Page 3 of The Engagement at Longbourn

“You are delirious.”

“No.”

“You are lying in mud with a broken leg and have just informed a woman whom you have scarcely managed to address civilly for two months that you love her. I feel reasonably secure in my diagnosis.”

His eyes narrowed with grave offence. “I addressed you civilly.”

“Then your memory is worse than I feared.”

A ghost of something passed over his face. Amusement, perhaps. Or pain. Then he tried to rise. Elizabeth shoved him back with both hands. “Stop that!”

“You have not answered.”

“Answered what?”

“My proposal.”

“This is not a proposal. This is a medical emergency.”

“I asked you to marry me.”

“You did.”

“Then answer.”

“Mr. Darcy—”

“Elizabeth.” He had never used her Christian name. The sound of it in his low, roughened voice unsettled her more than the absurd declaration had. Darcy shifted again. His injured leg moved perhaps an inch.

He went white.

Elizabeth’s heart lurched. “Very well!”

He stilled. She seized the moment as she might have seized a fractious horse’s bridle. “Yes.”

Darcy stared at her. Elizabeth leaned closer. “Do you hear me? Yes. I will marry you. Now you will lie still, you will not move your leg, and you will allow me to find help.”

Something in his whole body released. “Good.”

“Yes, excellent. We are all delighted.”

“My Elizabeth.”

“Temporarily, if you continue behaving.”

He smiled.

It transformed him. Elizabeth had seen Mr. Darcy smile before, but rarely and usually at his sister’s name or some private thought. This smile was unguarded and almost boyish. Before she understood his intention, his hand slid from her wrist to the back of her neck. He lifted his head and kissed her. It was not a polished kiss. It was scarcely more than the warm pressure of his mouth against hers, made clumsy by pain and his awkward position on the ground. It shocked Elizabeth from the crown of her bonnet to the soles of her muddy boots. She made a small sound into his mouth.

Darcy sighed, as if something long denied had finally been granted. Then his head fell back. “Mr. Darcy?”

No response.

Elizabeth’s outrage disappeared. “Mr. Darcy.” She touched his cheek. “Sir?”

He was breathing.

Thank heaven. She sat very still for one second, two, with her fingers against his throat and her own lips tingling in a manner she deeply resented.