“Well,” she said, tilting her head with feigned solemnity, “that was the most absurd, poorly acted dispersal of chaperones I have ever witnessed. Your cousin practicallycarriedmy uncle away. I half expected him to sling him over one shoulder like a sack of grain.”
“Richard lacks subtlety,” Darcy admitted, a sheepish flush colouring his sharp cheekbones. The colour made him appear almost boyish, and Elizabeth’s heart gave a traitorous little flutter. “And Robert relies too much on fiction. Upward-flowing water? The man is a menace to logic and basic hydrology.”
“A coordinated arrangement, then?” she asked, stepping closer. Her pulse was a rapid, giddy drumbeat in her throat.
“A necessary one,” he confessed, his voice dropping to that resonant timbre that never failed to make her knees unreliable. “I fear my family lacks subtlety, but they compensate with enthusiasm. I asked them to provide me with a few moments of your undivided attention.”
“You requested their assistance to isolate me in a pleasure garden?” she asked, pressing a hand to her chest in mock scandal. “Mr Darcy, I am shocked. What would Lady Catherine say?”
“I suspect she would demand the removal of all lanterns and the installation of a moat,” he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching. “But I find I no longer care what my aunt would say. Not when you are standing here, looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” Elizabeth breathed, suddenly aware of how close they were. The noise of the gardens—the laughter, the music, the distant fireworks—faded to a distant hum.
“Like I am not a complete fool for hoping,” he said with a shrug.
The words stole the breath from her lungs. She had spent so many months seeing only his pride, his reserve, his infuriating certainty. Now she saw the man beneath it all—the one who had bled his heart onto paper and had endured Mr Collins for days on end.
He offered his arm once more, and this time his voice was quieter. “Will you walk with me, Elizabeth?”
Hearing her Christian name spoken in that deep, warm tone sent a cascade of warmth rushing through her chest.
“I will walk with you anywhere, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.
He guided her away from the noisy central pavilions, down a secluded promenade known as the Lover’s Walk. Here, the crowds thinned to a sparse trickle, and the glass lanterns overhead cast a soft, golden glow upon the gravel path. The air smelled of roses and night-blooming jasmine.
As they turned a corner, Elizabeth gasped.
The path ahead was lined with dozens of tall iron stanchions. Wrapped around each one were garlands of vibrant red roses, their rich crimson petals glowing under the light like living jewels. The sweet, heady fragrance filled the cool evening air, wrapping her in its embrace. Further down the path, standing beneath the sweeping branches of an elm tree, a solitary violinist played. The melody was soft, slow, andachingly beautiful, the notes drifting through the trees like whispered secrets.
Elizabeth stared at the roses, then up at the man beside her. “Fitzwilliam,” she breathed, her voice catching. “What is this?”
“I always prefer a quieter approach, you know that about me by now,” he murmured, slowing their pace until they stood in the heart of the blooms, bathed in the violin’s gentle serenade. “Though I admit, I may have exaggerated my aversion to theatricality. When the occasion calls for it, I find I can be quite dramatic.”
“It is beautiful,” she whispered, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. “It is breathtaking.”
“You once accused me of lacking conversational skills,” he said, turning to face her fully. He took both of her gloved hands in his, his thumbs tracing the delicate lace at her wrists with a tenderness that made her breath hitch. “You told me I was a disdainful man who spoke only to insult or to deliver dictatorial proclamations. And for a long time, you were correct.”
“Fitzwilliam, I—”
“No, let me speak,” he urged softly, a shy smile breaking across his features. It was the most unguarded expression she had ever seen on him, and it made her heart ache with love. “I spent my life allowing my pride to build a fortress around me. I convinced myself that status and consequence were the only things I required. When I handed you that letter in Hunsford... that disaster of a letter... I was a man drowning in his own folly.”
Elizabeth squeezed his hands, her vision blurring. “We were both foolish. I judged you upon the slander of a scoundrel, and I refused to see the truth of your character.”
“But you see it now, do you not?” he asked with a note of uncertainty.
“I see a man who cares for his sister with boundless devotion,” she managed, her voice steady and clear despite the tears threatening to spill. “I see a man who protects his friends, even when it costs him. A man who lines a garden path with red roses simply to make me smile.”
Darcy released one of her hands and reached into his waistcoat pocket. He withdrew a small, velvet-covered box.
“I promised myself I would not bungle this a second time,” he whispered, holding her gaze with an intensity that made the rest of the world vanish. “There is only a question tonight, and I pray to God a bumblebee does not descend to interrupt me.”
A startled laugh escaped Elizabeth’s lips. “I cannot guarantee the behaviour of the local insects, sir. The gardens are full of surprises.”
“I am willing to risk it,” he vowed, his voice rough with emotion.
Darcy opened the box. Nestled within the velvet rested a magnificent sapphire ring, its deep blue depths enhanced by a foiled closed-back setting, and encircled by a halo of glittering rose-cut diamonds set in fine silver over a heavy band of 22-carat gold. The stunning ring caught the lantern light and threw a kaleidoscope of colours into the shadowed evening.
“Elizabeth Bennet, you have overthrown every certainty I ever had. You have taught me how to laugh at myself, how to value wit over wealth, and how to love without condition or reservation. I do not wish to spend another day of my life without your voice challenging mine, without your laughter warming my days, without your hand in mine. Will you conferupon me the greatest felicity of my existence? Will you do me the honour of consenting to be my wife?”
