Finally, she said in a voice strangled by disbelief and gelatin, “Elizabeth Bennet?”
Darcy had to stifle a laugh. Not out of cruelty—but from sheer relief and wonder.
He was engaged.
Engaged to Elizabeth. The woman who had faced down Wickham without flinching. The woman who challenged him, comforted his sister, and now—now—looked forward to building a life with him.
He glanced around the room, at the Bennets gathered at one end, Mrs. Philips beaming with warm approval. He saw Jane’s radiant face, Bingley’s unhidden joy, and Mr. Bennet standing tall and composed with something like pride in his eyes.
Darcy met his gaze, then flicked his eyes towards the door.I am going to her now.
Mr. Bennet gave him the smallest of nods.Go,the elder gentleman seemed to say in return.
Darcy stood and slipped from the room, not noticing Miss Bingley’s muttered protest or Mrs. Bennet’s delighted chatter rising behind him.
He went to find Elizabeth.
His betrothed.
His heart beat high in his chest, light with joy and full of purpose.
He could hardly wait to see her again.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth sat curled in the corner of the carriage, the dim light from a single lantern outside flickering across her skirts. After Darcy had left her, she realized she wished for nothing more than to leave Netherfield and had persuaded Peter to assist her to the carriage.
The torn shoulder of her gown had been awkward to adjust, and though a folded wrap had been left for her use, she had yet to pull it around her. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, and every so often they trembled.
Her mind kept returning to it.
The struggle. The cold press of the pistol barrel. Wickham’s rage and the weight of his body pinning her against the wall.
She shivered—but then closed her eyes and forced the memories away.
No. Not that. Not now. Remember - think only on the past as it gives you pleasure.
This was not how she wanted to remember the night. Not forever. Not as the evening she nearly died—but the night she had danced in Darcy’s arms.
The night she had become his.
They were engaged now. She was certain of it, as certain as she had ever been of anything. Mr. Bennet would have announced it, and Darcy had not hesitated to speak so plainly when they had been alone. There was no awkward asking, no coy conversation.
Just… certainty. As if their hearts had already agreed long ago.
She let herself drift backward, recalling the press of his gloved hand at the small of her back during their dance, the way he had looked down at her with solemn wonder, their conversations at Netherfield and Longbourn.
To live in his home, she thought dreamily, her lips curving.To run his household… to walk Pemberley’s grounds, to be known as his wife. To wake beside him. To bear his children.
The thought brought heat to her cheeks. She covered her mouth with her fingers, embarrassed by her own imaginings. But they were tender thoughts—not foolish or scandalous. A picture of love, of partnership. Of trust.
She knew the road would not be easy. For all Georgiana’s progress, she would not become a model of propriety overnight. There would be misunderstandings, perhaps regressions. And Longbourn was four days away from Derbyshire. Four days from her father… and from—
Mark!
She straightened in alarm, heart thudding.Mark knows nothing. She had not written to him in weeks—not since before Georgiana’s incident. What must he think? Had her last letter even hinted at anything close to the danger she had been in?
She bit her lip and made a silent vow.Tomorrow. She would write the moment she awoke.
