Page 115 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

“That cannot have improved your opinion of me.”

“It ruined it entirely. Until then, I had thought you merely pretty. Then you laughed at me, and I could think of little else.”

She shook her head, though she could not help smiling.

“After that, you refused to dance with me twice,” he continued. “The third time I requested your hand, you accepted, and while we stood up together, you advised me to be kinder to Miss Bingley.”

“She was your friend and your hostess.”

“Bingley is my friend. His sister was attached to my arm like a burr to a stocking.”

Elizabeth was startled into a laugh.

“And then,” he said, “I abandoned you on the floor and retreated.”

“I remember.”

“I did not withdraw because I disliked you. I left because I liked you far too well and your admonishment made me believe that you did not like me at all. I had no idea what to do. So I walked away and made everything worse.” His thumb moved once over her gloved hand. “Those feelings you said overwhelmed you?”

She nodded.

“I suffered some version of them whenever you entered a room in Hertfordshire.”

For one suspended moment, Elizabeth could only look at him. He had been losing his composure because of her as long ago as Hertfordshire?

A warmth spread through her so quickly that she lowered her chin to hide her flaming cheeks, though a smile still escaped before she could prevent it. It was not the same sort of heat that had nearly felled her in the crush, but one that wrapped itself gently around her heart.

“I . . .” He looked about and then moved another chair over and sat in it before he reached into his pocket. “I meant to give you a letter the evening you overheard my mother and uncle. The next day was Valentine’s, and I had hoped . . . I am glad I did not.” He did not quite meet her eyes.

“Whyever not?”

“Because it was terrible,” he said. “I had so much I wished to say to you, but you would never have known it had you read that letter.” He removed something from his pocket and held it out. “So I have written another. You will forgive my deplorable poetry, I hope.”

She took it. The paper was still warm from his pocket. It was four lines in his careful hand, the ink pressed deep where the pen had hesitated.

If this poor verse may favour find,

One boon alone I dare entreat:

That you would deem me not too bold

To call—and make my hope complete.

She read the lines once, then lowered her gaze to read them again, for the words had gone unaccountably blurred. “It is beautiful,” she said.

“You are kind, but I am aware that the metre limps in the second line and finding a rhyme for entreat left me rather limited.” He shrugged inelegantly. “It was my first attempt at verse. I thought it wise to learn how it was received before attempting a second.”

Her first Valentine. Elizabeth held it to her chest before folding it and tucking it into her sleeve. She would keep it forever and never even tease him about it. “I am very pleased with it, Mr. Darcy.”

He had now told her all she had wished to hear. He had not loved her because of the rumours about Mr. Aldridge. He had loved her before London, before his mother’s matchmaking, before Miss Finch, before he had even understood that he did. The knowledge nestled somewhere deep within her.

“We have both been very foolish,” she said.

He released a breath. “Yes.”

Beyond the open door the crush roared on, and Elizabeth sat across from Mr. Darcy while the whole of their acquaintance rearranged itself in her mind.

She remembered the large party at Darcy House, when Captain Lyle had left her no easy way past him and Mr. Darcy had appeared at her side, just as he had tonight. At the time, she had thought he was merely walking to the card room and had seen her distress. Now she believed that Mr. Darcy had noticed her absence and come to find her.