Her brows drew together slightly, but she did not interrupt.
“And then,” he continued, “I met you. And everything I thought immutable shifted.”
He swallowed, forcing himself onward. “You have never cared for my fortune. You have never been impressed by rank. You have judged me only by what I am—and what I strive to be. In loving you, Elizabeth, I have learned that your regard is moreprecious than any gold, any estate, any hoard unearthed from the past.”
She drew a sharp breath.
“I love you,” Darcy said simply. The words felt terrifying and inevitable all at once. “I love your mind, your courage, your compassion, and your refusal to be anything other than yourself. If you will have me, I ask you to be my wife—not as an ornament to my life, but as its partner, its conscience, and its joy.”
For a moment, the world held its breath.
Elizabeth’s eyes shone, unshed tears brightening them, and her hands tightened in his. When she spoke, her voice trembled—not with doubt, but with emotion too large to be contained neatly.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Darcy. I love you, and I will marry you.”
The relief that surged through him was so overwhelming it nearly stole his breath. He laughed softly—an unguarded, astonished sound—and drew her closer. She rose onto her toes without hesitation, and when his lips met hers, the kiss was everything he had imagined and more: tender, assured, filled with warmth and promise and a sense of absolute rightness. The world did not fall away so much as settle into place around them.
When they parted, her forehead rested briefly against his, her smile radiant.
“I believe,” she murmured, “that this is what happiness feels like.”
“I believe,” he replied, brushing his thumb gently along her cheek, “that I shall spend the rest of my life proving it.”
They rejoined Richard and Miss Bennet near the house, where the windows of Longbourn gleamed invitingly in the pale sunlight. Richard turned at their approach; one look at their faces was enough to tell him all he needed to know.
“Well,” he said cheerfully, “that took longer than I expected.”
Miss Bennet laughed, then flushed as Richard took her hand more deliberately than before. “Since we are making announcements,” he continued, his voice warm but steady, “Miss Bennet has graciously agreed to accept my courtship.”
Miss Bennet’s eyes flicked to Elizabeth, who beamed at her, and she nodded, her happiness unmistakable.
The reaction inside Longbourn was immediate and thunderous.
Mrs. Bennet’s delight knew no bounds. She clasped her hands, exclaimed repeatedly, and declared that she had always known this day would come—twice, if not more. Kitty and Lydia were summoned at once and swept into the excitement, each vying to speak over the other in breathless enthusiasm. Even Mary permitted herself a small, solemn smile, murmuring something about felicity and propriety.
Mr. Bennet, however, was more subtle.
He drew Elizabeth aside, his eyes shining with pride and affection. “My dear Lizzy,” he said softly, “I could not have parted with you to anyone less worthy.”
Her throat tightened as she embraced him. Across the room, Darcy watched her—his Elizabeth now—and felt a deep, abiding certainty settle within him.
This, he thought,was a fortune no turn of fate could ever diminish.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The days following Darcy’s proposal passed in a curious blur for Elizabeth—at once swift and interminable. Each morning brought with it some new discussion of the wedding, some fresh scheme, some detail that required either her consent or her firm refusal. She had always known her mother would be delighted when her daughters married well; she had not anticipated just how completely Mrs. Bennet would throw herself into the business of planning a wedding connected toMr. Darcy of Pemberley.
“Just before Twelfth Night!” Mrs. Bennet declared for perhaps the tenth time in as many hours, pacing the drawing room with restless energy. “How exceedingly fashionable. Everyone will be in the neighborhood still, and the roads will be passable if the weather holds. And the lace, Lizzy—oh, the lace we shall require!”
Elizabeth, seated at the escritoire with a stack of correspondence awaiting replies, looked up with a patient smile. “Mama, we have already agreed. No Brussels lace. It is unnecessarily elaborate, and I will not resemble a confection.”
Mrs. Bennet stopped short. “A confection! My dear girl, there is nothing wrong with looking rich on one’s wedding day.”
“There is something wrong with looking ridiculous,” Elizabeth replied mildly. “I should prefer elegance to excess. Darcy agrees with me.” This, Elizabeth had learned, was the most effective argument she could employ. Mrs. Bennet huffed, adjusted her shawl, and resumed pacing.
“Well. Perhaps alittlelace. But certainly not nothing. One must mark the occasion.”
Elizabeth allowed that much. She was not unfeeling, after all, and she understood that this wedding—her wedding—was, for her mother, the crowning vindication of decades of anxiety. If Mrs. Bennet wished to flutter and fuss, Elizabeth would not begrudge her the pleasure, provided she did not insist upon peacock feathers, towering headpieces, or a procession better suited to Westminster Abbey.
