“It would have been the honorable thing,” he said. “I did not want her. I only wanted… not to lose everything. Blasted dull-witted way I had of going about it, but I got round to the point eventually.”
“You?” she repeated, folding her arms. “You admitted an error and changed course? Mr. ‘I once made a man refund a shilling for faulty marking ribbon in my book’ Darcy?”
“I am evolving,” he said flatly.
“You are too stubborn to evolve,” she retorted. “Even when it is in your own best interest.”
“Especially then,” he muttered.
She narrowed her eyes, some color returning to her cheeks. Then her expression changed entirely, as if someone had just handed her a very unfortunate receipt. “Wait… Your birthday… It is the twelfth.”
His eyes met hers. “Yes.”
She drew a breath, her mind already tallying numbers and dates. “But today is—”
“The thirty-first.”
Her brows knit as the realization gathered. “That means… the banns cannot be called.”
“No.”
She blinked at him, stunned. “But the wedding—your wedding—was meant for the twenty-first! You had enough time once Ashford cried off. If you had found someone by the twenty-fourth, even the twenty-fifth, you might have still done it. Surely—” Her voice broke into a baffled laugh. “You are Mr. Darcy of Pemberley with ten thousand pounds! You could have foundsomeone.”
“Ididfind someone.”
She looked up, startled.
“Someone who once promised to marry me in a pinch,” he continued, tilting his head. “If I ever grew desperate.”
Her mouth parted, but no sound came.
“And I was desperate, make no mistake,” he added dryly. “And I came to call in that promise. But I could not wring an agreement out of her in time.”
She drew back half a step, as if the truth had knocked something loose in her spine.
Her mouth opened. Closed. The color in her cheeks deepened—not from embarrassment this time, but from something weightier, something breathless and furious and real.
Darcy watched her eyes widen, her chin tilt, that clever composure stutter for one glorious, unmistakable second.
And he smiled. Just slightly. Just enough.
“You left London,” she said. “You idiot! All those balls, parties, the debutantes and drawing rooms… You left your best chance behind!”
“I did.”
“But… butwhy?”
“You know why,” he said simply. “Becauseyouwere in Derbyshire. Or… well, I thought you were, and it was the best guess I had.”
“Me?Youarea fool.” Her shoulders dropped, a visible collapse of hope and dread tangled together. “It is too late. Iwould have…” She shook her head. “But that is silly! Nothing we can do now can change anything, so why are you still here? Are you planning more scandal? A midnight dash to Scotland? I hope you brought a strong horse and a falsified vicar, Mr. Darcy, because I am not eloping in my second-best petticoat.”
Darcy looked down at her as if the question itself were absurd. “Because even if I cannot marry you by the twelfth, I still want to marry you, Elizabeth Bennet, and none other. Because I have spent the last week looking for you and realizing that nothing—no clause, no calendar, no title—is worth more to me than you. Because I would rather lose everything with you than win it without you.”
She started to shake her head, her eyes round. “No, I…”
But he tugged at her shoulders and pulled her closer. His voice was low, urgent, fierce. “Do you not realize that I cannot breathe without you, you reckless minx? I am not myself without forever crashing against you. And because I do not care about the will, the property, or the damned clause. I care aboutyou.”
The crowd was silent now. Watching. No one pretended to sip their wine or admire the harp. They simply waited.
