His mouth moved over hers with increasing urgency, no longer questioning but claiming, no longer merely affectionate but charged with feeling too long held in restraint. One of his hands slid from her waist to the curve of her back, his palm spanning the space between her shoulder blades. She felt his fingers flex against her as he pulled her closer still, until there was no space between them but the pounding of their hearts.
Heat bloomed beneath her skin. Her senses roared awake—every nerve alive, every part of her aware of the pressure of his mouth, the strength in his arms, the shiver of delight that rippled through her as she answered him with all the feeling she could not put into words.
He met her with equal fervor, pouring into the kiss every word he had not yet said, every promise not yet spoken.
Her head spun. She never wanted it to end.
Only him.
Only them.
And then—
The carriage slowed.
The wheels crunched against the gravel drive of Longbourn.
They broke apart, breathless. He pressed his forehead to hers, still holding her close.
“Home,” he whispered.
She smiled against his cheek, her heart fluttering like a bird against his chest.
Yes, she thought.Home.
∞∞∞
Darcy stepped down from the carriage before the horses had fully halted, reaching up at once to assist Elizabeth as she descended. Her hand lingered in his a moment longer than was strictly necessary, and when she finally stepped back onto the familiar stones of Longbourn’s front walk, she glanced toward the house, then back at him, hesitant.
Before either of them could speak, the front door opened.
A tall, gray-haired man in sober livery stepped into the light, his posture straight and dignified despite his years. He moved quickly down the steps with the ease of someone long familiar with the terrain. As he approached, he paused, his eyes taking in Elizabeth’s torn gown, mussed hair, and swollen lips.
“Miss Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth offered a weary smile. “I am all right, Stephens. Truly.”
Stephens closed the distance between them quickly, his movements crisp for a man well into his fifties. “You are early, miss. And your gown—” His eyes narrowed in concern, flicking to Darcy with wary assessment.
“Yes, there was a bit of an adventure this evening at the ball. I imagine my father will tell you all later, but be assured that Mr. Darcy was not the cause of my disheveled state. In fact, our engagement was announced this evening during supper.”
Stephens’ brows rose at her words, and his gaze shifted to Darcy again—this time sharper, more evaluating.
Darcy, still rather reeling from the kiss in the carriage, was slow to respond. Engagement. Announced. The words echoed somewhere in his chest, warm and reverberating, even as the rest of his mind struggled to keep pace.
That she would say so plainly, so naturally, that they were engaged—it stunned him more than it ought. She was not shy, to be sure, but he had not expected such calm ownership of what had happened tonight. His own thoughts were still tangled between elation, desire, and disbelief.
He stepped forward and gently took Elizabeth’s arm, intending to escort her up the steps. “Allow me to—”
But Stephens moved.
He did not lunge or jostle, but with the certainty of a man accustomed to command within his sphere, he stepped directly into Darcy’s path. The effect was immediate—and unexpectedly firm.
“Thank you, sir,” he said with a short, deferential nod. “But I will see Miss Elizabeth in.”
Darcy halted, his brows lifting. He looked down at the man—shorter, older, plainly dressed—and was surprised to see the faintest edge of resistance in Stephens’s spine. It was not insolent, but neither was it servile. It was protective.
“I have known Miss Elizabeth since the day she was born,” Stephens added, tone courteous but immovable. “She is in good hands now.”
