She scowled at him although the upturn in the corners of her lips showed that she was not angry. “Then ask your question, sir, else I will be obligated to inform my grandfather that you embraced me rather scandalously. He will not be happy about it, but he will doubtless tell you that you must marry me then.”
Darcy shook his head with fond wonder, then stepped back. But he did not release her entirely. Instead, he gathered her hands in his and lifted each in turn to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss upon the back of it before meeting her eyes.
“Dearest Elizabeth, I love you,” he began, his voice far less steady than it ought to have been in a man of seven and twenty. “I know we did not always agree, and that fault was chiefly mine. The more I come to know you, the more I have come not only to cherish you, but to respect and admire you above every other woman.”
He paused to draw in a deep breath, not for courage, but because he knew this was a moment they would both remember for the rest of their lives.
“You are all I could desire in a wife, Elizabeth. I beg you will stand beside me as my partner and helpmate for the rest of our lives.”
Elizabeth smiled at him, her expression warm and certain.
“Yes, Fitzwilliam,” she said. “Yes to all of that.”
At her answer, he pulled her into his arms once more and kissed her.
It was not a passionate kiss, nor was it entirely chaste, but it was full of promise. In it he felt her trust, her affection, and the extraordinary gift of her choosing him, accepting him as he was.
As before when he embraced her, she seemed to fit against him in a way he could not begin to explain, and he found he did not need to.
Knowing she was his, and that he was hers, was more than enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Fitzwilliam Darcy was holding her. He had kissed her. He loved her—and he had asked her to be his wife.
The wonder of it seemed almost too vast to contain.
Until she had met Mr Darcy—Fitzwilliam,she corrected herself—marriage had been to her a distant notion, something abstract and inevitable, like winter or the turning of the seasons. She had considered it in theory, never in truth, and certainly never with him until very recently.
Still, since her grandfather’s return, she had been obliged to think of the matter of marriage more seriously, particularly after he had informed her that she ought to consider Colonel Fitzwilliam as a possible husband for her. He had promised her her choice, but he had made it clear on several occasions that he felt the colonel ideally suited to her.
Upon meeting the colonel, she had known almost at once that he could never be the man she would choose. Her grandfather might wish it, and though the colonel had improved greatly uponacquaintance, he was a friendly sort of gentleman—amiable, honourable, kind—but not the companion of her heart.
Here, in this moment, there was no uncertainty at all.
Nothing in the world had ever felt so right as being held in Fitzwilliam Darcy’s arms.
She yielded more fully to the kiss, dizzy with the firm press of his lips against hers and the strength of the arms that held her fast. As his embrace tightened, her hands slipped upward to rest against the lapels of his coat, finding in them the steadiness she required to remain upright.
He broke the kiss, but did not pull away. Instead, he rested his forehead upon hers, their breath mingling as they both struggled to recover themselves. Her heart raced wildly, and beneath her palms she felt the answering thunder of his, beating in breathless accord with her own.
They lingered that way for several precious seconds.
Until the door behind them flew open.
“What in thunder is this?” the earl demanded.
Darcy moved at once. He turned towards the intrusion and placed Elizabeth behind him, his body forming a shield between her and the interloper.
Her grandfather would never harm her—of that she was certain. The knowledge that Darcy’s first impulse was to protect her sent a fierce, unexpected rush of love through her.
Stepping out from the shelter of Darcy’s arm, Elizabeth faced her grandfather squarely.
“Congratulate me, Grandpapa,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “I am engaged.”
The earl closed his eyes, but only for a heartbeat.
When he opened them again, his gaze went first to Darcy, whose hand had moved to rest upon her shoulder—offering his silent support, yet not restraining her or trying to take over.
