Page 36 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)

The deliberate introduction of practical matters broke the immediate tension, though the animosity between the two suitors remained palpable.

The marquess inclined his head stiffly, his expression betraying irritation at the interruption but awareness that continuing the confrontation would create a scene inappropriate for such a gathering.

“Of course,” he responded with forced civility. “We shall resume our discussion at a more opportune moment, Miss de Bourgh.”

Lord Joseph stepped back, the fire in his eyes cooling only slightly as he offered Anne a bow of exaggerated correctness. “Until later, Miss de Bourgh. I shall keep that volume of poetry at hand for whenever you might wish to examine it.”

As Anne moved away with evident relief to join Elizabeth at the far side of the ballroom, Darcy found himself reflecting on the striking contrast between the harmonious cooperation he had observed between Georgiana and Mr. Townend, and the discord surrounding Anne’s suitors.

Both situations challenged society’s expectations, though in very different ways.

What remained to be seen was whether genuine affection would prove sufficient to overcome both financial calculations and possessive presumption.

The Bellingham ballroom continued its elegant revolutions of dance and conversation, but Darcy had retreated to the relative quiet of an adjoining anteroom, ostensibly to examine a collection of miniatures displayed on the far wall.

In truth, he sought a moment’s respite from the constant social demands, a brief interlude to gather his thoughts and observe the evening’s developments from a position of greater perspective.

Through the partially open doors, he could see the three young women currently under his protection, each engaged in her own particular social navigation.

Kitty conversed animatedly with Lady Ashburton, her gestures controlled yet expressive, her manner showing none of the girlish giggling that had once characterized her interactions in company.

The transformation was remarkable, Darcy reflected.

Where once had stood a silly girl desperate for attention and guidance of any sort, now moved a poised young woman capable of sustaining meaningful conversation with one of society’s more discerning hostesses.

Georgiana, having concluded her performance, now stood near the orchestra with Mr. Townend, their heads inclined toward each other as they discussed what appeared to be another piece of music.

Her natural reserve remained, yet it was tempered now by a quiet confidence that allowed her to maintain her composure even amid the scrutiny that inevitably followed their musical collaboration.

Mr. Townend’s attention remained entirely focused on her despite the occasional curious glances directed their way, his expression one of genuine respect for her opinions rather than mere politeness.

What surprised Darcy most, upon reflection, was his own reaction to these developments.

He had anticipated feeling fiercely protective of Georgiana as she entered society, had imagined himself scrutinizing every gentleman who approached her with suspicious vigilance.

Yet observing her now, he felt not anxiety but pride in her growing discernment.

She was making adult choices based on genuine understanding of her own preferences and values, not merely responding to external expectations or pressure.

Perhaps this was what it meant to truly guide rather than control, Darcy mused.

To provide the foundations of principle and judgment, then step back and allow independent decisions to emerge from that careful preparation.

Elizabeth had been right, as she so often was in matters of human connection.

Georgiana did not require protection from her own judgment, merely support as she exercised it.

Anne presented a more complex situation.

From his current vantage point, Darcy could see her engaged in conversation with Lady Matlock, her posture revealing more animation than had been typical during her years at Rosings.

Though still naturally reserved, she had begun to express opinions with increasing confidence, no longer deferring automatically to others’ judgment.

It was a subtle transformation, perhaps not apparent to casual observers, but significant nonetheless in a young woman who had spent her entire life overshadowed by her mother’s domineering personality.

The confrontation between her suitors had clearly distressed her, however.

Even now, Darcy noted the slight tension in her shoulders and the occasional glance toward the doors, as though contemplating retreat.

Lady Catherine had never equipped her daughter with the tools to manage such social complexities, having always assumed control of Anne’s interactions.

Now, suddenly independent of her mother’s overwhelming presence, Anne found herself the object of competing attentions she had little experience in navigating.

As Darcy watched, Anne excused herself from Lady Matlock and moved toward the side rooms with the careful deliberation of someone seeking escape without wishing to attract notice.

Her expression betrayed genuine distress beneath her composed features, visible only to those who knew her well enough to recognize the signs.

She chose the room where he stood, glancing briefly at him before walking past without speaking, going to stand before a window that overlooked the darkened garden. Leaning forward, she pressed her brow against the glass as though seeking its coolness as a balm.

“Anne,” he said quietly, going to stand beside her, though he maintained a discreet distance, sensing instinctively that she needed her own space in that moment. “Forgive the intrusion. You seem somewhat overwhelmed.”

She did not look at him. “I just needed a moment’s quiet. The constant attention is rather... exhausting.”

“It can be quite taxing,” he offered in agreement. “Particularly when one is unaccustomed to being the centre of such focused interest.”

A small, wry smile touched Anne’s lips. “My mother always insisted I would be pursued by suitors of the highest rank once I entered society. I fear she neglected to prepare me for how uncomfortable such pursuit might prove.”

The simple honesty of this observation, so unlike the careful formality that typically characterized Anne’s speech, suggested a level of trust that Darcy found unexpectedly moving.

