Darcy rose and turned to Mr Gardiner. “Mr Gardiner, might I beg a moment alone with my intended before we depart?” he asked. “Though we do not yet have the formal blessing of her father, I fully intend to marry Elizabeth as soon as it may be arranged.”
Mr Gardiner regarded him steadily for a moment, his expression thoughtful rather than severe. Then he inclined his head. “Only a moment, Mr Darcy,” he said quietly as he stood and then escorted his wife from the room.
“Dearest Elizabeth,”Darcy said, turning back to face her. He leant down and took her hand, drawing her gently to her feet.
She swayed slightly as she rose, the exhaustion of the last few hours evident in the slight falter of her step, and Darcy tightened his hold on her at once. He did not release her when she came against him, nor did he wish to. Instead, he gathered her into his arms, holding her as though it were his only means of keeping her safe from what would await her when she arrived at her home.
He bent his head and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead in a silent promise of his devotion.
“Dearest,” he said again, “I wish I could accompany you immediately, not even returning to Pemberley. However, I believe it best that Georgiana hear what has transpired from me, and then I will have her travel south with us. This will also lend credibility to our marriage not being so hasty.”
“It is well, Mr Darcy,” she said—bravely, he thought—leaning into him more fully, as though she, too, had no wish to relinquish the shelter of his arms.
When Darcy drew her close again, Elizabeth went very still for a moment, as though the nearness had taken her by surprise. Then she softened against him, her weight settling naturally within the circle of his arms as his hand came to rest at her waist. Her face turned instinctively towards his chest, and when he bent to press a kiss to her forehead, she did not retreat. Instead, she remained there, accepting the contact with a quiet ease that moved him more deeply than he had expected.
There was something in her stillness—in the unguarded way she allowed herself to be held—that suggested the comfort was new to her, and the trust implicit in it stirred both his tenderness and his resolve.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper, “will you not call me Fitzwilliam?”
She laughed. “If the name had occurred to me, I might have done so on my own. But truly, Mr Da—that is, Fitzwilliam, so much has happened in the last hour that I feel I hardly know my own name at present. I know that enough has been said for now, but I am still a little in awe that you should intend to willingly connect yourself to my family after all that has been said and done.”
At the sound of his name spoken so softly, his eyes nearly closed. Before they did, however, he noticed the faint colour rising in her cheeks. Still, she did not retreat. Instead, she pressed on, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that suggested a quiet determination to accept a familiarity she was only just beginning to test.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said softly, testing the sound of it once more, and Darcy was delighted how much more strongly she said it this time, as though it were no longer so strange upon her lips. “I suppose I ought to say thank you, even as little as I think you will wish to hear it?—”
She did not finish the thought. Instead, in the hopes of stopping her from saying it yet again, Darcy bent his head towards hers, the movement so sudden and so intent that her remaining words fell away at once. When his lips met hers, she stilled beneath the contact, her hand tightening briefly on his sleeve before she leant into him, as though yielding to something she had not anticipated.
At first, the kiss was no more than a gentle brushing of his lips against hers, tentative and carefully restrained. When she did not draw back, when she answered him in kind, he allowed himself to linger. The second press was firmer, less hesitant, held just long enough to feel her soften beneath it. She followed his lead without hesitation, her closeness an unspoken permission that required more command of him than encouragement.
Tilting his head slightly, Darcy tried to be mindful not to trespass beyond what propriety—and his own resolve to keep all chaste between them until the wedding—would allow. His hands, which had rested at her waist, rose with deliberate care to her neck. Her fingers slid upward in turn, coming to rest at his nape, and the simple trust of the gesture struck him with unexpected force.
He permitted the kiss to deepen only so far, governed more by intention than by uncertainty. Even as he held her there, he knew how dangerously easy it would be to forget himself—and how much harder, now, to remember why he must not.
When he finally withdrew, he rested his forehead against hers, reluctant to increase the distance between them. The awareness of what he had relinquished settled over him at once, and he drew a steadying breath.
“Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,” he breathed.
“Fitzwilliam,” she replied, her voice as breathless and unsteady as his.
“I should not have done that,” he said ruefully, shaking his head even as he remained where he was.
Elizabeth drew back at those words and fixed him with a glare. “Why ever not?” she demanded, even as she still rested her hands on his chest.
Darcy chuckled lightly, recognising her ire for what it was and knowing it to be mistaken. He took her hands in his as he spoke. “Because, Elizabeth, we shall spend the next several days in a carriage with your uncle and my sister as our constant companions. I shall not be able to kiss you again—likely not until we are wed. Had I not known what your lips felt like against mine, I might have been better able to endure it; but now I shall wish to do so constantly.” With that, he brought her fingers to his lips for a brief kiss.
To his surprise, Elizabeth did not answer at once, and he looked at her more closely. Her mouth had formed a small O, and she regarded him with undisguised astonishment. He laughed again, unable to help himself.
“Bingley reminded me yesterday of what I said about you at that assembly in Meryton, when we first met,” Darcy said, seeing her surprise deepen. “Had I known then precisely how tempting I should find you, I would have kept my mouth firmly shut that night and danced with you without fail. I am only sorry that I resisted your pull for so long—and that, in the meantime, I allowed you to believe I ever disliked you or thought to find fault.”
He paused, more serious now. “Elizabeth, I know that I have much to atone for, and I am profoundly grateful that you have somehow found it in yourself to forgive me.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, fixing him with a look that reminded Darcy—uncomfortably—of one his governess had once employed when he had erred. She drew her hands from his grasp and folded them tightly before her.
“You are not proceeding with this engagement because you believe you must make something up to me,” she said sharply, “are you?”
“Of course not, Elizabeth,” Darcy said at once, taken aback by the suggestion. He reached for her hands again, catching them before she could retreat further, and held them firmly between his own. “I love you, Elizabeth, and I have been forced to live without you—while you believed me the last man you would ever marry—since April. Now that you have accepted me, nothing will prevent me from making you my wife, and I will go to whatever lengths are required to bring that about.”
For several moments they stood thus, looking at one another, and Darcy did not attempt to fill the silence. At last, Elizabeth’s shoulders eased, and she drew a steadying breath before speaking, her voice betraying a measure of lingering frustration. “I do believe you, Fitzwilliam, but I confess, this situation with my family has me feeling less than confident. Forgive me if I appear more guarded than I might otherwise.”
