Page 14

“Richard,”

said as the door shut behind them.

“you and Miss Mary—what are your intentions?”

“Upon my word, ,”

replied Richard, easing into a nearby chair with a glint of amusement.

“has Mr. Bennet deputed you to watch over his daughters? First you questioned Bingley, and now you turn your scrutiny upon me. It seems you have made it your duty to question every gentleman who dares to attend the ladies of Longbourn.”

sighed, vexed.

“You cannot but know the reason for my inquiry. Miss Elizabeth has expressed concern for her sister, and I share it. Miss Mary is unaccustomed to such attentions—or to the uncertainty your visits have brought.”

Richard did not reply at once. Instead, he moved to the sideboard, poured a small glass of port, and paused before speaking.

“,”

he said at length.

“you know as well as I that I cannot offer for Miss Mary. No such design was ever mine. My attentions have gone no further than civil conversation and the simple pleasures of friendly acquaintance. I believed my meaning could not be mistaken.”

’s countenance grew grave.

“And do you imagine that such candour, however timely, can shield a young lady’s heart from the growth of affection?”

“I am not ignorant of the danger, ,”

Richard said, setting down his glass.

“And I know I must proceed with caution. Believe me, if circumstances were different—if I had liberty to choose—I might well pursue her.”

, no longer able to remain seated, rose abruptly and paced the room. When he turned, his voice was low but impassioned.

“You do have a choice, Richard. You could sell your commission, accept Rosemont from your father, and live the life you wish—honourably and with full freedom.”

Richard sighed, his expression hardening with familiar resistance.

“, you know well I cannot do that. Rosemont belongs to Henry—has always belonged to him. To accept it would be shameful dependence. I cannot accept charity.”

“Charity?”

repeated with some heat.

“Henry has more than enough. Losing Rosemont would be no hardship to him. But losing his brother at war—losing you—would be. How is it you cannot see what we all endure in your absence? You cannot know the silent grief in Georgiana’s gaze when weeks pass without word from you.”

Richard stood, tension unmistakable in his frame. He shook his head slowly.

“,”

he said wearily.

“you and I have never seen this matter alike, and I daresay we never shall. It is useless to continue. I am going to retire.”

nodded slightly, though his expression did not soften. As Richard reached the door, spoke again, his voice gentler.

“Richard… should you find yourself in need of any assistance concerning Miss Mary, I trust you will come to me.”

At that, Richard turned slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest smile.

“The only help I require is this—see to it that my mother never hears a whisper of it.”

With that, he was gone.

Left alone in the quiet room, moved to the decanter and poured himself a more generous portion of port than usual. He stood a moment in contemplation, glass in hand, before retiring himself.