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D arcy was incensed.

Mr. Bennet’s words echoed through his head as he marched his way through the hallways of Netherfield. The footmen he came across wore an almost unnerved expression on their otherwise bland countenances, letting him know that he was doing an unusually poor job at masking his emotions.

And yet, with each recollection of what the older man had said to him, nay, demanded of him, Darcy could do nothing but glower menacingly at his boots as he climbed up the grand staircase and onto the guest wing of the manor,

“All anyone in Meryton can talk about, Mr. Darcy, is the rendezvous you planned with my niece at the lake, and how you then rescued her from drowning.” Mr. Bennet had said to him, “Now, I know Elizabeth. She is too sensible of a woman to agree to any such assignations. There is no doubt that her presence at the lake was nothing but a coincidence. What I would like to know, sir- is what you were doing there with her. Did you follow her from Longbourn? Did her status as an orphan make you think she was unprotected? Elizabeth, when she is in Hertfordshire, is my responsibility, and I demand an explanation for what happened during that day.”

The accusations that had been so liberally thrown at his feet by Elizabeth’s uncle had been repugnant at best, and Darcy had felt his spine stiffening at every word that came out of the older man’s mouth. Never before had he been accused of dallying with a lady; it was inconsolable that he should be now when it was the fault of the man’s own two daughters that Miss Braxton had fallen into the lake. He had, of course, defended himself vehemently, his natural hauteur at its peak, and had felt the dubious pleasure of observing the other man shrink under his indignation.

His anger at Mr. Bennet, though unquenched, was not what was presently leading him to Miss Braxton’s room, however. Regardless of how preposterous Mr. Bennet’s accusations were, the fact that there were rumours about him and Elizabeth circulating through the village was not something that could be taken lightly. A lady’s reputation was a delicate, frangible thing, and Miss Braxton did not deserve to suffer through anybody’s scorn when she was blameless in the whole matter.

Darcy was raised as a gentleman. His father was an honourable and principled man and he had instilled in his son the same honour and principles. He knew his duty, and he did not need to be prompted by a young lady’s guardian to do it.

Coming to a stop in front of the door which led to the guest room that had been assigned to Miss Braxton for the duration of her stay, Darcy checked his ire. Taking a deep, calming breath, he straightened his waistcoat and tugged at his cuffs in an effort to regain his composure. His heart was thundering, he could feel the pulse of it at the base of his neck. His blood was rushing in his ears. No doubt both symptoms were the consequence of the outrage he had been consumed with only a few minutes ago. Stiffly, he knocked on the door, his lips pressed tight together, absently noting how the soft, muffled voices ceased with his interruption.

Miss Braxton’s abigail opened the door, looking surprised to see him on the other side of it. As she should be, he supposed, for it was the first time he himself would be entering the chamber of a lady who neither his mother nor his sister. In that moment, however, he could not bring himself to care about the impropriety of the situation and strode into the room without a pause. Miss Braxton was standing near the bed, a half-folded shawl in her hand and a trunk open at the base of the mattress. Darcy bowed in an almost mechanical manner,

“May we speak in private?” He asked her without a preamble. If Miss Braxton was surprised at his abrupt, and frankly, inappropriate request, she did not let it show. It was something Darcy had noticed about her before. No matter how open and cheerful her usual manner, when she wanted to be, Miss Braxton could be very poised. She nodded at her maid,

“Leave us, Hala.”

Darcy watched the girl curtsy and leave without a word, but on her way out, Hala left the door part-way open. Darcy knew without having to see for himself that she had not gone very far. He turned back to Miss Braxton to see she had moved over closer to the fireplace and taken a seat at one of the two bergère chairs, motioning towards the second one for himself.

Darcy declined as politely as he could. He did not think he could get through this interview without pacing across the floor.

“I suppose this has to do with the meeting you had with my uncle.” Miss Braxton stated, starting the conversation when he could not, “What in the world did he say to you, Mr. Darcy, that has you looking so very grave?”

What Mr. Bennet had uttered had been demeaning, slanderous, and not even remotely something he would share with a young lady. Instead, he arrived at the crux of the matter,

“There are rumours.”

He paused. Elizabeth waited for him to continue. He did not.

“Rumours?” She asked, hoping to nudge him along,

“About us.”

She blinked, “There are rumours about us.”

When all he did was nod, Elizabeth sighed, exasperated.

“Mr. Darcy, if I could implore you to stop speaking in sentence fragments, sir. It would be most helpful.”

Darcy flushed, then cleared his throat,

“You are right, of course. I apologise. It is only- what I am about to relate to you is a matter of some… embarrassment.”

Elizabeth raised a brow. She could not imagine anything in the world that would unsettle a man of Mr. Darcy’s sensibility in such a manner. The poor man looked so very uncomfortable, she almost wished she could entreat him to say nothing at all.

“If it is discretion that you desire, sir, you can rest assured that anything you shall say to me will not leave this room.”

“No. I-” Darcy huffed, then decided to make short work of it, “We must marry.”

Elizabeth stared up at him, her lips parted in a stupefied manner. Darcy could feel his face heating up in embarrassment.

