“But not the one I desire,” he sighed, resting his chin upon his hand.
Jane lifted an eyebrow but made no comment.
Mr Gardiner chuckled, raising his glass. “To the future Master and Mistress of Pemberley. May your lives be filled with as much joy as you have brought to us this evening.”
“Hear, hear,” Lord Keathley echoed, clinking his glass against Jane’s.
Elizabeth took a sip of her champagne, her free hand resting comfortably in Darcy’s under the table. She observed the wonderful group of people gathered around them. The Fitzwilliam family had embraced her aunt and uncle without a single trace of the snobbery she had once expected. They were loud, opinionated, and fiercely loyal.
As the dinner concluded, the strains of a waltz drifted over from the main pavilion.
“A dance is required!” the viscount announced, gesturing for Darcy to stand up. “You cannot conclude such a momentous evening without participating in the festivities.”
Darcy turned to Elizabeth, his expression inviting. “Shall we?”
“I believe it is mandatory.” She smiled, accepting his hand.
The waltz was a relatively new addition to polite society, and Elizabeth had always found it thrillingly intimate. As Darcy placed his hand on her waist, drew her close, and the distance between them vanished. They moved to the sound of the music, twirling across the paved floor beneath the stars, while the moon hung full and bright in the sky, casting a silver sheen over the gardens.
A sense of peace settled over her. The man holding her was no longer a haughty stranger or a brooding enigma; he was her future.
“You are quiet,” Darcy observed, guiding her gracefully through a turn.
“I am simply enjoying the view,” she replied, gazing at his eyes.
Near the edge of the dance floor, Darcy’s cousin and Jane were watching the whirling couples. The viscount stood close to her sister, his head bowed to catch her words over the music.
“They are happy, are they not?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Jane replied. “They are happy.”
He nudged her shoulder with his own in an affectionate gesture. “Who knows,” he murmured. “Maybe we will be happy one day too.”
Darcy pulled Elizabeth a fraction closer, the world spinning in a blur of silk and starlight. “Are you prepared for the return to Hertfordshire?” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. “I suspect your mother’s reaction to our news will be audible all the way in London.”
“My mother,” Elizabeth said with a laugh, “will likely demand a parade through Meryton. And she will undoubtedly require her smelling salts at least twice per hour. I can onlyhope my father will be present to offer his customary sarcastic commentary to keep us grounded.”
“I shall endure the fainting and the parades gladly,” Darcy vowed, spinning her gracefully. “So long as you are beside me.”
“I shall be right beside you,” she promised. “Through the parades, the overbearing aunts, and whatever absurdities your cousins invent next.”
“Then I am the most fortunate man in England.”
Chapter Twenty-One: The Heiress and the Dress
ANNE DE BOURGH AWOKEwith the distinct, unfamiliar, and intoxicating sensation of not having to fake a respiratory ailment.
She stretched her legs under the eiderdown of her guest bed at Darcy House, admiring the sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains. It was well past eleven o’clock. For twenty-four years, eleven o’clock had dictated her third dose of lukewarm barley water and a shrill lecture on the mortal perils of draughts. Today, it meant victory.
Vauxhall had been a triumph of theatrical proportions. Fitzwilliam had managed to bend his knee without looking as though he were checking his boot for a pebble, and Elizabeth Bennet had accepted him. The world was tilting on its axis, and Anne intended to ride the rotation.
She threw back the covers, ignoring the bell pull. She dressed herself in her vibrant sapphire day dress—a colour her mother would have legally declared fatal to the spleen—and marched downstairs, leaving her woollen shawls to die a lonely death in the wardrobe.
She found Georgiana in the morning room, slumped over a cup of chocolate. The young girl seemed as though she had been run over by a carriage composed of joy and exhaustion.
“Good morning, Cousin,” Anne announced, dropping into the opposite armchair with an un-invalid-like thud. “You are delightfully ruined.”
Georgiana blinked, her curls slightly askew. “I did not sleep, Anne. My brain was too loud. Fitzwilliam is getting married. He smiled at his porridge this morning.His porridge.And Robert is going to walk straight into the Thames if Miss Bennet asks him to hand her a fish, I am certain.”
