pass to me on Lady Day. I suggest you spend the intervening weeks considering whether your pride is worth eighty thousand pounds.” His eyes softened with an ounce of what might have been regret. “Though I suspect you will find, as I have, that pride is remarkably expensive.”

“And where will you be while I am considering?”

“Netherfield. Mr. Bingley has been kind enough to extend his hospitality. Should you wish to continue this conversation in a less… theatrical setting, you know where to find me.”

He bowed to her, to Charlotte, to the room at large, and turned toward the door.

“Mr. Darcy!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice had reached the pitch that usually preceded disaster. “You cannot simply leave! We have not settled anything! If you walk out that door, if you refuse to marry my daughter, you get everything! The money! The inheritance! All of it! And we get nothing!”

“That,” Darcy said, “is not my doing.”

“It is your doing if you refuse her! You could marry her. You could solve everything, and instead you stand there on your pride and your honor while my daughters face ruin.”

“Mamma—” Jane tried.

“Mrs. Bennet—” Charlotte attempted.

But Mrs. Bennet was beyond intervention. Her face had gone an alarming shade of crimson, and her hands shook as she pointed at Darcy with a finger trembling with fury.

“You are the most selfish, prideful, hateful man I have ever met. If you walk out that door, sir. If you abandon my Lizzy to poverty and disgrace, I shall, I shall⁠—”

Her eyes rolled back, and her knees buckled.