His gaze rested on her, steady and sure. “Now,” he said, “I find I would not alter a single thing.”
As his dark eyes burned into hers, the simmering passion she felt each time she looked at him began to rise up, unfurling within her in full.
It was not sudden. It had been there—growing, deepening, waiting—until now it rose, undeniable and consuming, warming her from within until she could scarce draw breath. His look held her fast, as though he saw not merely her face, but everything she was, everything she had become with him.
Her lips parted, though she had nothing to say.
How could she? Words felt wholly unequal to the moment—to the quiet intensity that seemed to stretch between them, binding them closer than any spoken declaration ever could. It seemed to reach her, to settle upon her, to draw something answering and unguarded from within. His eyes did not waver, and, under their intensity, neither did hers.
There was love there—she had known that, had believed it from the day she stood beside him and spoke her vows. Butthis… this was something more. Something deeper. Something that had grown so gradually she had not marked its progress until this moment, when it stood undeniable between them.
It was not the bright certainty of first affection, nor the quiet contentment she had once believed to be the height of happiness. It was stronger than either—richer, fuller, touched with a heat that made her breath catch and her pulse quicken.
She had thought she loved him then.
How little she had understood.
And even now, as she met his gaze and felt that answering warmth rise higher still, Elizabeth knew—with a certainty as steady as his regard—that this, too, was not its end. That whatever this feeling had become, it would deepen yet again.
And again.
And again.
For the rest of their lives and beyond.
THE END.
Epilogue
Pemberley—1837
The small chapel upon the Pemberley grounds was filled.
Sunlight streamed through the tall, narrow windows, catching upon polished wood and white ribbons, upon the gathered assembly of family and friends, and most brightly of all upon the young bride who stood before the altar.
Elizabeth sat near the front, her gloved hands folded lightly in her lap.
A beautiful young woman stood in front of the priest.
Nineteen years old.
Radiant.
Composed.
Though Elizabeth, who knew her better than most, could detect the hint of nervousness in the girl’s faint quickness of breath and the small tightening of her fingers about her bouquet.
Opposite her stood the gentleman she had chosen: Bennet William Darcy, eldest son of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy.
A good man.
A Catholic man.
Elizabeth’s gaze lingered upon them both, her heart full as Father Therry began the ceremony.
Only a year ago, such a ceremony would not have been possible. But then the law had changed at last, after generations of overt oppression and unspoken compromise. Now, with the passing of the Roman Catholic Relief Act—otherwise known as the Catholic Emancipation Act—vows could be made openly, without subterfuge, without the need for evasion or concealment.
And the marriage would be recognized as legitimate in the eyes of British law, just as if it had been conducted by a parson ordained by the Church of England.
