Page 163 of What Change Entails

“I do not wish to presume upon what has passed between us today.”

Elizabeth stilled.

His gaze held hers with painful earnestness. “I would speak properly. Soon. With your permission.”

She knew what he meant. The world tilted softly beneath her feet. “Soon,” she repeated.

“If you will allow it.”

Elizabeth wanted to answer with wit. Something light. Something clever enough to shield the trembling joy that threatened to show itself.

She failed. “Yes,” she said.

Darcy lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her glove. The gesture was proper enough. It sent heat rushing through her all the same.

They rode back with fewer descriptions of scenery. Elizabeth suspected neither of them was capable of attending to hills, farms, or historic points of interest any longer. Once, as the windows of Pemberley came into view beyond the trees, Darcy glanced toward her with such unguarded happiness that she nearly forgot every concern awaiting them.

Almost. Miss Bingley still existed. If Elizabeth had not been convinced that the lady would make the remainder of the excursion miserable for everyone present, she might almost have wished to see Mr. Darcy put her in her place. As matters stood, however, he clearly valued Bingley’s company too highly to risk an open quarrel with his sister.

Propriety still existed. Her father’s approval would be required, though at a very inconvenient distance. As the gig rolled toward Pemberley, Darcy sat beside her, and Elizabeth knew that the great house before them no longer represented his pride, nor her prejudice, nor anything she had once believed.

It was simply where he belonged.

And if she was very fortunate, if courage did not abandon either of them, it might one day be where she belonged too.

When they reached the stable yard, a groom came forward to take the mare. Darcy descended first, then assisted Elizabeth. His hand lingered one second longer than necessary before he released her.

A shout came from the garden path.

“Lizzy!” Lydia emerged with Georgiana and Horace, the dog carrying what appeared to be a shrub.

“That,” Elizabeth said, staring, “is not a stick.”

“No,” Lydia admitted, entirely without repentance. “But he prefers it.”

Georgiana hurried after them, cheeks flushed from exertion. “Horace dug it up before we could prevent him.”

Darcy looked at the ruined plant, then at his sister, then at Lydia. “Which shrub?”

Lydia exchanged a look with Georgiana. “One of the small ones.”

“That does not narrow the field.” Darcy sounded long-suffering and vexed in equal measures.

“A green one.”

Elizabeth felt laughter rise and pressed her hand against her lips.

Darcy’s gaze slid to her. In it lay amusement, resignation, and something private enough to make her cheeks warm again.

Lydia narrowed her eyes.

Elizabeth instantly composed her face.

Too late.

Her sister’s expression became far too interested. “Oh,” Lydia said.

Elizabeth pointed toward the dog. “Horace has committed theft.”