Chapter 37 #2
Darcy had been summoned before. His uncle, his father, and even his grandfather once, many years ago, had summoned him like a wayward child. None of those encounters carried the weight this one did. Everything he wished for was contingent on the outcome of the meeting with the Prince Regent.
He knew the corridors of Carlton House were meant to impress rather than merely conduct.
The ceilings rose higher than comfort required, the carpets muffled sound to an unsettling degree, and the portraits along the walls were arranged not for beauty but for reminder.
Kings, princes, victories rendered permanent in gilt frames.
The message was unmistakable: authority preceded him, surrounded him, and would endure long after he departed.
Yet Darcy did not feel fear. Reluctance, yes. Irritation, perhaps. But not fear.
He had not sought the Prince Regent’s notice.
He had not cultivated favor, nor angled for advantage.
His fortune was his own. The Darcy name stood without embellishment.
His independence was not an affectation but a fact, and he had long ago learned that fear was the surest way to invite manipulation.
What unsettled him was not the prince. It was Elizabeth.
She will be weighed as I am weighed, he thought. And that I cannot abide.
He was announced without flourish. The doors opened. He entered.
The Prince Regent stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed enough to be deceptive. He did not turn at once. Darcy bowed low.
“Mr. Darcy,” the prince said mildly. “You have been prompt.”
“I make it a habit, Your Royal Highness.” He did not rise, waiting for the invitation to straighten.
“An admirable one.” The prince turned then, his gaze sharp and appraising. “Sit.”
Darcy stood tall, inclined his head and obeyed. He noted, without surprise, that there was no desk between them. No papers. No witnesses. This was not an administrative meeting. It was a test.
“I am told,” the prince began, “that you have made your intentions known to Miss Elizabeth de Bourgh.”
Darcy met his gaze steadily. “I have.”
The prince raised a brow. “No preamble. No apology.”
“There is nothing to apologize for,” Darcy replied evenly. “Nor anything to disguise.”
A faint smile tugged at the prince’s mouth. “You are either very sure of yourself or very foolish.”
“I am sure of my intentions,” Darcy said. “Whether that makes me foolish remains to be seen.”
The prince laughed softly. “You are not frightened.”
“No.” Was it good that the prince seemed amused rather than angry?
“Most men are.”
Darcy did not respond. He would not flatter the prince by denying it further.
The Prince Regent moved to his chair and seated himself opposite Darcy, crossing one leg over the other. “You understand,” he said, “that this is not a private matter.”
“I do,” Darcy replied. “Elizabeth’s proximity to your household makes it otherwise.”
“Miss de Bourgh has been associated with the Crown since birth. And yet you proceeded—an untitled gentleman, though one of large fortune and property.”
“Yes.”
The prince studied him. “Why?”
Darcy did not hesitate. “Because my regard for her predates her elevation. Her circumstances do not alter her worth—and I would regret a lifetime of restraint more than I would endure temporary displeasure.”
The prince’s expression sharpened. “You speak boldly for a man seeking my permission.”
“I am not asking permission to care for her,” Darcy said fervently. “I am acknowledging that permission may be required to formalize what already exists.”
Silence stretched. At last, the prince leaned back. “You are prepared for refusal.”
Of course he was! There were others more ‘worthy’ than Darcy, at least in the prince’s mind. “I am prepared for honesty.”
The prince’s eyes flickered with interest. “Then allow me to be honest.” He folded his hands. “Miss de Bourgh is…complicated.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I am aware.”
“She is visible. Observed. Increasingly influential.”
“And yet, she does not seek influence.” Rather, the prince wished to thrust it upon his unwilling ward.
“No,” the prince agreed. “Which is precisely why she possesses it.”
Darcy held his tongue.
“I have tolerated her presence,” the prince continued, “because she has been useful. She steadies my daughter and attracts attention without courting scandal. She is, at present, manageable.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. Had not Elizabeth used the same terminology? Had he not as well, the day of his proposal?
“You,” the prince went on, “were not intended to enter the equation.”