“I beg your pardon?”

“There are rumours that have been circulating around the village.” He continued, finding it easier, in a way, to relate to her the whole of it now that the conclusion had been uttered, “The incident at the lake has been twisted on its head with every retelling and people are talking about… about rendezvous and assignations and-”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened as Mr. Darcy continued to speak. It was this then, the prospect of having to marry her, that had him looking as if he were about to cast up his accounts. She coloured in mortification even as she was astounded by his code of honour. It was for her sake that he was proposing, she knew. Gentlewomen were, after all, much more vulnerable to malicious gossip than gentlemen, especially if the gentleman in question was of Mr. Darcy’s calibre.

“-and so you can see that we must marry. Indeed, I can think of no other recourse. Miss Braxton, will you-”

“Sir, I must stop you.” Elizabeth protested, standing up from her seat in haste, “As honoured as I am by your offer, I am afraid I must decline.”

Mr. Darcy froze. For all intents and purposes, he might as well have been a statue. Elizabeth bit her lip,

“Sir?”

“You…” He swallowed, blinked away the daze that had, for a moment, stopped his mind from computing anything, “You must decline?”

“Yes.”

“Madam, I do not think you comprehend the situation that you are in.”

“And I think that both you and my uncle are inflating the issue into something bigger than it truly is.” She retorted. Still, he was looking at her as if he could barely understand the words that were coming out of her mouth, and Elizabeth sighed, feeling both miffed at his denseness, and endeared by the same, “Sir, I agree that the situation is not ideal, but both you and I are merely visitors in Hertfordshire. I shall be leaving for London in December, and after the season is over, I will be journeying on to my home in Wrexham. While I am not aware of your itinerary, I can only presume that it is not dissimilar to my own. Whatever damage my reputation takes, I sincerely doubt it shall persist until next year when, and if, I visit the Bennets again.

“It is very silly to take such a significant step as matrimony because of the censure of a society neither of us belongs to, especially since we do not want the match ourselves.”

Darcy felt like a particularly slow child as he digested her words, “We do not want the match ourselves.” He repeated, something in his chest caving horribly at her careless words.

Did he want to marry Miss Elizabeth Braxton?

Till this very second, he had not considered that he had a choice in the matter. Her reputation was at stake, and his name was involved. As a gentleman, it was only right that he propose to fix the situation they both had somehow found themselves in. It was only now that she had rejected him that he was considering his own opinion on the matter.

There was very little about Miss Braxton’s family and situation that Darcy knew. Considering the clothes she wore, and the manners she presented, he knew her family was well-off to at least some extent, and from her knowledge in a variety of areas, he could discern that at least the patriarch of her family was not opposed to educating the women under his charge. Other than that, however, he did not know what circles her family belonged to, what party they supported, or if there were any blemishes to their name that could not be overlooked.

Despite this, however, he knew that Miss Braxton was a lively and spirited lady, she made him smile, and he yearned for both her sweet affection and her sharp teasing. It certainly did not hurt that she was by far the handsomest woman he had ever seen. He was entranced by her every little movement, every fleeting glance, every quirk of her brow.

(It would not be a lie to say that he was very much in love with her.)

“Mr. Darcy?”

Miss Braxton’s concerned voice brought him out of his stupor. Darcy found he had very little control over his own mouth as he heard himself say with a degree of conceited incredulity,

“You do not wish to marry me?”

Elizabeth found herself feeling a little offended at how offended he sounded,

“ You are the one who looked like you were being led to the gallows as you proposed! Why would I want to marry a man who very clearly does not wish to marry me?”

“But I do!”

Ah.

Elizabeth blinked. Darcy slapped a hand against his mouth in mortification, half-turning away from her in an effort to hide his burning cheeks.

Silence reigned for one long, heavy moment.

“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked again. This time, her voice was soft and trembling slightly. Darcy could not bring himself to look her in the eyes. Those three words he had uttered against his own will seemed to echo between them. Even as she felt herself regaining some of her confidence, Elizabeth was still more than a little confused. Gathering courage, she took a step closer her to him, her hand latching on to the cuff of the sleeve his coat, “Sir?”

His blushing cheeks were the first thing that caught her attention when he finally surrendered and turned towards her. Larger than life and imposing though he was in most situations, at the moment, he was looking completely out of his element and more than a little reproachful for it. His eyes were both glaring and suppliant as they fixated themselves on hers.

It was Elizabeth who found herself losing her breath; wanting to look away but not being able to.

This man wanted to marry her?

Her?

“Will you marry me?” He asked her again, his voice scratchy and nervous and hopeful and tortured. This, here, felt more like a true proposal than his previous half-angry, high-handed attempt when he first entered her room.

Elizabeth felt her lips lifting up in a tremulous smile,

“Yes.”

She watched his face relax, watched him smile, watched him move closer,

And then she was no longer looking at him, her eyes having fallen shut on their own accord,

And then he was kissing her.

“Good.” Darcy whispered against her mouth, his breath heavy and laboured, “That is a very good answer, Elizabeth Braxton.”