The grandfather clock struck midnight, its heavy chimes resonating through the silent townhouse. Darcy sat in the drawing room, his elbows on his knees, staring into the dying embers of the fire. His knuckles were bruised and raw, a sharp ache that paled in comparison to the guilt clawing at his chest.

Stephanie's tear-streaked face haunted him—the way she had looked at him, not just with fear of Wickham, but with fear of him. Her anger, her sense of betrayal by a society that silenced her cries for help, only deepened his shame.

The front door creaked open, and moments later, Richard's familiar voice echoed through the hall. He was laughing softly with the butler, his tone warm and jovial. Darcy's jaw tightened, dread pooling in his stomach. This conversation was inevitable, but he was not prepared for it.

Richard stepped into the drawing room, tugging off his gloves, a grin on his face. "Darcy, still awake? What on earth—" His words faltered as he took in Darcy's bruised hands and grim expression. "What happened?"

Darcy rose slowly, his movements heavy with exhaustion. "Richard," he said, his voice strained, "sit down. There's something you need to hear."

Richard's smile vanished, replaced by a look of sharp concern. He remained standing. "What is it?"

Darcy hesitated, the weight of the evening pressing harder on him. Finally, he forced himself to speak. "Stephanie was attacked tonight."

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Richard's entire body went still, his face draining of color. "Attacked?" His voice was low, trembling with barely contained fury. "By whom? Where is she? Is she—"

"She's safe now," Darcy interrupted, though the words felt hollow even to him. "It was Wickham. He found her at the theatre. He waited until she was separated from Georgiana and me. He lured her into a secluded area."

Richard's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. "What did he do?" he asked, his voice cold and dangerous.

Darcy let out a shuddering breath, his gaze dropping to the floor. "He grabbed her. Said vile things to her. He… touched her. She tried to fight back, but she couldn't scream—she was afraid of causing a scandal. She did the only thing she could think of." His voice cracked. "She let her body go limp, forced them both to fall. When I found them, she was—"

He stopped, his throat tightening painfully.

Richard took a sharp step forward. "She was what, Darcy?" he demanded, his voice shaking.

Darcy's gaze lifted, haunted. "She was on the floor, trying to crawl away from him," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Her gown was torn at the shoulder, and there were bruises on her wrists where he'd grabbed her. She was crying, Richard—silent tears, as if she didn't even trust herself to make a sound. And Wickham—" His fists clenched. "He was reaching for her again, grinning like he had already won."

Richard's breath hitched, and he turned sharply away, pacing to the fireplace. He gripped the mantle so tightly his knuckles turned white. "How did you find her?" he asked, his voice clipped, almost mechanical.

Darcy swallowed hard, the memory sharp and vivid in his mind. "When I realized she wasn't with us, I started searching. I questioned the attendants, described her to them, but they hadn't seen her. Then I saw something—her ribbon. It was lying on the floor near one of the side corridors. I followed it, and that's when I heard… struggling. Her gown rustling. Wickham's voice, laughing, mocking her." He paused, his voice trembling. "When I burst into the room, she was on the floor, trying to push herself backward, and he was crouching over her, grabbing her ankle."

Darcy's fists tightened, the memory igniting a flicker of rage even now. "I didn't think—I just acted. I grabbed him by the collar, threw him against the wall. I hit him until—" His voice broke, and he looked away. "Until I saw her face."

Richard turned to him sharply. "What did you see?"

"She wasn't looking at him anymore," Darcy said quietly. "She was looking at me. And she was terrified. Of me. My anger, my violence—it was as foreign to her as the laws that silenced her. I wanted to protect her, but in that moment, I was just another man she couldn't trust."

Richard stared at him, his chest heaving, his fists trembling at his sides. "If I had been there…" His voice was low, deadly. "If I had been there, I'd have killed him."

Darcy shook his head, his gaze heavy with guilt. "And then what, Richard? We'd both have blood on our hands, and she'd still be terrified. She doesn't belong in this world—not the way it is now. And tonight, I showed her the worst of it."

Richard turned away again, staring into the fire. His voice, when it came, was quieter but no less intense. "She was hurt," he said, his tone trembling with suppressed rage. "Bruised. Violated. And I wasn't there to stop it."

"No one could have foreseen this," Darcy said firmly. "Not you. Not me."

