His chest, or rather his belly, swelled. “I heard it from—”
Elizabeth tuned out his rambling list tracing who had told whom and how word had eventually graced his little red ears in the Lucas drawing room. Darcy had promised Wickham was taken care of. Was it a lie or a misstep? She wasn’t sure she could forgive either. She had trusted that man with her reputation, and he had either betrayed her or executed his strategy sloppily. They were blood oathed—he could not betray her without consequences.
“How bad is it?” she asked Charlotte in a quiet tone.
Her friend’s brows drew together. “Is Jane certain of Mr Bingley?”
Elizabeth felt the coolness of blood leaving her cheeks. “It is that bad?”
“I don’t think you have quite heard me, cousin—”
“Be silent,” Charlotte snapped, leading Elizabeth away. “Get through this evening, and we will devise a strategy.”
Charlotte kept a forcefully cheerful demeanour as a handful of ladies ignored Elizabeth’s presence. They would not cut her, not exactly, when Elizabeth was known to be Charlotte’s particular friend, and this was a dinner in her own home.
Oh, she should have stayed in her room like she had desired. That at least would have given her one more evening of peace before facing the wolves.
“But he was oathed,” she murmured. “It must have been Wickham who began the rumours. How was he able?”
“What?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Never mind.”
Darcy woke with a start, the clamminess of sweat against his skin. Charles bent over him, brow furrowed.
“Darcy! You—you just fainted.”
He knew why. Sitting—someone had lifted him onto a couch—he paused long enough for another dizzy spell to pass, and stood.
“I need to find Elizabeth. No, Wickham.” He cursed. The blood oath was wreaking vengeance, it would only get worse. But should he seek out Elizabeth or Wickham in order to counter his inadvertently broken word? He’d failed to impress on Wickham to keep his mouth shut—despite an elegant threat and the weight of Pemberley behind him. The consequence was slander against Elizabeth. So should he heal the breach at the source?
“Miss Elizabeth?” Charles repeated. “Uh. . .you aren’t feeling well. I think you should lie down.”
“No, that would be a disaster. There isn’t time. Either help me go to her or don’t.”
He staggered out of the room, Charles on his heels. “Darcy—”
Darcy snarled at him. “This is a broken blood oath, man! I have to fulfil the oath.”
A split second of silence and then Charles stopped protesting. But first, there was something he must retrieve from his room.
Chapter Twenty-Three
They took a carriage, Darcy never could have stayed on his horse. The dizziness grew steadily worse though he continued to repeat the mantra that he intended to fulfil the oath, mitigate any harm come to Elizabeth. Perhaps the magic sensed it—it seemed to lessen enough to give him room to think.
Elizabeth was not at Longbourn. The housekeeper, wide eyed, informed them the family had gone to a dinner at Lucas Lodge.
Charles slapped his forehead with his hand. “That was tonight? Good Gad. We were invited, and I forgot all about it.”
Darcy’s jaw tensed. “Well, at least we will not have to force our way in if they are expecting us.”
“We will be terribly late.” Charles looked down at himself as they resettled into the carriage. “But I supposed we are dressed for dinner, anyway.”
Darcy dabbed the back of his hand against his forehead and, as he lowered it back into his lap, thought the droplets of moisture looked like blood.
If her reputation was ruined now, or at least well along the path of ruin, that would be nothing compared to what would happen if she flung her glass of wine in the pinched face of her dinner companion.
No one would look at her.
“. . .this talk is not to be borne!” Collins whispered loudly to Adelaide. “It brings shame on our household. There is only one option!”
Elizabeth’s eyes closed. Of course he would pick a natural lull in the conversation to hiss at Stepmother. It was only natural everyone at the table would hear it. If she stood and walked out, would that make things any worse? At this point it couldn’t, and she would only have to endure that few seconds of utter shame before she was released.
Elizabeth pushed back her chair just as the dining room door opened. She stared, knees locked and preventing her from completing her rise.
Darcy’s gaze cut through the room and singled her out. The prince stood in the threshold, hands clasped behind his back in his customary pose.
Oh, no. This was not going to make the gossip cease.
That was her first thought. Her second was concern over the pale, drawn look on his face. His features even more chiseled than ever, a brittle hardness as if he were ill and attempting to hold himself upright without betraying himself. Her eyes widened. . .the oath. That damned blood oath. Was it extracting payment? He had sworn to pay recompense if any harm came to her over the matter with Wickham.
Sir Lucas rose. “Mr Bingley, Mr Williams, it is a. . .ah, a great pleasure you were able to grace us with your presence. Please, please—”
“Grace!” Collins exclaimed, then stood, fork clattering against his plate. “I must insist this man, and I hesitate to call him a gentleman, remove himself from our presence. At once! He has done my house a grievous ill, though some sympathy can be granted for he was surely led astray as Adam was enticed by Eve—”
“Can you shut up?” Mary said.
“But nonetheless it is the duty of every god-fearing man to resist temptation where he may find it! He has brought my cousin low, a woman I thought to be of unimpeachable character, if uncertain temper—”
“What are you accusing me of?” Darcy asked, voice quiet.
