Page 187 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

The door opened again and Darcy entered. His arms were crossed behind his back and his lips were pinched in that certain way which revealed he had been sent on an errand he deeply resented.

"Elizabeth has composed a speech," he announced without preamble. "It is three pages long. It contains the phrase'melodramatic wallowing, typical of men who mistake self-pity for moral depth.'She instructed me to deliver it verbatim."

Richard's head emerged from the counterpane just enough to glare. "That sounds exactly like her."

"She also said that if I do not extract you from this room within the hour, she will come herself." Darcy paused. "I believe her capable of it."

Richard considered this. Elizabeth Darcy was many things. Hesitant was not among them.

"She would not dare."

"She would," Darcy said flatly, "and she would bring Georgiana for moral support, which would make the occasion approximately twelve times more mortifying."

Robert clapped his hands together once, delighted. "Excellent. Now that we have established the threat level as highest tier, perhaps we might discuss why you are currently auditioning for the role of the tragic hero in a very bad play."

Richard sat up. His hair resembled a startled hedgehog. His nightshirt had surrendered several buttons to the cause of despair. He looked, he suspected, precisely as ridiculous as he felt.

"She laughed at me." The words came out quieter than he intended. "She laughed, Robert. After I chased her and declared my love. Like some lovesick ensign."

Robert softened, just fractionally. "You are a Fitzwilliam. We chase things. Horses, foxes, unsuitable women. It is practically tradition."

"I called her a lemon."

Darcy coughed into his fist.

Robert stared. "You have called her worse. The Banshee of Bond Street? Rings any bells?"

Richard groaned in anguish.

Darcy coughed again, harder.

Robert threw back his head and laughed until tears appeared in the corners of his eyes. "Oh, this is magnificent. I am never recovering."

Richard buried his face in his hands. "I am aware it was not my finest hour."

"It was not even your finest minute," Robert wheezed. "It was not even your finest second."

Richard sat on the edge of the mattress, his bare feet touching cold floorboards, his hair in wild disarray, the nightshirt gaping at the chest like a defeated flag. Robert paced before him with folded arms, the very picture of fraternal exasperation. Darcy stood near the window looking as though he would rather be anywhere else on earth.

Robert stopped pacing and pointed one finger at his brother.

"Right. Facts. You told a woman you loved her. She laughed. Now you wish to die of the fever. Have I summarised correctly?"

"I wish to die of the fever in some tropical hellhole." Richard corrected with weary precision after having spent three days perfecting his tragedy.

"Oh. I see. The distinction matters."

Darcy cleared his throat. "You must get up, Richard. Elizabeth will not wait forever. Neither will Miss Bingley."

Richard looked from one to the other. His brother. His cousin. Both regarding him as though he were a horse that had bolted and must now be coaxed back into the stable with sugar and patience. He sighed. It was a very long sigh, the sort that had waited three days to be released.

"Very well," he said. "I will bathe. I will dress. I will attempt to resemble a human being again. But only because I know your wife, Darcy."

Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit. Peters! Hot water! Soap! A razor sharp enough to cut through three days of muck!"

Peters materialised in the doorway as though summoned by witchcraft. "Very good, my Lord. The bath is already drawn. I anticipated the need."

Richard stood. The room tilted briefly. He steadied himself against the bedpost. "I need my breeches."