Page 74 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"You have no idea," he whispered. "You have absolutely no idea."

As the curtain rose on the second act, Fitzwilliam Darcy sat in the darkness, and realised that this was it. He had been given a chance at happiness, and it was up to him to make the most of it.

Chapter Nine: The Rake in Repose (Panic)

Robert Fitzwilliam, Viscount Keathley, heir to an earldom, was currently staring at his reflection in the mirror of his dressing room at Matlock House and coming to a horrifying realisation: he was turning into his cousin.

It was Christmas Eve. He was tying his cravat for the fourth time, after dismissing his valet for over-fussing. He was sweating. And he was worrying about whether the flower arrangement in the hall was too ostentatious for a dinner party that included a warehouse owner.

"I am Darcy," he told his reflection with grim certainty. "I am brooding. I am fretting over floral tributes. Next, I shall start reciting poetry to sheep and refusing to dance."

He abandoned the cravat and poured a brandy. He needed it. Tonight was the night. The Matlock Christmas Eve dinner was usually a staid affair involving his father complaining about the Whigs and his mother complaining about the draughts.

But tonight? Tonight was an invasion.

Tonight, he was bringing Jane Bennet—The Goddess—into the lion's den. And while his parents had been surprisingly amenable at the Opera, seduced by the promise of rare rum and witty comebacks, the dinner table was a different battlefield. The dinner table was where the Countess of Matlock disassembled souls for sport.

There was a knock at the door, and Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam entered, looking annoyingly relaxed in his dress uniform.

"You look like you are going to a funeral," Richard observed, helping himself to Robert's brandy. "Or an execution."

"It is the same thing with Mother," Robert muttered. "Is Darcy here yet?"

"He arrived ten minutes ago. He is currently in the library with Father. I believe they are staring at the fire in companionable silence, interrupted only by Darcy sighing every thirty seconds."

"He sighs so much," Robert shook his head. "It is like living with a punctured lung."

"He is terrified," Richard grinned. "He thinks Mother is going to eat the Gardiners. He thinks Father is going to quiz Miss Elizabeth on the price of wool. He thinks the world is going to end."

"And you?" Robert asked, narrowing his eyes. "You seem remarkably cheerful for a man who is about to witness a massacre."

"I am the spectator, Robert. I have no skin in this game. I am just here to watch you fumble over Miss Bennet and watch Darcy try to protect Miss Elizabeth from our parents. It is better than the theatre."

Robert finished his drink. "You are a parasite, Richard. A parasite in a red coat."

"And you are in love," Richard countered, dodging a throw pillow. "Come on. The guests are arriving. If we are late, Mother will start the soup without us, and you know how that sets the tone."

Robert checked his reflection one last time. He smoothed his hair. He adjusted his cuffs.

"Right," he said, taking a breath. "Into the breach. If I die, tell Jane I looked magnificent doing it."

The Matlock drawing room was vast, gilded, and designed to make visitors feel small. Robert hated it. He usually avoided it. But tonight, he marched to stand by the fireplace, waiting. When the doors opened, the air in the room changed. It was not just the cold draft from the hallway. It was the sudden influx of life.

The Gardiners entered first. Mr Gardiner was calm, which Robert respected immensely given that the Earl was currentlylooming near the sideboard like a hungry bear. Mrs Gardiner was elegant in dark green silk, carrying herself with a quiet dignity that made the room seem less imposing.

And then, the sisters.

Miss Elizabeth was in crimson. A bold choice. Robert approved. She was ready for a fight, her dark eyes scanning the room, assessing threats. She spotted Darcy, who had moved to stand protectively near a flower arrangement, and offered him a small, reassuring smile. Darcy visibly deflated, looking less like a statue and more like a human being.

And then, Miss Bennet. Robert felt his breath hitch. She was in silver. She looked like moonlight woven into silk. She was serene, kind, and so utterly beautiful that he briefly forgot his own name.

"Lord Keathley," she said, offering her hand as he rushed forward.

"Miss Bennet," he managed, bowing low. "You look... well, you make the rest of the room look rather drab."

"You are too kind," she smiled, and the warmth of it hit him in the chest. "And you look very dashing. Though you seem tense."

"I am trembling in my boots," he whispered, deciding honesty was his new policy. "My mother is watching us."