She tipped back her head, offered him a languid smile, and then her hands caressed up his shoulders to his face. Her thumbs softly stroked his cheeks, but when he bent to kiss her, she gently lifted his head away. Her eyes wandered over his face as if memorising every groove, every angle, with the newfound freedom of ownership and belonging. “William?”
“Elizabeth?”
“Teach me to dance.”
His brow furrowed. “Now?”
Her eyes dropped to the opened collar of his shirt, then fluttered shyly back to his. “Help me to fly.”
“I do not understand.”
She stood on her toes and a shiver of desire coursed through him when her lips grazed his throat. “Show me everything there is to see, hold me safe, and give me courage when mine fails.”
“Ah,” he whispered. His very being now quivered at her touch, and his hands began to learn each dip and curve of her form. “I shall ask something of you in return.”
“Yes, my William?” Her reply was indistinct, for she had now worked two more of his buttons free and was brushing her lips against his chest.
He took her hand and began to gently lead her. “Teach me to take my leisure with you, each and every day.”
Epilogue
25 July, 1859
Closing Day at Vauxhall Gardens
“Hold my hand, Elizabeth.” Fitzwilliam Darcy, still robust at seventy-five years of age, visibly braced himself for the iron grip of his wife’s fingers when the initial shock of her blinding panic overtook her. In nearly fifty years of marriage, she had never fully overcome her troubles with motion or her fear of heights, but for this, she always exerted herself.
“Are you certain of this, Grandfather?” Twenty-one-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy stood beside his father, Bennet Darcy, and eyed the ageing vehicle with open scepticism. “It looks hardly stable.”
“You will not deter Mother,” Bennet informed his son. “And woe to him who tries.”
“Indeed, saucy boy,” Elizabeth Darcy took her husband’s hand and stepped up to the basket with a tart little smile. “Such you shall discover for yourself well enough, if you persuade Miss Bingley to have you.”
“Miss Bingley! Pray, do not tease me, Grandmother. There is nothing in it. Are you certain you are well? Father or I could attend you, if you insist on this venture. How will you manage?”
At this, the elder Fitzwilliam Darcy turned and very firmly closed the gate with his own hand, levelling a stern look of command to both his heir and heir-apparent. “We have all we need.”
The balloon master was given the order, and father and son stood back, helpless to protest as the basket began to lift from the ground. From there, they could see the thrill of terror when it first shook Mrs Darcy, but then the nearly instantaneous peace when her husband bent low to speak words of encouragement in her ear. The last sight the younger men would have of the couple’s faces was of cheeks nearly touching, heads turned together, and fingers laced as one.
“Father, I still do not understand,” protested the son. “Why should they have been so eager to grace this tumbling ruin with their patronage? Why, the crowds later will be monstrous, and it is not as if there is anything left of mystery to see. It is all to close down, and I hear the new owners plan on building houses. It makes no sense that they were so adamant to come. And why were they so insistent upon a balloon ride, of all things, that Grandfather would have paid such an exorbitant sum for a private tour? He hates throngs of people, and this,” he gestured to their surroundings with marked distaste, “is disgraceful.”
Bennet Darcy chuckled as he watched the balloon lift his parents away. “Have you never heard how they first met?”
“Grandmother always promised to tell me one day when I was older. She claims it some shocking tale, but do you know, I believe she was simply teasing. You know how she is, and Grandfather only encourages her.”
“And well he might. They saved one another, you could say.”
“And it had something to do with…” another sneer of disdain, “this place?”
Bennet laughed. “Have you never seen that silver admission tag that your grandmother keeps in her reticule? It was from the summer of ‘11, and she never stirs from the house without it. Yes, they spent a day together here, a tradesman’s niece and a footman.It ought to have ruined them both, but instead, it was the making of them.”
The shivers had subsided, and Elizabeth’s fingers now rested easily in Darcy’s. His cheek brushed hers, his breath was soft and warm in her ear. She turned enough to catch his eye. “One last time, my love.”
“What will everyone think?” his voice rumbled low in his chest.
“What they have thought for years—that Mr and Mrs Darcy have a most improper marriage. That is only fitting, after how we began.”
His hands, still clasping hers, lifted from her sides to wrap tightly round her, and he drew her close enough to nuzzle the back of her neck. “I miss the simpler gowns of former days. This is a beastly contraption, and I do not understand how you can move in it,” he groused.
