Page 116 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

She remembered his appearances in the park, the colonel’s strange pace in the park, the tea prepared exactly as she liked it, him saying My sister will be sorry to lose you. She remembered his lovely apologies, his remark about the bluebells, and, finally, her aunt’s parlour, where he had abandoned his customary formality and simply told her that he loved her.

He had never known what to say in her presence, and she had mistaken that confusion for pride or dislike. It was rather hard on him and not especially flattering to her own perceptive abilities.

“Oh,” said Elizabeth at last, in a voice she did not recognise. Her words came tumbling out all at once. “I could not tell whether you loved me or had simply decided upon me. Your mother had been deciding such matters all winter, and I thought perhaps you were doing it for her, but that did not make sense because I thought she wished you to marry Miss Finch. When you left, you would not look at me, and I was grateful for that, because I was weeping and did not want you to see it. It took me far too long to puzzle it out, but then you were not there to say it to.”

She hesitated, then thought she might as well lay everything bare. “You stayed away because you had promised not to trouble me again. It was a very honourable promise, and I have never disliked honour quite so much.”

“You were weeping?” he asked, aghast.

Was that all he had heard? “Yes.”

His fingers tightened around hers. “Had I known⁠—”

“Would you have stayed?”

“I would have remained until you ordered me out of the house.”

“That might have taken some time. I was in no condition to give orders.”

His face did not soften. If anything, the pain in it deepened. “I thought I had hurt you past bearing.”

“You had,” Elizabeth said. “But not for the reason you assumed.”

He laughed, brief and low. Then he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

“I have thought a great deal about it,” Elizabeth said, feeling suddenly so light she was nearly giddy, “and I never actually refused you. We seem to have left that part unfinished.”

“I will not ask you again tonight.”

Her smile faltered.

“I should like to court you first,” he continued. “Properly, this time.”

To be courted openly by Mr. Darcy was something she had stopped allowing herself to imagine. “I should like that,” she said at last. Her voice trembled a little, for the rush of joy the words created could not be entirely contained.

He looked down at their joined hands. “There is one more thing I ought to tell you. Then you may decide whether I have been sufficiently honest.”

She lifted her brows. “That is not a reassuring beginning.”

“I knew you would be here tonight.”

“How?”

“Your uncle told me.”

“Mr. Darcy, my uncle does not generally send gentlemen notices of his social engagements.”

“No. And he was not especially encouraging.”

Mr. Darcy explained that he had written to her uncle a week past. He had not asked for assistance, an interview, or even news of her. He had told her uncle only that he had offered for her, that he had done so badly, and that the fault was entirely his.

“I believe he intended to leave the matter to you.”

Elizabeth’s laugh was tinged with exasperation. “That is very like him. It is also extremely provoking.”

“He wrote back to thank me for my honesty. He then informed me that I was not to approach you at his house, in the street, or anywhere else unless you invited it.”

“That is also very like him.”