Chapter 33 #2
Richard gave a short laugh. “Of course I will. Though I expect my father will have something rather forceful to say on the subject when he learns of it.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened slightly. “The earl will not be pleased.”
“No,” Richard agreed cheerfully. “He will not.”
He took another swallow of brandy, then added, almost casually, “Fortunately, I do not intend to remain under his authority much longer.”
Darcy glanced at him sharply, then raised his glass to his lips. “What do you mean?”
Richard met his look evenly. “I intend to marry Anne.”
Darcy choked. The brandy went down entirely the wrong way, and he coughed sharply, turning aside.
“You cannot be serious,” he managed once he had recovered.
“Perfectly.”
“Anne de Bourgh?” Darcy demanded. “She never leaves Rosings. She scarcely leaves her rooms. Half the time one might suppose her a ghost for how rarely she is seen.”
Richard shrugged. “She is shy. Not insensible.”
“And how, precisely, do you propose to accomplish this?” Darcy asked. “You cannot marry her if she refuses to leave the house for the church.”
“She will not have to.” Richard set his glass aside. “I have obtained a special license.”
Darcy blinked. “That is impossible.”
“Not at all.”
“Special licenses are not handed out on a whim,” Darcy said sharply. “They require influence—time—connections at the highest level. Only the Archbishop of Canterbury may grant them.”
“Yes,” Richard said mildly. “Which is why it was fortunate that Lady Catherine was willing to fund the effort—and that His Grace holds my father in particularly low regard.”
Darcy stared at him.
Richard’s mouth curved faintly. “He was most accommodating.”
Darcy let out a slow breath, still trying to absorb it. “You intend to marry her here at Rosings, then.”
“That is the plan. I was going to come here after your wedding for my own. Last night’s events merely sped up the timeline.”
Darcy studied him more closely now. “And will you be happy?”
Richard hesitated—only briefly, then he shrugged. “I have no desire to spend my life on campaign,” he said. “The Peninsula was quite sufficient to cure me of any lingering illusions of glory. I enjoy comfort. Stability. A home.”
He gestured lightly. “Rosings provides all of that.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “And Anne?”
“We have always gotten on well enough,” Richard said. “Better than most would suppose. I have been writing to her this past year.”
Darcy looked surprised. “Writing?”
“Yes,” Richard said. “She is not so quiet on paper.”
A faint smile touched his expression.
“She understands me. And she is content with the arrangement. She does not wish to be forced into society, nor mocked for avoiding it. I can offer her peace. She offers me independence.”
Darcy was quiet for a moment.
“It is a sensible match,” he said slowly. “A few months ago, I should have encouraged it without hesitation.”
Richard glanced at him. “But now?”
Darcy shook his head slightly. “Now… I cannot imagine entering into a marriage without affection.”
Richard lifted his glass again and took a long drink.
“Not everyone is so fortunate.” His tone was light, but Darcy could hear a slight edge beneath the forced indifference. “Sometimes the person one might wish for is… unavailable.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Richard—”
But Richard waved a hand, dismissing it. “Pay no attention to me. Fatigue makes a man sentimental—and, worse, honest.”
He set his empty glass aside with a soft clink and straightened. “In any case,” he said more briskly, “this is your last night of freedom before you are leg-shackled for life. We ought to mark the occasion properly. We missed our opportunity at Netherfield.”
Darcy huffed a tired breath. “I regret to disappoint you, but I am in no condition for celebration.”
He rubbed a hand briefly over his eyes.
“I have not slept properly since yesterday. The carriage afforded little rest, and I have no desire to stand at the altar tomorrow in a state of exhaustion—or worse.”
Richard nodded at once. “Hungover would be a poor look for a bridegroom, I grant you.”
Darcy gave him a faint, weary smile.
“I intend to eat, and then sleep.”
“A most sensible plan,” Richard agreed. “Under any other circumstances, I should argue—but I find myself far too blasted tired to make the effort.”
Darcy inclined his head.
“Good night, Richard.”
“Good night, Darcy. And—” Richard added, with a small, genuine smile, “I am glad you will be here for my wedding, too.”
Then the two men parted—each to his own room, to take what rest they could before the morning that would change everything.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth woke with a sharp gasp.
The remnants of the dream clung to her—disjointed, slipping away even as she tried to grasp them. Voices. Too many voices. Urgent, insistent, contradicting one another. Hands reaching, pulling her in different directions.
Lies.
Someone was lying.
She had been trying to break free—trying to reach—
Darcy.
Her chest rose and fell too quickly. The room was dark, unfamiliar, and for a moment she did not know where she was. Her heart raced, her skin damp with a cold sweat.
Rosings.
The memory returned in pieces.
The journey. The revelations. The promise of tomorrow.
Elizabeth pressed a trembling hand to her chest and forced herself to breathe more slowly.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Gradually, the panic eased, though her pulse still thudded heavily in her ears. She lay back against the pillows, staring into the darkness.
What was she to believe? Lady Catherine’s words echoed in her mind—so certain, so composed, so utterly without doubt.
You are my daughter.
Was it truth?
Or the conviction of someone who had lived too long in her own version of events?
Elizabeth turned her head slightly, pressing her cheek into the pillow.
If it were false—if Lady Catherine were mistaken or worse—then what explanation could there be for her father’s actions?
Papa.
Even now, she could scarcely reconcile the man she had always known with the one who had ordered her drugged. Who had planned to carry her away like a criminal in the night.
The hurt of it settled deep.
Beneath the confusion, beneath the fear—
Betrayal.
She closed her eyes briefly.
Who can I trust?
Her mother, who would surely be in hysterics.
Her father, who had deceived her.
Mary, who had struck her.
The thought nearly sent her spiraling again, had she not remembered one thing.
Darcy.
He had come for her.
He had not hesitated. Had not questioned. Had not turned away when things became complicated or inconvenient.
He had believed her.
Chosen her.
Protected her.
Even now—when everything about her might be called into question—he had chosen her still.
Elizabeth let out a slow breath, her body gradually relaxing against the mattress.
I can trust him.
That, at least, was sure.
The quiet tick of a clock somewhere in the house broke the silence.
Then, distantly, it began to chime.
Elizabeth counted them, her breath evening with each one.
One.
Two.
She opened her eyes.
Two o’clock.
In a matter of hours, she would stand before the altar.
Whatever else might be uncertain—her name, her family, her past—
That moment would be real.
Elizabeth let out a slow breath.
In less than ten hours, she would be Elizabeth Darcy.
The thought did not frighten her; it steadied her.
Whatever her past might prove to be—whatever truths were uncovered or overturned—she would no longer be at the mercy of them.
She would have chosen her future.
And in that future—
She would not be alone.