She smiled faintly. “I have given you honesty. Nothing more.”
“And yet it is everything.”
The figure concluded. Applause rippled politely around the room.
Elizabeth felt the past week’s uncertainty settle into something steadier—something chosen. She did not yet know what the future would demand of her.
But she knew this: she had chosen with open eyes.
And he had not asked her to close them.
∞∞∞
The final notes of the first set faded, and Darcy released Elizabeth’s hand with visible reluctance.
“Will you save me the supper set?” he asked her.
“Yes, of course.”
He had intended to speak further—intended, perhaps, to say more than propriety allowed—but the room pressed in at once. Partners shifted. Conversations resumed. The next dance formed, and he crossed the room to Georgiana.
“You promised me two dances,” she reminded him softly, a hint of nervous brightness in her expression.
“I did,” he replied, offering his hand.
She moved through the steps with care, though her pleasure was evident. When she laughed at a minor miscalculation of direction, he felt an unexpected surge of gratitude. Elizabeth had been right—this evening would ease her into society far more gently than a formal season in town.
Lady Anne followed in the next set. She danced with quiet dignity, her composure unshaken by the press of company. As they moved through the figures, she regarded him steadily.
“You look resolved,” she observed.
“I am,” he answered.
She inclined her head once, as though that were sufficient.
Thereafter came Jane Bennet, whose serenity appeared untouched by the noise around them. Darcy saw, over her shoulder, Bingley watching them with unconcealed devotion. Jane’s joy was neither theatrical nor naive. It was simply steady.
Mrs. Hurst claimed the following dance, though without her sister’s presence she seemed subdued. The conversation was polite and mercifully brief.
By the time the supper dance began, Darcy was restless in desire to be with Elizabeth again. He looked around and found her near the refreshment table, speaking with Charlotte Lucas again. The candlelight suited her; the animation in her eyes had not dimmed since the first dance.
Without ceremony, he offered his hand and led her into the set. They completed the first figure in silence. The room was warm now—voices louder, laughter freer. It afforded them more privacy than an empty garden might have done.
When the pattern carried them briefly to the edge of the floor, he spoke. “I find I cannot defer this any longer.”
Her breath caught, but she did not look away.
“You have given me consideration,” he continued, his voice steady despite the quickened pulse beneath it. “You have given me honesty. I will not offer you less.”
The figure separated them.
When they came together again, he said plainly, “Elizabeth, I love you. I have loved you in reflection, in doubt, in hope—and now in certainty. Will you marry me?”
The music did not falter.
She did not hesitate.
“Yes.”
