Page 222 of A Question of Character

He continued to hold her hand.

She did not withdraw it.

“You were right to refuse me. I let my pride and my belief in my superior understanding get in the way of common sense. I am a different man. Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Elizabeth could not speak.

For one suspended instant, the world beyond the little parlor ceased to exist. The murmur of voices from the gardens, the ticking of the clock upon the mantel, even the breeze stirring the curtains at the open window seemed to fade into insignificance. She had imagined this moment often enough to know she would answer him gladly, yet imagination had never prepared her for the simple earnestness with which he had spoken.

Tears in her eyes, she nodded.

The motion was scarcely perceptible, but it transformed his expression more completely than any words could have done. The strain that had lingered upon his features since entering the room eased at last. He drew a slow breath, as though he had not permitted himself one until her answer was certain.

“You have made me very happy.”

His voice carried neither triumph nor astonishment, just joy. Elizabeth laughed through her tears, finding herself unable to decide whether she wished to smile or weep. She settled upon doing both, much to Darcy’s evident amusement.

Darcy cupped her cheek and stroked it gently with his thumb.

His hand was warm from the afternoon sun, and the tenderness of the gesture banished every lingering memory of their misunderstanding. There had once been distance between them, created by pride, imperfect communication, and mistaken convictions. Now there remained the gentleman she loved, regarding her with an affection so open that she wondered how she had ever doubted it.

Slowly, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss was neither hurried nor uncertain. It possessed the reverence of a promise rather than the excitement of novelty. Elizabeth answered it without hesitation, one hand coming to rest lightly upon his sleeve as though to assure herself he was truly before her and not merely the object of another hopeful daydream.

After a few moments, he broke away.

Reluctantly, she thought, for he lingered a breath’s breadth from her before allowing the distance between them to widen enough for propriety to reassert itself.

“I should go to your father.”

Elizabeth’s smile deepened.

Trust Darcy to remember his duty before the happiness of the moment had fully concluded.

“In good time,” she protested.

She retained possession of one of his hands, preventing any immediate attempt at departure.

“I wish to kiss you again.”

A faint flush touched his face, and she delighted in discovering that even Fitzwilliam Darcy could occasionally be rendered speechless. The solemn, dignified gentleman whose composure had impressed half of Hertfordshire appeared, for an instant, somewhat boyish.

“I believe,” he said with mock gravity, “that you make a persuasive argument.”

Elizabeth laughed outright.

After their second kiss, Darcy leaned back.

“I begin to understand,” he murmured, “why gentlemen have occasionally delayed requesting a father’s permission.”

“You have not delayed very long.”

“No.”

His smile blossomed, warmer now than she had ever before witnessed.

“I do not think I could.”