“I love you,” he said simply.
“Not as much as I love you.”
He laughed. “Perhaps we will put it to a vote.”
And then he was kissing her again, laughing softly against her lips, as the October wind swept through the hills, carrying their laughter away into the golden afternoon.
Epilogue
Pemberley,
June 1818
Sir Edmund Gresham hadbarely settled into the chair across from Darcy’s desk before he launched into his purpose. “Darcy, we need you to stand.”
Darcy groaned, rubbing his temple. He had known this conversation was inevitable. With the new election approaching and Sir Edmund eager to retire, his name was bound to be put forward again.
“No,” he said simply.
“Come now,” one of the other gentlemen—Mr. Lawson—protested. “We all know you never wished for it before, but that was six years ago. Times have changed.Youhave changed.”
“Indeed,” Sir Edmund added, leaning forward. “And Derbyshire would be well served by a man of your principles.”
“My principles,” Darcy said dryly, “are the very reason I will not stand.”
The men exchanged looks. “Darcy,” Gresham sighed, “at least consider—”
The study door creaked open, and Darcy barely had time to register the small footsteps before his son Bennet—his strapping young heir, at all of five years—strode in as if he owned the place. Well, he rather did.
Bennet marched up to his father’s chair and tilted his chin up with the perfect confidence of indulged youth. “Papa,” he announced, “Mama said I may have ginger biscuits.”
Darcy swallowed a chuckle. “Did she?”
His son nodded solemnly.
Sir Edmund looked vaguely horrified, while Mr. Lawson’s mustache twitched as if unsure whether to scowl or smile.
“Well,” said a new voice, “that settles it.”
Darcy looked up as his uncle, the Earl of Matlock, stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men before landing on his great-nephew. The earl picked up the boy with ease, settling him against his hip. “Gentlemen, I should think it obvious that you are wasting your time.”
Gresham frowned. “Come now, Matlock—”
“No, you come now,” the earl interrupted. “You lot have come to Pemberley, disturbing a man perfectly content in his role as husband and father, when there is a far simpler solution to your problem.”
“And what solution is that?” Lawson asked.
Matlock smirked, sliding Darcy a knowing glance. “Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.”
Lawson’s brows lifted. “Fitzwilliam?”
His uncle inclined his head. “My second son, in case you have forgot. He has recently inherited a rather comfortable estate through his marriage to Emilia Harcourt—an arrangement that rather suits him. That estate makes him eligible to stand for the Derbyshire seat.”
The men exchanged looks of interest.
“You cannot be serious,” Sir Edmund muttered.
“On the contrary,” Matlock said. “I am very serious. You have spent a quarter of an hour trying to convince Darcy of something he has no interest in doing. Meanwhile, my son has been looking for precisely such an opportunity.”
