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She was mild, proper, well-bred, and unfailingly polite. She answered every question with the poise of someone who had been raised to answer correctly and sent to the very best finishing school. And when she smiled—when she tried—he felt absolutely nothing at all.

He had tried to want her. Truly, he had. She was agreeable. She was serene. She made an effort. She had never once spoken with exasperated affection, never rolled her eyes and called him “insufferable,” never looked at him like she saw the parts of him he wished no one would ever discover.

And yet, all he could think was that he could not imagine spending a lifetime with a woman he dreaded trying to converse with.

Miss Ashford was not Elizabeth Bennet. Which ought to have been a point in her favor.

He stood abruptly, pushing back from the desk. He would cry off before reputations were damaged. He would—he must.

The door opened behind him.

“Your uncle has chosen a suitor.”

His grandmother stood just inside the threshold, her expression drawn tight and clipped as her words. She removed her gloves with a brisk snap.

Darcy froze. “What? You cannot mean for Georgiana.”

“Who else?” She crossed the carpet without waiting to be invited, unpinning her cloak and tossing it onto a chair.

“I have just come from Matlock House. Your uncle means to announce the arrangement before Christmas. He says her name is already circling through parlors and drawing rooms—and not in ways he considers defensible.”

Darcy stared at her. “That is not possible.”

“He claims to have it from a reliable source.”

“I have done everything to contain this. Everything!” The words felt scraped from his throat. “It was nothing more than a whisper. A moment’s foolishness. There are no letters—I am convinced Wickham has lost them. There is no scandal.”

“Well, someone thinks there is.” She crossed the room and poured herself a glass of claret with the unsteady grace of a mother who had swallowed too much of her son’s judgment and was still tasting the bitterness.

“He would not name his informant. Only that he trusts them beyond question. That something must be done.”

Darcy’s jaw locked.

The dowager took a drink. “I tried to dissuade him,” she said, setting the glass down.

“But once your uncle makes up his mind, it is like trying to argue with a church bell. You only look foolish for shouting. You must know, he assumes your own delays are a tacit surrender of your responsibilities.”

Darcy’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “He has no authority yet! I have not yet passed my birthday.”

“Well, whether you arrive at that blessed anniversary married or single seems to matter very little at present. Rumor will have its way by the end of the week and she will be ruined if she tries to cry off.”

Darcy swore.

“Good heavens, boy mind your tongue!” the dowager retorted. “I am sure your uncle means to act before your aunt Catherine arrives and makes a spectacle of the situation. I daresay she will find her own means of managing the affair, and the end of it will be you standing at the altar with Anne.”

“Over my dead body!” he cried.

“Then, my dear boy, I suggest you act. You have less than six weeks before your thirtieth birthday. That leaves you very little time to decide what alternative, if any, you mean to present.”

He crossed the room in three long strides, pressing one hand to the edge of the desk. “And you said nothing to dissuade him?”

“Do not be absurd,” she snapped. “I said everything that could be said. But he believes action will end the matter swiftly and decently. If she is married, there will be no more talk.”

Darcy stared at the empty fireplace. “He means to force her into a marriage to save face.”

“He calls it protecting the family name.” Her voice softened just slightly.

“And he is not wrong about the timing. These sorts of things spread quickly. Especially with Lady Catherine and Anne arriving tomorrow. If I were you, my dear grandson, I would check every room before entering it and lock the door behind myself.”

Darcy did not respond. He could feel the clock ticking behind every breath.

The dowager moved toward the door. “You would do better to act today, if you mean to act at all.”

Darcy remained silent, every thought snarling against the next.

She paused, hand on the doorknob. “What about the auction girl, then? The one who looks at you like she sees through marble. Are you truly prepared to let her go?”

He turned sharply. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet has no fortune, no family standing, and by every measure, she would be an embarrassment for a Darcy to link his name to.”

Her brow lifted. “If you truly believed that, you would not have spoken to her after that picnic.”

His throat tightened, but he sealed his lips shut.

She studied him briefly, then nodded. “I see.”

“She is not suitable,” he said at last, forcing assurance into each word. “And that is that.”

“Very well.”

He crossed to the desk, bracing his hand against the edge. “I will act. Today. But it will not be by proposing to Elizabeth Bennet.”

“You will do as you must, I am sure.” The dowager opened the door and left.

Darcy stood alone in the hush, staring into the cold hearth as though answers might rise from the ashes. The note on the desk was still unsealed—a choice he had meant to make today.