If the room had been silent before, the silence was now edged with the dread of death. No one mistook the gleam in Darcy’s gaze as anything but the light reflected from an executioner’s blade.
“Sir! I am accusing you of compromising my cousin’s reputation beyond repair, and I demand—”
At those words about to tumble from Collins’ mouth, Elizabeth’s frozen limbs found new life. “You will demand no such thing.” This was her nightmare, the one thing she dreaded next to poverty, or a cage. A man forced to wed her for the sake of honour or duty. “Stepmother, our cousin is obviously unwell. We should retire.”
Adelaide stood, her face pale as well. Elizabeth’s ruin was the ruin of her daughters. She nearly flinched under her stepmother’s flinty stare.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said. “I swore a vow. If you do not allow me to fulfil it, I will die.”
She inhaled. How could he have known that those were the only words that would have waylaid her at this point? As ruined as her life might be from this point on, it was nothing compared to death.
Nodding, she said nothing further, and Darcy looked at Sir Lucas. “My apologies, sir, for disrupting your evening.” His gaze swept throughout the room, picking out every single person there. Noting who met his eyes and who turned away. “And my apologies as well for not having been honest, with yourself or with the people of Meryton.”
His arms loosened, coming to his sides. No one spoke. The note in his voice would not allow it. As she watched, the bearing she had thought regal peeled away, and she realised he had been hiding himself, even from her. Cloaking himself in obscurity, in ordinariness.
“You invited me into your home, your society, but you do not know my true name.”
Elizabeth exhaled. So. This was how he would reveal himself. Did he think his rank would suppress the talk? Perhaps it would for a time, even after he left. The sheer force of will and status would demand society acknowledge his version of events, at least openly. If the Prince of Pemberley vouched for her, it might buy enough time to get away, mitigate the damage for her sisters if not wholly
for herself.
She would be in his debt.
For a moment, she hated him.
“Because you do not know me, I cannot blame you for believing the vile speech that blackens the name of one of your own. You have come to a faulty conclusion, but it is only my fault, for were you aware that my honour is above reproach, you would also know Miss Elizabeth’s is as well.” He paused. “Perhaps not—you know her, yet you believe the words from a man who is a stranger among you.” His smile was grim. “Or did you not know from whom the rumours originated? You simply spread them like wildfire with no care for the damage it would do to an innocent woman.”
Elizabeth stared at him, mentally demanding he end this, now. He looked at her and subsided. There was more, plenty more he could say. She did not desire it, though.
He lifted a hand, the right hand and not the left that bore the sapphire. On his finger was a ring of gold that had not been there before. She knew that it was gold from the glint of light off of it, but he stood too far from her for Elizabeth to make out any details.
Sir Lucas cleared his throat. “This is quite a speech, sir, and I begrudge no man the opportunity to defend his good name. You were saying, regarding your true name. . . .”
Elizabeth nearly sneered. The faces around the table were rapt; this was probably the entertainment of the year. She had not realised Darcy had such a flair for the dramatic.
Of course this was no drama. One only had to look at the anger he did not bother to conceal, darkening his eyes and lending him the mien of someone prepared to do battle.
He looked at Sir Lucas, and the fingers of his left hand brushed the ring on his right. “I am Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Prince in Derbyshire.” Behind him a sigil flared, the benign magic guttering the candles in the room and stealing that light for itself.
A sigil ring. Of course. By it, the master of any house could be known. Her father, had he wished, might have had a sigil ring crafted for the Bennets of Longbourn, but the expense had never been deemed necessary. His wax seal, still on his desk in his study, had been good enough. No man other than a Bennet of Longbourn would be able to use the seal on official correspondence.
But a sigil ring was so much more grand. A mark of power and wealth.
The emblem of his house faded from the air after a moment, and the candles sparked back into life.
“Y-your Highness,” Sir Lucas sputtered, then stepped back from the table and bowed deeply.
There was a moment of stunned silence before every person scraped back, rose, and made their obeisance. Everyone but Elizabeth. She would not forgive him for this show any time soon.
Darcy turned to her, but before he could speak, Collins’ voice rose. “I demand you address the stain upon my cousin’s reputation.”
“Collins, what are you doing?” Elizabeth hissed. “There is no stain. There is no dishonour. I will hear no more of this.”
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said.
She would not look at him. No. Do not say it, she asked silently. Please.
“Your vow, Elizabeth,” Adelaide said.
Eyes closing, she held in her curses. Such sweet, satisfying words, curses.
“Miss Elizabeth, in the service of my house and through no fault of your own, you have been harmed. I offer my hand in marriage as recompense.”
She could refuse. There was always a choice. She could run away and wed a poor man who loved her and would read to their children.
Her eyes opened, and she looked at him. Why did he look triumphant when her heart desired to shrivel and die within her chest?
“Lizzy,” Jane said softly. They all knew there was only one option for Elizabeth, of course. She was no fool to be needlessly defiant.
Dipping into a curtsy, she lowered her head to hide her anger and said, “Your Highness, I accept.”
“A brilliant match, Miss Elizabeth,” Sir Lucas congratulated her at the end of the evening. “I know Mr Bennet and your dear mama would have both been well pleased.”