“I rarely am,” Darcy replied evenly.
A sharp look. Then amusement. “True enough.”
The prince rose and paced. “You do not need advancement, nor do you require patronage. You will not be beholden.”
“No.” He refused to be manipulated and coerced.
“That independence is vexing.” The prince huffed, his irritation obvious.
Darcy allowed himself the faintest smile. “I have been told so.”
The prince stopped before him. “And yet it is also what makes you acceptable.”
Darcy looked up, attentive now. A surge of hope nearly incapacitated him. Would he be allowed to marry Elizabeth after all?
“A political match would provoke resistance,” the prince said. “Elizabeth would submit, perhaps, but not quietly. And not without consequences. You, however, represent closure. Stability. A conclusion that appears voluntary.”
Darcy said nothing. He hardly dared to breathe.
“There is a cost,” the prince added.
Darcy felt it before it was spoken.
“Elizabeth may not continue her association with her.”
The word fell heavily into the room.
Darcy’s breath stilled. “With Princess Caroline.”
“Yes.”
“That,” Darcy said carefully, “would wound her deeply.”
The prince’s expression hardened. “That is not my concern.”
“It is mine,” Darcy replied.
Silence followed. The prince’s gaze sharpened, testing the boundary.
“She regards Princess Caroline as the closest thing she has had to a mother,” Darcy continued. “To sever that bond without her consent would be cruel.”
“Cruelty,” the prince said coolly, “is often necessary.”
Darcy rose. The movement was unhurried, deliberate. He did not loom, did not threaten. He simply refused to remain seated.
“I will not agree to any condition that Elizabeth herself would not accept,” he said. “If that renders me unsuitable, then so be it.”
The prince studied him intently. “You would forgo her rather than compel her.”
“Yes.” His heart would break, but Elizabeth would understand. She would hate him for being the cause of losing her dearest aunt.
“That is a dangerous stance.” The Prince Regent glowered, his face turning redder. I am going to be executed. He dared stand his ground against the prince?
“It is a principled one.” He spoke with as much deference as he could, hoping to calm the regent’s temper.
Another silence. Darcy felt a bead of sweat on his brow as he waited patiently for the prince to speak.
At length, his host exhaled. “Two visits a year.”
Darcy blinked.
“She may see her twice yearly,” the prince said. “Under supervision. I will not curtail their correspondence, but neither will I tolerate rebellion and insubordination.”
Darcy considered. It was a compromise. A calculated one. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but I will not agree on her behalf,” he said at last. “Elizabeth must decide whether that cost is acceptable.”
The prince’s lips curved faintly. “Of course she must.” He turned towards the door. “Summon Miss de Bourgh.”
Darcy’s heart quickened.
Moments later, Elizabeth entered.
She looked composed, though Darcy knew her well enough now to see the tension beneath it. Her eyes flicked to him briefly, a question unspoken.
The prince gestured for her to sit. “Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy has expressed his intention to marry you.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She did not look away.
“I have,” Darcy said tenderly. He felt pleasure at the look of unadulterated delight on her face. It was there briefly before she schooled her expression once more.
The prince continued, “I am prepared to permit this match, under conditions.”
Elizabeth straightened. “I should like to hear them.”
The prince outlined them succinctly. When he finished, Elizabeth was silent. Darcy watched her, every instinct attuned.
At last, she spoke. “You would allow me to marry whom I choose, provided I surrender what remains of my childhood.”
The prince did not deny it.
Elizabeth turned to Darcy then. Her gaze was searching, steady.
“You would accept this,” she asked softly, “only with my consent.”
“Yes.” He loved her—he could do nothing less.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I will abide by your decision.” His heart hurt to say it, but what was love, if not sacrifice?
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, there was resolve there.
“I will consider it,” she said. “But I will not be hurried.”
The prince inclined his head. “Very well.”
Darcy felt a quiet surge of pride.
She was choosing herself. And he would stand with her, whatever that choice proved to be. The game, at last, was no longer solely the prince’s to play.