But now the choice did not feel like a choice at all. It felt like surrender—neat, bloodless, and irrevocable.

“ E xcellent, excellent,” said Mr. Ashford, clasping Darcy’s hand with the vigor of a man who had just concluded a particularly profitable business arrangement.

“You must join us for St. Stephen’s, Mr. Darcy.

We keep a modest gathering—just family, really, but I do think you will enjoy the company.

Perhaps Miss Darcy might join us? I know my younger daughter would be delighted. ”

Darcy offered a nod that felt more like a concession than assent. “I am grateful for the invitation. You may expect us, sir.”

“Splendid.” Mr. Ashford all but beamed. “Miss Darcy will adore Susan, I am sure. Very gentle disposition. Fond of birds. And embroidery, of course.”

Darcy made some polite sound and stepped into the corridor. The study door closed behind him with a soft click, and the house seemed to exhale around him—a genteel hush clinging to the wallpapered walls and polished floors.

His future was all but secured.

He moved toward the drawing room with the kind of measured tread one used for funerals or formal obligations. Not because Miss Ashford was unsuitable—on the contrary, she was perfectly respectable. Her family unblemished. Her conversation… endurable. For the most part.

And yet, as he neared the drawing room, the scent of rose pomander and waxed holly met him like a wall. This was what it came to, then. Flowers, candles, and approval inked in patriarchal enthusiasm.

Darcy paused just outside the drawing room, his hand resting lightly against the doorframe. A muffled laugh floated from inside—the musical trill of Miss Ashford, followed by the softer rustle of her mother’s reply.

He straightened his cuffs.

Then he stepped into the room.

Miss Ashford sat perfectly poised at the settee, her gloved hands resting atop a small volume of verse—closed, but clearly displayed.

Her mother looked up first, all eager politeness and the genteel satisfaction of a matron whose ambitions had finally borne fruit.

Surely, the maids had already informed the lady of the house that a gentleman caller was in the master’s study.

Surely, that would account for the third tea service sitting before her on the tray.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said warmly, rising just enough to signal welcome without risking discomfort. “We are so pleased you could join us.”

He offered the appropriate bow, his mind already ticking through the phrasing that would be required—clear, respectful, irrefutable. Something that could not be misconstrued. Something that would sound like duty rather than capitulation.

“Miss Ashford,” he said, turning to her directly, “might I request a moment of your time?”

Her eyes widened—just slightly. Then she inclined her head and rose.

“Of course.”

Her mother beamed. “Shall I pour the tea while you are out?”

Darcy gave a short, practiced smile. “That will not be necessary.”

They stepped out into the adjacent conservatory, an agreeable space full of potted camellias and the scent of orange blossom water, warmed by a small iron stove humming discreetly beneath a lattice of ivy.

Miss Ashford glanced about with visible delight. “Oh, how charming! I adore winter flowers. So stubborn, do you not think?”

Darcy did not reply at once. He turned toward her, posture rigid with formality, hands folded neatly behind his back.

“Miss Ashford, I…” he began, and then stopped.

Began again. “Your father has kindly given his approval to a proposal I now wish to place before you.”

Her lips parted. Surprise? Or the calculation of surprise? “I am honored by your attention,” she said at last.

Darcy nodded. “I have given this matter serious thought. I believe our families are well matched, and that we share a sufficient foundation of mutual respect to proceed.”

Miss Ashford gave a small nod. “That is very—practical of you.”

“I do not offer this lightly,” he said. “You deserve security, and peace, and a future of calm prosperity. I believe I can provide that.”

There was a moment’s pause. Then she said, “Yes.”

A quiet word in a quiet room. No blush, no tears, no poetry. No swooning or impassioned embrace. No sense that he had changed the course of anything but a calendar. A line written in ink, signed before it was read aloud.

“Yes,” she repeated, a little more brightly. “I should be glad of it.”

Darcy inclined his head. It was done.

They returned to the drawing room with her arm linked in his, where her mother gasped, clasped her hands, and called for sherry.

Darcy allowed himself a single breath.

It was done. It was settled. And now he could begin the rest of his life.

Georgiana’s care would not be distributed among his relatives, the disposition of her portion no longer subject for “reallocation.” It could not be siphoned by the Countess, nor could his sister be steered by Lord Matlock into any alliance more beneficial to his pride than to Georgiana’s peace.

Lady Catherine would find no foothold for her ambitions, and Anne would never bear the name he had, for a time, feared he might be forced to give her.

So why did he feel like he had just signed a condolence letter to himself?