Her father barked out a laugh. “Most women would have asked for wedding clothes or other fripperies.”
“Mamma will take care of those,” she replied.
Papa eyed her carefully and finally nodded once. “Done,” he told her.
“What?” Fitzwilliam exclaimed.
“And you will say nothing?” Papa asked. “I have your word?”
“You do,” Elizabeth said, still smiling. “I shall not breathe a word to Mamma or anyone other than Jane.”
“Good,” her father said with a nod. “Then all is well, at least for the time being.”
“All is well for you,” the man beside her sputtered. “I am the one who must submit to being regularly bested at chess.”
Elizabeth arched one brow, and her father’s laugh grew.
“Darcy,” he said, “chess is the least of your worries.”
Fitzwilliam sighed. “I am well aware, Bennet. I am only too aware.”
Elizabeth shook her head, amusement warring with affection as she regarded her father and her intended. They seemed to be settling into an easy camaraderie. It was astonishing, truly, to think that but a few months past, Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam—had been a man whose pride had vexed her beyond endurance, and now he was to be part of her family.
Her family.
What an odd tangle they all were. Her father was not, in fact, a Bennet by birth any more than she and Jane were, and yet he was undeniably her father in every way that mattered. And Fitzwilliam—she glanced at him, studying his handsome profile—he was a Darcy, but tied to the Bennets by blood, and soon by marriage.
Fitzwilliam had chosen this. He had discovered that there might be a truth to be uncovered, and rather than ignoring it to protect himself and all he had, he had placed honour before inheritance, integrity before gain. He had even sought to preserve her right to choose another suitor were it her choice not to wed a man who was no longer entirely independent.
It was no small thing, and yet he carried it with the quiet assurance of a man who had never considered doing otherwise.
“I think,” Fitzwilliam said, his voice breaking the quiet, “that I have spent too long believing family is something one is born to, rather than something one builds.”
Elizabeth turned her gaze fully to him, her heart giving an odd, inexplicable twist at the similar path of their thoughts. “And now?”
His eyes met hers, steady and certain. “Now, I believe I have been mistaken.”
A slow smile touched her lips. “I shall have to mark the occasion, for I suspect it is not often you admit to error.”
Her father chuckled.
Fitzwilliam only shook his head, but he glanced at her askance. “I shall concede no more than necessary.”
“You do like to do things in the most difficult way, Darcy,” Papa said drily.
Elizabeth laughed aloud. “That is true, Papa.”
“I beg your pardon?” Fitzwilliam asked, half laughing and pretending to an affront he clearly did not feel.
“Only you, my love, would take the most complicated path possible to building a family.” She smiled up at him. “Declaring me barely tolerable, eavesdropping on my conversations, staring at me with hostility—”
“Elizabeth,” he protested, glancing quickly at her father before addressing her again. “It was nothostility.”
“I know thatnow, Fitzwilliam, but you were not at all clear about it then.” She resumed her list. “Then you all abandoned Netherfield, with nary but a poisonous letter from Miss Bingley to Jane—”
“What?” he asked, surprised. “I thought she simply wrote to say that they were closing the house and leaving for London.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth said, nodding her head. “I shall tell you that story later. But then”—her expression softened— “you returned just as unexpectedly after Christmas, bringing Mr. Bingley backto Jane. I had no idea you were attempting to discover whether you had found your father’s missing twin, but as you were investigating that possibility in absolute secrecy, you cannot fault me for my ignorance,” she continued airily, ticking off his transgressions on her fingers. “Then racing to Warwickshire before the wedding, then courting me, then—”
