Chapter Nine The Rake in Repose （Panic） #2
She looked up, her eyes wide. "My Lord?"
"Robert. Please. I cannot bear 'My Lord' anymore. It makes me feel like my father."
"Robert," she whispered. It sounded like a prayer.
"I know it has been short," he said, rushing the words. "I know you are recovering from disappointment. I know about the fool who messed everything up. But I am not him. I am not Bingley. I do not leave. I do not listen to my family when they tell me who to love."
He took her hands. "You fell in my arms, and I knew. It sounds ridiculous. It sounds like one of Darcy's novels. But I knew."
"Robert..."
"I am not asking for an answer tonight," he promised. "But I am asking for permission. To court you properly. To annoy you with flowers. To take you to the theatre until you are sick of it. To prove to you that I am serious."
Jane smiled. It was a radiant, tearful, beautiful smile. "You may court me, Robert. Though I do not think I shall ever be sick of the theatre."
He grinned. He leaned in. He kissed her knuckles, soft and sweet, lingering just a moment too long to be entirely proper.
"Happy Christmas, Jane."
"Happy Christmas, Robert."
Meanwhile, back in the library, another scene was unfolding. Robert peeked through the open door as he led Jane back.
Darcy and Elizabeth were standing by the fire. They weren't touching. They were just looking at each other. But the air between them was so charged it could have lit a candelabra.
"They are safe," Robert whispered to Jane. "They will find their way."
Soon enough, the evening came to an end.
The guests were leaving. The carriages were being called.
The evening had been a triumph. The Earl had slapped Mr Gardiner on the back so many times the man would have bruises for weeks.
The Countess had invited Mrs Gardiner to call on Thursday.
Robert was floating on a cloud of euphoria.
"Well," the Earl said, standing in the hallway as the Bennets put on their cloaks. "That was very pleasant. Gardiner, don't forget that list of importers."
"I shall send it tomorrow, my Lord, with Lord Keathley. Your sons and nephew are joining us for Christmas dinner."
Darcy was helping Miss Elizabeth with her cloak. Robert saw him lean in and whisper something that made her blush. It was disgusting. It was wonderful.
"Fitzwilliam," the Earl called out, his voice suddenly sharp. "A word. Before you go."
Robert paused. He sensed a shift in the atmosphere. The jovial host vanished. The grim patriarch returned.
Darcy stepped away from Miss Elizabeth. "Uncle?"
The Earl reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. It was crumpled, as if it had been clenched in a fist.
"This arrived by express post an hour ago," the Earl said. His voice was low, but in the quiet hall, it carried to Robert's ears. "I didn't want to spoil the dinner."
He handed it to Darcy. Darcy took it and looked at the seal. Robert saw the colour drain from his cousin's face, leaving him marble-pale.
"Lady Catherine?" Robert asked, stepping closer, his stomach dropping.
"She is at Rosings. The letter was sent yesterday morning," the Earl said.
Darcy opened it with a snap. He read the note quickly. His eyes grew hard—not with fear, but with a sudden, icy clarity.
"She is coming," Darcy said quietly. "She writes that she has waited long enough for me to 'honour the compact' between our mothers. She intends to secure the engagement between myself and Anne before the New Year."
"She is bringing Anne?" Robert asked.
"She is bringing Anne, her carriage, and presumably her entire arsenal of disapproval," Darcy replied, tapping the paper against his hand. "She will be in London on the twenty-seventh."
"She is coming to collect," the Earl warned, looking grim. "She thinks if she simply appears and demands it, you will fold. She relies on the fact that you have never told her 'no' to her face, Fitzwilliam."
Silence filled the hall. The Bennets were waiting by the door, chatting with Mrs Gardiner, unaware of the grenade that had just been lobbed into the festivities. Miss Elizabeth turned, catching Darcy's eye. She furrowed her brow, sensing the tension.
Robert watched his cousin. He held his breath. He expected the panic. He expected the 'Mouse' to retreat, to fret, to look for a diplomatic exit or a place to hide. He expected the Darcy of old, who bowed under the weight of duty and family expectation.
But Fitzwilliam Darcy folded the letter calmly. He placed it in his pocket with deliberate slowness. He looked at the Earl, and his jaw was set in a line of granite.
"Let her come," Darcy said. His voice was steady and cold like steel. "There is no compact. There never was. And I am done hiding, Uncle. I am done neglecting to deal with the fantasy she invented."
"She will not go quietly," the Earl warned, though there was a glint of approval in his eye.
"Then she shall go loudly," Darcy replied. "But she will go."
He turned back to Miss Elizabeth. He didn't hesitate. He walked over to her, ignoring the footmen, ignoring the Gardiners, ignoring propriety. He took her hand in his.
"I shall see you tomorrow, Miss Elizabeth," Darcy said clearly, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall.
He raised her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles with a reverence that was essentially a shout of defiance against anyone who would try to separate them.
Miss Elizabeth looked surprised, not knowing what brought out that kind of resolve out of him, but she didn't pull away. She squeezed his hand. "I shall look forward to it, Mr Darcy."
Robert let out a breath and looked at his father. The Earl was grinning—a ferocious, wolfish grin.
"Finally," the Earl muttered. "The boy has a spine."
Robert clapped his hands together, a burst of nervous, delighted energy. "Well then! Lady Catherine is coming! It will be a bloodbath. I can't wait."