They stopped near the staircase, where the shadows from the banister danced on the walls in the firelight from the hall. He let go of her hand, only to turn toward her fully. He stood straight, no hesitation in his frame. She could not look away.
“Elizabeth,” he said. Her name, so simple, yet transformed in his voice. “I must speak plainly.”
She nodded again. Her throat was dry.
“I have spent years,” he said, “believing my life was already determined. My duty was clear, my course set, and anything beyond it was folly.” He paused, and there was that little smile—the one that made the faintest dimple appear in his cheek, that dimple that most people probably never knew he had. “But I see I was wrong. You have shown me what life could be,” he said. “With you, I can see more than duty. More than ambition. With you, there is meaning.”
He lowered himself to one knee. She stared at him, and for a moment, the world held still. His words hung in the air between them, not like questions but truths waiting for her answer. Her chest squeezed, as though all the air had been knocked out of her. She tried to draw a breath, but instead hiccupped—a small, undignified sound that startled them both.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, horrified, but Darcy’s smile widened, with a brilliance that made her heart lurch.
“I have known you but a few weeks, but there is nothing sudden or uncertain about my feelings. Almost from the first moments of our acquaintance, my affections have been fixed. Elizabeth Bennet, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Well… for such a question there was only one way she could answer.
She ought to have smiled demurely, offered some polite excuse for her feminine charms or blushed prettily at his compliments. But that was not her way. No, no, if he wanted her, he would have all of her, from this moment forth.
Elizabeth laughed and leaped into his waiting arms. “Y-yes, you… you impossibly wonderful man!”
Darcy yelped in surprise and caught her with a sharp intake of breath, his hold tightening instinctively as he steadied them both. Her arms looped around his neck, and he lifted her from the ground. Elizabeth laughed again, giddy and unrestrained, as Darcy spun her in a wide circle. His laughter joint hers, and the world blurred around them, the corridor and the snow-dusted windows fading into nothing. It was only when he slowed, lowering her gently back to her feet, that she realized how wildly her heart was pounding.
He kissed her then, a bold, claiming kiss that felt like a vow. Her fingers curled into the back of his shirt as if to anchor herself, but she had never felt so free. When they finally parted, her breath came in quick gasps, and her cheeks burned—not from embarrassment but from the kind of joy that left no room for restraint.
As she tilted her head back to look at him, her eyes caught on a movement over his shoulder. Beyond the staircase, just visible through the archway, stood Jane and Mr. Bingley. They were holding hands, watching with undisguised amusement. Jane’s smile was soft but knowing, her eyes sparkling with sisterly triumph. Bingley, meanwhile, was grinning broadly, his expression as bright and open as ever.
“Well, Darcy,” Bingley called out, “I must say, you have surpassed even my highest expectations. I had no idea you remembered how to smile!”
“More than that,” Jane added, glancing at Elizabeth. “I have never seen my sister so thoroughly silenced. It seems you have achieved the impossible, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy turned his head slightly, casting them a glance that was both indulgent and faintly exasperated. “Thank you for your insights,” he said dryly. “However, I am afraid I must ask you to excuse us. I have important business to attend to.”
Before either could respond, he turned back to Elizabeth and claimed her lips again. This time, the kiss was slower, deeper, and so thoroughly consuming that Elizabeth felt herself tip forward into him, her laughter muffled by the warmth of his embrace.
When at last they broke apart, Elizabeth caught her breath and pressed her forehead against his chest, shaking her head as she smiled. “You are impossible,” she whispered.
“And you,” he murmured against her hair, his voice low and full of warmth, “are everything.”
Epilogue
Christmas 1812
Pemberley
Pemberley was alive.
Darcy stood at the edge of the drawing room, his hand resting lightly on the doorframe as he watched the room hum with life. Laughter rose and fell, echoing against the high ceilings that had too often amplified silence. But Darcy’s eyes were not fixed on the people—welcome as they were to him—but rather on the grand fir tree that had once stood in the wood behind the house. It now graced the center of the ballroom, trimmed with ribbons and fruits and carefully guarded candles, its boughs stretching nearly to the chandelier.
They would be lucky if the bloody thing did not burn the house down. Elizabeth had insisted on the tree, smiling mischievously as she told him all about this outrageous German custom she had read about. Did they really bring a tree into the house every winter? Probably not, but she said they did, and that she thought it was a fine new tradition to begin for their first Christmas at Pemberley.
He had indulged her, of course. He always would.
Across the room, Elizabeth was speaking with Mrs. Gardiner, her hands dancing as she described some small, clever detail of the evening. She had always spoken with her hands, though it had taken him months to notice. Probably because he had been lost in her eyes, in her smile. Now, he saw it in every gesture. He had memorized every detail of her, and it had been some while since he had confessed to himself that the greatest pleasure and conquest of his life was the year he had spent glorying in the company and companionship of his wife.
And Pemberley… good heavens, but it was good to behomeagain. It had seemed so empty to him before, but bringing Elizabeth into its halls as its mistress hadmadeit his home once more. She belonged here, even more than he did—belonged in every corner of this house, her presence weaving itself into the fabric of Pemberley as if she had always been a part of it.
His throat tightened. For years, he had avoided this place, letting his promise to Bingley and the weight of old arguments push him toward London, toward “greatness,” toward something he had believed might ease the ache of his father’s disapproval or repay the “debt” he felt he still owed.
Instead, he had found purpose. And now, with Elizabeth at his side, he had found balance.