"Then why does it feel like I failed her?" Richard said, his voice breaking slightly. He raked a hand through his hair, his expression twisting with anguish. "She trusted us to protect her, and we let her down."

Darcy stepped closer, his gaze steady. "We didn't let her down. Wickham did this. He's the one to blame."

Richard didn't respond immediately. He stared into the flames, his jaw tightening. "She deserves better than this. Better than all of this."

Darcy studied him carefully, his brow furrowing. "You've grown fond of her," he said, his voice quiet.

"Haven't we all?" Richard replied, his tone guarded. His grip on the mantle tightened. "She's part of this family now."

Darcy nodded, though something in his cousin's tone gave him pause. "She'll need all of us to protect her," he said. "Especially now."

Richard didn't reply. He stared into the fire, his thoughts a tumult of rage, guilt, and something deeper—something he could never voice. All he knew was that he would do whatever it took to ensure Stephanie's safety, even if it meant hiding the truth of his feelings.

Richard sat back, his mind racing. "How is she now?"

"She's in her room," Darcy said. "Georgiana stayed with her until she fell asleep. She's bruised, shaken, but physically unharmed."

Richard's voice dropped, a dangerous edge creeping in. "Wickham won't stop. He'll come for her again—or for Georgiana."

Darcy's eyes flashed with anger. "If he does, he won't live to regret it."

Richard nodded, his expression grim. "Neither of us will allow it. But what now?"

Darcy leaned forward, his voice steady but resolute. "We ensure her safety. Always. And we do it without her feeling more caged than she already does."

Richard's jaw tightened. "And Wickham?"

Darcy's gaze turned icy. "I'll deal with him. Permanently, if I must."

Richard sat in the stillness of his room, his mind churning with a storm of emotions that refused to settle. The low flicker of candlelight danced against the walls, but he barely noticed it, his thoughts consumed by Darcy's words. Stephanie—terrified, bruised, humiliated by Wickham's vile actions.

And he hadn't been there.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he raked his hands through his hair. Darcy's recounting of the attack played in a relentless loop in his mind. He could see it too clearly—Stephanie's fear, the bruises on her wrists, the helplessness she must have felt. It twisted something deep in his chest, a mix of fury and shame that he hadn't anticipated.

He'd promised himself he'd protect her, even if he couldn't name what she meant to him. And yet, when she'd needed him most, he'd been somewhere else, laughing with friends, oblivious to the danger she'd faced.

He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. Wickham. The very name made his blood boil. That vile, slippery bastard had preyed on Georgiana, and now he'd gone after Stephanie. Stephanie, who was too strong, too clever, too… herself to be subjected to the filth of a man like Wickham. The thought of her enduring his touch, his disgusting words, made Richard's stomach churn.

And then there was Darcy's reaction. Richard didn't blame him for the violence—he'd have done the same, maybe worse. But the knowledge that Stephanie had been horrified by Darcy's actions unnerved him. Would she have reacted the same way if it had been him? Did she see them all—Darcy, himself, this entire society—as complicit in her suffering?

He groaned softly, leaning back against the chair and closing his eyes. The truth was, he couldn't entirely argue with her. She wasn't wrong about the rules, about how they silenced women and prioritized appearances over safety. Her anger, her disgust—it was all justified. But hearing that she'd blamed them, even him by association, stung more than he cared to admit.

He opened his eyes, staring blankly at the flickering flame of the candle. He couldn't shake the image of her bruised wrists, the thought of her crying in her room, hiding her pain because she didn't trust their world to protect her. It tore at him in a way he didn't fully understand.

He stood abruptly, pacing the length of his room. What was he supposed to do now? How was he meant to reassure her, to convince her that she wasn't alone in this, that he—

His steps faltered. What could he say that wouldn't sound hollow? He'd failed her already. He hadn't been there, hadn't stopped it. And even if he swore to keep her safe from now on, would she believe him? Would she even want his protection?

Richard paused outside her door, the faint sound of muffled sobs seeping through the wood and twisting in his chest like a knife. He knew he shouldn't be here. Knew it was improper. But propriety be damned—he couldn't ignore her pain.

He slipped inside, the dim firelight casting flickering shadows across the room. Stephanie sat on the edge of her bed, her head buried in her hands, her shoulders trembling with silent cries. She didn't notice him at first. His footsteps, muffled by the carpet, brought him to her side, and when he knelt in front of her, she looked up, startled.

