The carriage jostled to a stop in front of the little stone church, its frosted windows glinting in the pale winter sun. Darcy stepped out first, heart hammering beneath his waistcoat.
The snow underfoot crunched faintly as he helped Bingley down. Behind them, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Hurst emerged more slowly, exchanging knowing grins that only served to fray Darcy’s nerves further.
“Well, here we are,” Fitzwilliam said cheerfully, clapping Darcy on the back. “Any final requests before we march you off into eternal devotion?”
Bingley snorted. “He is already halfway to catatonic.”
“I am speaking of Darcy, not you,” Fitzwilliam returned. “You have been prattling for the last two hours without taking a breath, like a schoolboy reciting Latin to impress a governess.”
“Better that than staring into space like a statue!” Bingley replied, tugging his coat straight.
Darcy ignored them both. He could not manage speech—not when his palms were damp and his stomach twisted like a rope.
Inside the church, he moved automatically to the front, took his place, and tried to draw a full breath.
The church was warm, but his gloves were cold. He flexed his fingers. He counted the stained-glass panels behind the altar. He tracked the minute hand of the clock above the vestibule.
Eleven o’clock.
They must arrive before noon. That is the law. A wedding after twelve would be invalid, and they would have to reschedule for the following day. What if the Bennets’ carriage broke a wheel? Or overturned in the ice?
His mind raced.
What if Lady Catherine arrives and shouts her disapproval from the back pew? Or Lord Matlock sends a footman galloping in with some decree forbidding the match?
What if—God forbid—Mr. Bennet died during the night, and they were all thrust into mourning and the wedding must be delayed six months?
What if Elizabeth changes her mind? What if she woke this morning and realized she could not bear to marry a man with such prideful failings?
The vicar arrived, arranging the registers. The candles were lit. The organist’s foot tapped expectantly.
And then—
The door at the back of the church opened.
Mark entered first, brushing snow from his shoulders, followed by Georgiana, Kitty, Lydia, and the Gardiner children in their Sunday best. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner followed, trailed by an anxious-looking Mrs. Bennet who was tugging at her gloves and hissing at someone behind her.
Darcy turned fully.
Mr. Bennet stepped into view.
On either arm was a daughter.
Jane’s golden head was bowed slightly, her expression gentle and serene.
Bingley made a strangled little gasp and whispered, “Good God.”
But Darcy barely heard him.
Because his eyes had locked onher.
Elizabeth.
The soft ivory silk of her gown glistened in the filtered light, the pale green embroidery catching every glint of the stained glass. Her veil floated around her shoulders like mist. But it was her expression—serene, bright, sure—that struck him deepest.
She was smiling at him.
Not timidly. Not uncertainly. But with warmth and confidence and something deeper—a radiant joy that made his chest ache.
