Page 66 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious "Miss B"
“And what, in your estimation, is right before me?”
“Love, you stubborn man!” The words rang out with surprising strength. “Love such as I have never seen you display for any other woman. Love that makes you smile without realising it. Love that has transformed my serious, proper brother into someone who laughs freely and speaks with genuine tenderness.”
The silence stretched between them. Outside, a carriage clattered past on the cobblestones.
“You had no right to meddle in such matters,” he said finally.
“Perhaps not.” She lifted her chin with a touch of defiance that reminded him of Elizabeth. “But I could not stand by and watch you throw away your chance at happiness because you are too proud to admit your feelings.”
“My feelings are my own concern.”
“Are they?” Georgiana’s eyes flashed. “When your unhappiness affects everyone around you? When your loneliness casts shadows over this entire household?”
He turned away, but she continued.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet is perfect for you, Fitzwilliam. She challenges you without cruelty. She sees past your reserve to the man beneath. She makes you better by being herself.” Her voice softened. “Surely you must see it too?”
The truth of her words could not be ignored. Ripples of recognition spread outward—yes, he did feel strongly for Elizabeth. More strongly than he had ever felt for any woman. The false courtship had become precious to him not because it protected his reputation, but because it granted him time in her company. Hours of conversation. Moments of shared laughter. The illusion of belonging to her, even if only temporarily.
“Perhaps,” he admitted, “my feelings are not entirely my own concern.”
Georgiana’s face brightened. “Then you do care for her?”
“My regard for Miss Elizabeth is…” he paused, searching for words that would not betray the depth of his attachment. “It is considerable.”
“Considerable!” She laughed despite her tears. “Oh, Fitzwilliam, you could not sound more stilted if you tried. You love her. Why can you not say so?”
Because saying it aloud would make it real. Because real feelings carried real risks. Because Elizabeth Bennet might laugh at the notion of actually accepting him once their charade reached its end.
“Love is a word not to be used lightly,” he said instead.
“No, it is not.” Georgiana wetted her lips. “Which is why I took such care to preserve what I saw growing between you. I may have been wrong to write those letters, but I was not wrong about what I observed.”
He looked down at the scattered papers again. “You truly sent none of these?”
“Not one. I swear it on our parents’ memory.”
“Then who has been feeding information to the newspapers?”
“I know not. But does it matter now? You and Miss Elizabeth have found each other despite the circumstances, have you not?”
Had they? The question lodged itself in his mind. Their arrangement remained temporary. Their courtship remained a performance. Yet when he looked into Elizabeth’s eyes, when she smiled at something he said, when she took his arm as they walked—those moments felt anything but false.
“Promise me,” he said, “that you will engage in no more such schemes. Whatever happens between Miss Elizabethand myself must happen naturally, without interference from meddling sisters.”
Georgiana nodded solemnly. “I promise. Though I reserve the right to be exceedingly happy when you finally come to your senses.”
“If I come to my senses.”
“When,” she corrected. “You are many things, dear brother, but you are not a fool. Miss Elizabeth Bennet is the finest woman of our acquaintance, and she regards you with far more fondness than mere friendship would account for.”
Did she? The possibility sent an unexpected flutter through his chest. He gathered the papers from the desk and moved towards the fireplace.
“What are you doing?” Georgiana asked.
“Destroying the evidence of your literary efforts.” He fed the first letter to the flames. “Whatever the future holds, it will not be built upon deception—even well-intentioned deception.”
The papers caught quickly, curling into ash. As the last fragments disappeared, Darcy felt something release within him. The weight of pretence, perhaps. Or the fear of acknowledging what his heart had known for weeks.