Their eyes met. Her tear-streaked face was a portrait of raw vulnerability, and something deep inside him cracked wide open. Without a word, he reached out and gently took her hands in his, his thumb brushing lightly over the dark bruises marring her delicate wrists. She winced, and he froze, his jaw tightening, guilt and fury mingling in his chest.

Stephanie's gaze flickered away, but she didn't pull her hands back. Instead, she let him guide her to sit back against the headboard, her body moving as though drained of will. He hesitated only a moment before settling beside her. Her face crumpled, and she pressed herself into his chest, her tears soaking into his waistcoat.

His arms came around her instinctively, one hand resting on her back, the other hovering over her bruised arm. He clenched his jaw, holding himself still, not trusting his hands to be gentle when every fiber of him wanted to rage against the man who had done this to her. She curled into him, her fingers clutching the fabric of his coat as though it were the only thing tethering her to the earth.

Richard tightened his embrace, his breath shallow and measured. He couldn't speak, couldn't find the words, and yet none were needed. Her soft, broken sobs were answer enough, a quiet plea for comfort that he offered in the only way he knew how—by being there, by holding her as her grief and fear poured out.

She didn't look up, didn't meet his gaze, but her trembling body gradually stilled against him, her breathing evening out though tears still fell silently down her cheeks. Her head fit perfectly beneath his chin, and he rested there, his jaw clenched as he fought to contain the storm inside him.

Her hands, still clutching his coat, loosened slightly, and she shifted closer, curling into him like a child seeking safety. He adjusted, cradling her as she nestled into his chest, her soft breaths a testament to her exhaustion.

The minutes stretched into hours—or so it felt—until the fire in the hearth faded to embers. Richard stayed, unmoving, his arms still wrapped around her. She didn't need words from him, didn't need anything but the silent promise in his embrace: that she wasn't alone, and that he would protect her, no matter the cost.

When her breathing finally slowed, signaling sleep, Richard exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. But still, he didn't move. He couldn't. Instead, he held her through the night, his silent vigil a testament to the unspoken bond that had formed between them in the quiet darkness.

Richard stirred, every muscle in his body stiff from holding the same position through the long hours of the night. The muted light filtering through the curtains told him it was early morning, though winter's persistent darkness still clung to the room. He blinked, taking in his surroundings and the soft weight pressed against him.

Stephanie was still asleep, her head nestled against his chest, her breaths soft and rhythmic. Her fingers loosely gripped the fabric of his waistcoat, a silent plea even in her sleep. The tear stains on her cheeks and the faint bruises on her wrists filled him with a renewed wave of anger and protectiveness.

He hadn't meant to stay. He'd come to her room in the dead of night, unable to fight the need to see her, to make sure she wasn't alone in her fear and pain. And then she'd leaned into him, her quiet tears breaking what little resistance he had left. He'd stayed, holding her until sleep overtook them both.

But now, as the house began to stir faintly below, Richard knew he couldn't linger. It was a reckless breach of propriety—one that could ruin her if anyone discovered them. He couldn't let that happen, no matter how much he hated the idea of leaving her like this.

Slowly, carefully, Richard eased his arm from under her head, holding his breath as she shifted slightly but didn't wake. Her fingers slipped from his waistcoat, and he froze, waiting to see if she would stir further. When she didn't, he rose, moving with painstaking care to avoid disturbing her.

Standing beside the bed, he looked down at her one last time. She was curled slightly on her side now, her hair tumbling over her pillow, her face still marked with the raw vulnerability of the night before. The bruises on her wrists stood out starkly against her skin, and his jaw clenched as anger swirled in his chest once more.

He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. The touch was featherlight, an unspoken promise that he wouldn't let anything like this happen to her again. Then, without another glance, he slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

As he walked back to his chambers, the weight of the night pressed heavily on him. Richard knew he should feel ashamed for what had transpired—for his inability to keep his distance, for his selfish need to be near her. But all he felt was a fierce, unrelenting determination to protect her, no matter the cost.

The rain drummed persistently against the study windows, the dim morning light casting muted shadows across the room. Darcy paced back and forth, his movements sharp and erratic, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Richard leaned against the desk, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face calm but shadowed.