“You are not happy,” Charlotte said, escorting Elizabeth out of the house. Her sisters were already outside, dancing in a mayday like circle under the moonlight, Adelaide waiting impatiently near the carriage. Now that her stepdaughter had secured a prince, no matter under what circumstances—and her eldest stepdaughter a gentleman of five thousand pounds—the prospects of the three youngest sisters would surely rise.
“Happiness is hardly required in marriage, is it?”
“That is not what you would have said five years ago.”
“I was younger five years ago. And I will not insult you.” They were silent a moment. Charlotte, though possessing a lovely character, was a plain woman and older even than Elizabeth. The likelihood of her wedding was slim indeed. Elizabeth would not bemoan her fate of wedding a handsome prince. It would be foolish as well as insensitive.
But she could not help her anger, and other than suppressing it in Charlotte’s presence, she did not try.
“May I speak with you, Miss Elizabeth?”
They turned.
Darcy bowed to Charlotte. “Madam. Miss Bennet informs me you are a close friend of my betrothed. I hope you will honour us with your presence at Pemberley.”
Charlotte inclined her head, as regal as any Queen. “The wedding will take place there, of course.”
“We have not had time to speak of it, but if my bride agrees to my request, it will be so.”
Her temper did not soften, though there was no irony or condescension in his tone. He spoke as if, indeed, he waited upon her will.
“You will want to say goodnight,” Charlotte said. “I will excuse myself. Lizzy, we will speak tomorrow, dear.”
Charlotte went to join the other guests, many of whom were lurking, talking and casting Elizabeth and Darcy looks, though no one approached.
“Will you walk a ways?” Darcy asked. “I recall you enjoy a stroll under the moonlight.”
Elizabeth said nothing, but they walked. Not out of eyesight, but at least far enough away from the others that their conversation might be private.
“You are displeased with me.”
The dam stemming her temper broke. How could he stand so straight and cool as if nothing had happened?
“This is intolerable!” She turned in a tight circle, aware of how agitated she must look, and forced herself to still.
“Do you not care for me at all? Could you not come to love me, Elizabeth?”
“It does not matter if I could come to love you or if I already do. This was not how I wanted it to begin.”
“I understand, and I regret the circumstances are not ideal. I hope I can make it up to you.” Darcy paused, watching her. “Already do, Lizzy?”
She flinched. Not only because her intimate name fell so naturally from his lips, but because he repeated those hateful words she had let slip. Words she refused to acknowledge even to herself.
And why? Because circumstances were not ideal? Charlotte would laugh at her. What did she want, Darcy on one knee declaring undying love and devotion?
“I did not want you forced,” she said. “I did not want to be a punishment.”
“Do I look as if I am under duress?” He held out a hand. “Take my hand, Elizabeth, feel how my pulse races. Look into my eyes. Do I look like a man who does not want the woman who is his bride? Do you really think I did not already choose you?”
“Choose me why?” She was unmoved by his words. Refused to be moved. “Because of my beauty, my wit? And, of course, my poor family and sisters with their embarrassing manners mean nothing at all. Do not insult me by pretending otherwise.”
“I pretend nothing. You struggle in vain to deny what I have come to embrace. I did not come to Meryton expecting to find you, to find my princess. You hold the inferiority of your birth and rank between us, and I admit my father would have said you are correct. But my mother would have told me to put such things aside and end the agony of my thoughts. My longings.”
His
mother. . .Princess Anne. . .a spirit who had come to Elizabeth and all but given her approval, but at the time, Elizabeth had been unwilling to hear the words.
“I am no princess. You do not have to flatter me.”
“I call you princess because when I look at you, that is what I see. A woman of grace and character and intelligence. A woman able to shoulder her duty to other unflinchingly, and put aside her own desires.” His voice lowered as he stepped closer. “But Elizabeth. . .you will crush yourself under the weight of the vows you have made to yourself. Will you not allow someone to help you?”
She snorted. “Certainly.” She flicked her fingers in the air as if imitating a cloud of fairy dust. “Make this magical helper appear. Ask this creature to find my younger sister’s husbands, to turn my stepmother into a happy, contented woman and to ensure Jane lives a long, happy life and does not die in childbed from whatever the lingering weakness is that plagues her.”
She must compose herself. He remained silent as she took several deep breaths, regaining her crumbling composure.
The prince studied her. “And you still insist that you do not wish these things for yourself?”
He could not know the frisson rising in her veins, each pump of her heart increasing the pace of her breath. It would be far too easy to read an emotion in his eyes that was not there, a message in his words that was not true. The curse of her imagination, of her eternal hopes. “I am strong. I will make my own way, or endure whatever hardships I must.” She stopped, pressing her lips together. “But Jane is gentle, and her health is delicate. I fear—”
Her fingers trembled. She firmed her mouth. “I have resigned myself, “I have resigned myself, convinced myself that all I wanted in life was the freedom to governess for some travelling family, earn my own living. I threw every thought and energy into Jane’s happiness because if she could not be happy, what chance was there for the rest of us?”
“You do not flinch from truth when it is time to face yourself.” Approval warmed his voice. “And you wonder why I am falling in love with you?”
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