Elizabeth’s stomach clenched. He had come all this way, all the way to Hertfordshire, just to tell her he was leaving? That he was going to bury himself at Pemberley, leaving everything behind—including her?
She forced a smile, ignoring the tightness in her throat. “Then, I… I wish you a safe journey.”
Darcy looked surprised, but the expression felt almost… feigned. “You did not let me finish.”
Elizabeth’s brows drew together.
“I was hoping,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “that you would come with me.”
For a moment, there was only silence.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, lips parting slightly as she tried to repeat the words in her head, trying to understand what he had just said. Then she pursed her lips, folding her arms.
“Tell me,” she said slowly, “was this Lord Matlock’s idea, too?”
Darcy let out a short laugh and shook his head. “No. In fact, I doubt he would approve.”
At that, a small, delighted smile broke across her face, though she tried to suppress it. “You,” she declared, pointing at him, “you just want me togowith you?”
“I was hoping so, yes.”
She laughed. “Have you not anounceof romantic inclination or even decency in your entire being? What can you mean by asking me such a silly question in such a nonchalant way?” She took a step closer, shaking her head at him. “Gowith you to Pemberley? Why, you must be mad! You have never even spoken to my father. Why, we hardly know each other! You do not know how old I am, my middle name, how I take my tea,you—”
She barely noticed when he sighed and removed his hat. But she did notice when he sank onto one knee, effectively silencing her.
“I did speak with your father,” he interrupted, his voice full of amusement. “He was the first of your family to actually ask my name without just assuming I was Bingley. And then, he immediately sent me on my way to find you.”
Elizabeth gulped. “Oh?”
“Your middle name is Rose. I saw it on the inside of one of your books once. Your age matters little to me, but I am eager to learn what day your birthday is. And as for your tea,” he continued, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “you take it with such obscene quantities of cream and sugar that I shall have to buy another cow just to meet the mistress’s needs. And perhaps a sugar plantation, as well.”
Elizabeth let out a watery laugh. “Mistress?” she repeated incredulously.
“Yes, mistress.” He took both of her hands in his. “Elizabeth, will you marry me? Not because I need you for some advantage you might bring—but because Iwantyou. I choose you. I want you by my side. Not because I am a better man with you close to me—although I am—but because I have never been so happy as when I can see you, talk to you, drink you in. I would spend the rest of my life that way, if you will say yes.”
By this time, happy tears were already slipping down Elizabeth’s cheeks. She sniffed, blinking rapidly as she reached up and traced the lines of his mouth with her fingertips.
“You should not be silly,” she choked out. “Ofcourseyou need me. You are hopeless in public without me.”
Darcy laughed softly, his breath warm against her hand.
“And apparently,” she continued, her voice growing thick with emotion, “I need you, too. Because I am only a shell of a person without you.”
Darcy stood swiftly, pulling her into his arms, the movement so fluid, so right, that Elizabeth barely had time to gasp before she felt the warmth of him, solid and real, against her.
And then, at last, he kissed her.
It was not hesitant, not careful—no, there was no room for caution, no space for doubt. His hands framed her face as though she were something precious, something he had longed for and finally—finally—held. His lips met hers, warm and insistent, a kiss that spoke of all the words he had never said, all the feelings he had never confessed, all the yearning that had been growing between them for weeks—perhaps always.
Elizabeth had never been kissed before. Had never imagined—not like this. She felt the world slip away, the autumn wind barely a whisper at her back as she melted against him, her fingers grasping at the lapels of his coat as if to anchor herself. He smelled of crisp linen and a hint of leather, of the cool air and something distinctly him, and she wanted to drown in it, to lose herself in the sensation of his lips moving tenderly, reverently, over hers.
Darcy’s breath shuddered as he pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his hands slipping down to her waist, holding her close, unwilling to let her go.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, her name like a prayer, a vow. And that was when she knew—when she truly, fully knew—that she had never stood a chance. From the first evening she had placed her unwilling hand on his rigid arm, from that first touch, she had been wholly his.
She let out a soft laugh, breathless, dizzy with the sheer rightness of it all. “Well,” she whispered, her fingers curling against his chest, “you are rather good at that.”
His chuckle was deep, full of something she could not quite name—but she felt it, felt it, in the way his arms tightened around her, in the way his lips brushed her temple before he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.