He had always maintained a certain reserve with his cousin, their relationship shaped by family obligation rather than particular affinity.

Yet here she was, allowing him a glimpse of genuine vulnerability.

“The attentions of suitors can be particularly overwhelming when they appear more interested in what one represents than who one is,” Darcy observed carefully.

“Yes,” Anne agreed quietly. “That is precisely it. The marquess speaks endlessly of Rosings, of improvements and connections and advantages, but never once has he asked what I might think or feel about such changes.” She hesitated, then added with unexpected frankness, “He looks at me and sees property to be acquired, not a person to be known.”

Darcy nodded, understanding completely. How many ladies had pursued him for the sake of Pemberley, not for himself?

Not until Elizabeth had he ever met a woman who looked at him as a person, a man, rather than for his rank and property.

“You deserve better, Anne. And you should know that neither Elizabeth nor I would ever support a match based on such calculations, regardless of what your mother might wish.”

“Even if the alternative were someone like Lord Joseph?” Anne asked, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. “With his ridiculous poetry and theatrical manners?”

The question hung in the air between them, Anne’s eyes now meeting his directly, seeking not permission precisely, but perhaps understanding. Darcy considered his response carefully, aware of its importance.

“Lord Joseph’s literary efforts are indeed something of a trial,” he acknowledged, which drew a surprised laugh from Anne. “And his fashion choices occasionally border on the alarming. But there is genuine warmth in his attention to you, Anne. I believe he sees you, not merely Rosings Park.”

“He does,” Anne agreed softly. “When we speak, he actually listens to my responses. Even about topics as mundane as herbal remedies or the proper cultivation of roses. No one has ever found my opinions on such matters worth hearing before.”

“And is that enough?” Darcy asked gently. “To compensate for the poetry?”

Anne’s smile held a touch of mischief he had rarely seen. “The poetry is dreadful, is it not? Yet there is something rather touching about a man who will make himself ridiculous in pursuit of expressing genuine feeling.”

Darcy thought of his own early, stilted attempts to express his feelings to Elizabeth, how he had couched his love in terms of logic and advantage rather than genuine emotion. How differently things might have proceeded had he been capable of more direct expression, however inelegant.

“Sincerity has its own eloquence,” he offered. “Perhaps more valuable than polished phrases offered without genuine feeling.”

“Precisely,” Anne agreed, seeming relieved by his understanding. “And I find I would rather endure occasional literary excess from someone who values my thoughts than perfect propriety from someone who sees me merely as a means to acquire Rosings.”

Darcy nodded, recognizing the wisdom in her assessment. “Your happiness is what matters, Anne. Not your mother’s expectations or society’s calculations. If Lord Joseph brings you that happiness, you will have my full support, whatever Lady Catherine might say to the contrary.”

“She will be furious,” Anne said, a hint of trepidation entering her voice despite her apparent resolve. “She has been corresponding with the marquess about estate matters for weeks. I believe she considers the matter all but settled.”

“Your mother has always had a tendency to arrange matters according to her own preferences,” Darcy replied diplomatically. “But you are of age, and in control of your own fortune; Lady Catherine cannot withhold anything from you. The decision is ultimately yours to make.”

“I have never before defied her wishes in any significant matter,” Anne admitted. “I’m not entirely certain I have the courage.”

Darcy considered this, recognizing both the genuine difficulty of Anne’s position and the importance of her establishing independence.

“Courage is not the absence of fear,” he said finally.

“It is the determination to proceed despite it. And you are not without allies, Anne. Elizabeth and I will stand with you, whatever you decide, and so will our aunt and uncle. Lord and Lady Matlock want you to be happy, no matter what form that happiness might take.”

Anne’s expression softened with genuine gratitude. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam. I cannot express how much that means to me.” She paused, then added with a touch of her earlier humor, “Though Lord Joseph could undoubtedly express it in at least fourteen stanzas of varying quality.”

Darcy found himself laughing, a rare occurrence in formal social settings. “I have no doubt of it. Shall we return to the ballroom before your absence generates excessive speculation? I believe the final dance will be commencing shortly and Elizabeth will be looking to gather our party to depart.”

As they walked back toward the ballroom, Darcy reflected on the remarkable growth he had witnessed in all three young women under his care this season.

Each in her own way was discovering her own strength and voice: Kitty finding maturity and discernment, Georgiana developing confidence in her talents and judgment, and Anne beginning to assert independence after years of submission to her mother’s will.

It was, he thought, perhaps the most valuable outcome of this London Season, far more significant than any particular match or social connection.

These young women were becoming themselves, guided but not controlled by those who cared for them.

And in that process, Darcy found himself growing as well, learning to trust their judgment rather than imposing his own expectations.

As they re-entered the ballroom, Lord Joseph immediately spotted Anne, his face lighting with undisguised pleasure at her return.

His response was so transparently genuine that Darcy found himself revising his earlier assessment of the man.

Perhaps there was more substance beneath the poetic excesses than he had previously credited.

And perhaps Anne, with her quiet perceptiveness, had recognized that truth long before the rest of them.