Page 22 of Honor Requires

Still, thoughts of the future already permeated his mind.

Marriage. The notion had arisen unbidden, and once formed, it had not easily been dismissed.

“To contemplate marriage,” he murmured, “to a country miss of no fortune or connections—after so short an acquaintance…”

He let the thought trail off. But he did not recoil from it. On the contrary, there was something in it that felt…right. He drew a slow breath.

“I do not care.” The comprehension should have made him uncomfortable. Instead, it steadied him. The words were soft, but resolute. If society—if the ton—should object, let them. He would not be governed by shallow expectations, nor by the narrow judgments of those who valued consequence above character.

I would defy them all, if it meant keeping her. The conviction settled firmly. Elizabeth Bennet was not merely agreeable. She was—He searched for the word, then found it. “A jewel.” Rare. Bright. Unaffected by the false polish that so often dulled true worth. To lose such a one—to allow her to pass from his life through inaction or hesitation—would be a folly he could not countenance.

Darcy straightened. He would continue the acquaintance. That much was certain. He would see her again—soon. Speak with her again. Learn more of her mind, her character, her inclinations. And if, in time, something more should blossom—

He allowed himself the thought. “I shall not shrink from it.”

The room had grown darker, the last light of day fading entirely. Unwilling to call a servant, Darcy lit candles, and the room was illuminated. As it brightened, his resolve remained. Whatever came of this acquaintance, he would not allow it to pass lightly. Miss Elizabeth Bennet had already altered the course of his thoughts. He intended to discover just how far that change might go.

Chapter Four

The morning had begun with every appearance of promise.

Sunlight filtered cleanly through the tall windows of the drawing room at Mill House, falling in smooth, golden bands across the carpet and catching upon the polished surfaces of the furniture. The air was mild, touched with the faint salt of the sea, and carried with it that peculiar freshness which seemed to invigorate both body and mind. It was, by every measure, a day well-suited to pleasant engagements—and Darcy had intended to enjoy it as such.

He stood near the writing desk, a letter unfolded in his hand, its contents already committed to memory though he had read it but once. He had not meant to read it at all. The seal had been unremarkable, the direction written in a hand he did not immediately recognize. Only after breaking it open had he understood his mistake.

Hargrave.

Darcy’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as his eyes moved once more over the lines.

Mr. Darcy,

It is with continued interest that I write regarding the matter previously set before you. You have, I observe, chosen silence in place of reply—a course which I must interpret not as indifference, but as deliberate refusal.

You are, of course, at liberty to persist in such a position. Even so, I would caution you not to mistake liberty for consequence. Opportunities neglected have a curious way of returning in less agreeable forms.

I should be most reluctant to see circumstances arise which might render our future dealings…less cordial than they might otherwise have been.

Consider well, sir, whether it is prudent to disregard an offer that will not be extended indefinitely.

I remain, with particular interest,

W. Hargrave

Darcy exhaled slowly through his nose.

“A thinly veiled threat,” he muttered.

There was no overt impropriety in the language—no statement that could be seized upon or challenged—but the implication was unmistakable. Hargrave’s patience had worn thin, and with it, whatever pretense of civility had cloaked his earlier correspondence.

Darcy folded the letter once, twice, his expression hardening. “You mistake me entirely, sir.” He crossed to the hearth without hesitation and cast the paper into the fire. The flames caught at once, curling the edges, darkening the ink until the words dissolved into nothing. He watched until the last trace of it was consumed.

Hargrave had written often—far too often. At first, the letters had been merely persistent, filled with arguments of profit and progress, of industry and advantage. Darcy had refused him plainly. When that refusal had not been accepted, he had ceased replying altogether. The letters had persisted, regardless, and he recalled consigning them to the fire.

And now this.

Darcy turned away from the hearth, his thoughts sharpening. He did not fear the man. There was nothing in Hargrave’s position—either social or financial—that could threaten him directly. Pemberley was secure. Its lands were his, its rights well established and protected by law. No tradesman, however ambitious, could compel him to relinquish what he chose to keep.

What does he intend?