“I am off-duty, I assure you.” Darcy stopped a few feet from her bench, offering a small, self-deprecating bow. “I was following my valet’s advice on the benefits of morning exercise, and fate, it seems, has been kind to me this morning.”
She tilted her head, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Your valet prescribes your schedule? How very progressive.”
“Dawson is a man of many hidden talents.” Darcy gestured to the empty space on the wooden bench. “May I?”
“You may.” Miss Elizabeth shifted her skirts to make room.
Darcy sat down, the proximity to her intoxicating.
“I was dismayed to hear Sir William’s announcement last night,” he began, deciding to abandon the requisite small talk of the weather and plunge straight into the heart of the matter. “Wednesday is a cruel deadline.”
Miss Elizabeth stared at her book, her gloved fingers tracing the leather binding. “It is sudden, I admit, but these were our plans, anyway. We were always supposed to spend Easter with the Collinses and then remove to London. But I also received a letter from my sister Jane yesterday. She... she is in need of my company.”
A sharp twinge of guilt came over him, a ghost of his previous interference. “Is she unwell?”
“No.” Miss Elizabeth shook her head. “She is merely in need of a sister.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Darcy said earnestly. “She deserves every happiness.”
“She does.” Miss Elizabeth met his gaze.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy shifted on the bench, turning his body fully towards her. The anxiety of the morning had settled into an unwavering resolve. “I promised myself that I would not be hasty and that I would endeavour to earn your good opinion. But your departure hastens my purpose significantly.”
Her eyes widened slightly, her breath hitching. “Mr Darcy—”
“I am not asking you a question today,” Darcy interrupted gently, raising a hand. “Please, do not reach for a fire poker. I have learned my lesson regarding disastrous ambushes.”
A startling laugh escaped her. “I do not have a fire poker hidden in my pelisse, sir.”
“Thank God for small mercies.” Darcy smiled, trying to appear earnest, unfrightening, and not unhinged. “Miss Elizabeth, I must speak plainly. You must know that my feelings for you have not altered, save to grow more profound with every moment you allow me to remain in your company.”
She stared at him, and the teasing spark had melted into something quite tender.
“Therefore,” he continued, his voice rough with emotion, “I am asking for your permission for a formal courtship. I wish to call upon you in London. I wish to write to you—proper, legible letters, I promise, no ink blots and prison metaphors. I wish for the opportunity to prove to you that the man who insulted you in Hertfordshire is dead, and the man sitting before you is yours.”
He paused, a flicker of his cousin’s tutelage catching in his mind. He offered a small, wry smirk. “Besides, a peer of the realm spent six hours teaching me how to smile without looking like a gargoyle. It would be a tragic waste of pedagogical effort not to use it.”
Miss Elizabeth let out a delighted, ringing peal of laughter. She covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking with mirth.
“A tragedy indeed,” she agreed, her eyes shining.
“Is that a yes?” Darcy asked, leaning in a fraction of an inch closer.
She lowered her hand and looked at him, her heart bare in her gaze. “Yes, Mr Darcy. I would like that very much.”
Darcy had just achieved the ability to fly. The relief and the joy hit him so hard he actually felt dizzy.
“However,” she added, a teasing lilt returning to her voice, “I must remind you that I am leaving for London in two days. The distance between Rosings Park and Gracechurch Street is considerable.”
“I will follow you everywhere, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy declared fiercely, without a second of hesitation. “I will follow you to Gracechurch Street, to Hertfordshire, to the ends of the earth if necessary, and I will spend every day trying to make amends for my mistakes.”
It was a perfect, sweeping romantic moment. The dappled sunlight, the quiet grove, the beautiful woman looking at him with affection. It was a scene straight out of one of Robert’s Gothic novels, minus the haunted abbey.
And then, nature intervened.
A loud, aggressive buzzing sound broke the silence.
A bumblebee, massive, fuzzy, and disoriented by the blooming spring flowers, plummeted from the oak canopy directly to Darcy’s face.