"She looked at me like I was a monster," Darcy said, his voice low, raw. "The way her eyes widened, the way she backed away… It was as if I'd become someone she couldn't trust."

Richard straightened, his voice steady but firm. "You acted to protect her, Fitzwilliam. She knows that."

Darcy turned sharply, his eyes flashing. "Does she? I didn't just stop Wickham, Richard—I wanted to kill him. I wasn't thinking of anything but rage, and she saw it. She saw me lose control. And now she won't even come down this morning."

Richard exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. "She's not angry with you," he said carefully. "I've spent weeks with her at Pemberley, listening to her thoughts about this world. She doesn't blame you for what happened. She's angry at Wickham, yes, but more than that, she's furious at the society that left her powerless. That's where her anger lies—not with you."

Darcy stopped pacing, his gaze narrowing as he studied Richard's face. "You're certain of that?"

"Yes," Richard said firmly. "She doesn't see you as a monster, Fitzwilliam. She sees the man who fought for her. She knows you would do anything to protect her."

Darcy's shoulders loosened slightly, but his voice remained troubled. "Then why hasn't she come down? Why hasn't she spoken to anyone—not even Georgiana?"

Richard hesitated, his gaze shifting briefly to the rain-streaked window. His fingers tapped against the desk as he braced himself. "She… cried herself to sleep last night," he said quietly. "I stayed with her."

Darcy froze, his brows knitting together as he turned sharply to face Richard. "You stayed with her? In her room?"

"Yes," Richard said, his voice calm but his stance stiffening under Darcy's glare.

Darcy's expression darkened, his tone rising sharply. "Do you realize what that could imply, Richard? You, holding her, alone, in her room? What would people think?"

Richard's jaw tightened, and his voice trembled with restrained anger. "I know exactly what it would look like, Fitzwilliam. And I don't give a damn. Last night wasn't about appearances—it was about her. She was sobbing, trembling, completely undone after what that bastard did to her. She needed comfort. What kind of man would I be if I left her alone in that state?"

Darcy's voice dropped, cold and cutting. "Did you take liberties with her, Richard?"

Richard stepped forward sharply, his movements deliberate as fury sparked in his eyes. "How dare you," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Do you truly think so little of me? After what she endured, you think I would take advantage of her? No, Fitzwilliam. I held her, nothing more. I sat beside her while she cried because she needed someone. I didn't touch her out of desire—I held her because she deserved that comfort, just as any man of her time would have done, regardless of their relationship to her."

Darcy faltered, his gaze flickering with a mixture of unease and regret. "This world doesn't make allowances for comfort, Richard. It twists it into something it's not."

"This world already denied her the chance to scream," Richard said sharply, his voice rising with restrained emotion. "It told her to keep silent while she was attacked because propriety demanded it. And now you're telling me she should be denied even the most basic human comfort because of how it might look to others? That's not fair, Fitzwilliam. It's not right."

Darcy looked away, gripping the back of a chair, his knuckles whitening. "You meant no harm," he admitted quietly. "But the rules of this society—"

"Are broken," Richard interjected, his tone firm but quieter now. "She knows that, and so do you. If staying with her last night helped her find even a moment of peace, I'd do it again, no matter what anyone thinks."

Darcy sighed heavily, lowering himself into the chair by the fire, his head resting in his hands. "How is she this morning?" he asked after a long pause.

"She hasn't left her room," Richard said. "Georgiana checked on her earlier. She's still shaken, but she'll come around. She just needs time."

Darcy's voice was heavy with doubt. "And if time isn't enough?"

Richard hesitated, his voice softening. "Then you listen to her. Let her guide you. Show her that you're not just fighting for her safety—you're fighting for her trust."

Darcy nodded faintly, though his gaze remained fixed on the floor. "And Wickham?"

Richard's voice hardened, his tone laced with quiet fury. "He cannot walk free after this."

Darcy's eyes lifted, his expression dark with resolve. "He won't. That much, I promise."

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken emotions. Richard thought of Stephanie's tear-streaked face, the way her trembling body had finally stilled in his arms as exhaustion overtook her. Darcy thought of her flinch at his bloodied hands, a memory that cut deeper than he cared to admit.

Both men were united in their determination to protect her, but the boundaries between them had shifted. For Richard, those boundaries had blurred entirely, though he kept that truth buried, for her sake and his own.