Page 92 of A November to Remember

The final chord of the music echoed, and the couples began to disperse.

“Now, Miss Mary,” Richard announced, offering his arm. “I believe we have a pressing engagement with the almond tarts.”

“Lead the way, Colonel,” Miss Mary said, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.

Richard navigated the crowd with precision. He had scouted the perimeter an hour ago. Behind the long, linen-draped refreshment tables lay a small, curved alcove. It was illuminated by a single candelabrum and had no doors, satisfying the strictest requirements of propriety by remaining visible to anyone who cared to look. However, the angle of the tables and the tall floral arrangements provided a secluded pocket of quiet amidst the noise.

They reached the buffet. Richard snatched one almond tart from a platter, transferring it to his left hand. He reached back with his right to grasp Miss Mary’s elbow, intending to lead her into the alcove, but she did not move.

Richard felt a cold spike of panic. He turned around, fully expecting to see her fleeing to the safety of her mother, or perhaps pulling a book of sermons from her pocket to swat him off. But Miss Mary was leaning over the table, her back to the room, slipping almond tarts into her reticule like a seasoned thief in the baker’s. She snapped the beaded bag shut, dusted a crumb from her glove, and looked up at him innocently.

“The cakes were already gone,” she explained, her cheeks flushing. “One must be prudent.”

Richard stared at the bulge in her reticule. She was hoarding food for him.

The last lingering shadow of Holland vanished from his soul, a warmth so profound that it nearly knocked him to his knees settling in its place. He did not need to explain his fears to her. She saw them, accepted them, and packed pastries into her evening bag to ensure he never felt them again.

He smiled, took her hand, and drew her gently behind the floral display and into the alcove. The noise of the ballroom faded into a pleasant hum. The light was soft, casting a golden glow over her features. She looked up at him, her chest rising and falling quickly.

Richard did not possess Robert’s smooth poetry, nor Darcy’s intense eloquence. All he had was honesty.

“Miss Mary.” He moved close to her, keeping his voice low and steady. “I am a man of simple requirements. I do not care for the games of London society. I value truth, I value loyalty, and I value the quiet peace of a shared understanding.”

She swallowed hard, her eyes shimmering behind her spectacles.

“You understand me, Mary.” Richard released her hand and touched the edge of her spectacle frame. “You do not see my father’s title, or the uniform, or the loud, hungry fool who uses jokes to hide the dark. You just see me. And you steal tarts for me.”

A tear slipped from one eye, tracking a wet path down her cheek. “You listen to me, Richard, without asking me to be quiet, or to be someone else. You just ask me to dance.”

Richard dropped the almond tart onto a nearby pedestal table. He took both of her hands in his, holding them firmly on his chest, directly over his racing heart.

“I want to be with you for the rest of my life,” he stated, his voice thick with emotion. “I want to hear every dry, wicked observation you keep hidden in your head. I want to build a home with you, Mary Bennet. Will you marry me?”

Mary let out a joyous sob, her gaze locking onto his with unshakeable certainty.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice trembling but clear. “Yes, Richard. I accept with all my heart!”

Richard exhaled a breath of pure relief. He lifted her hands, bowing his head to press a fervent kiss to her knuckles. He closed his eyes, inhaling the faint scent of almond and sugar that clung to her gloves.

He had found his sanctuary.

“Excellent,” he murmured against her hands, a devilish grin appearing as he lifted his head. “Now, my future wife, I believe we have three stolen tarts to consume before your mother discovers us and begins planning the wedding breakfast.”

During the same opening set, Fitzwilliam Darcy was engaged in the perilous exercise of dancing a reel while attempting to conceal the fact that he was sweating.

He was not nervous, though. No, far from that. Nervousness was one of Bingley’s states, not his. Darcy was merely experiencing a heightened awareness of his own pulse, an unaccountable dryness of the mouth, a dampness in the armpits, and an inability to remember whether the next figure was a cast-off or a hey. He had danced this set a thousand times; he had danced it at Almack’s. He had danced it, God help him, with his aunt Eleanor. And now his feet had mutinied, because the woman opposite him was laughing at a remark he had made, and he could not remember what it was.

Concentrate. Right hand. Turn. Do not step on her.

“You are counting,” Miss Elizabeth observed, as they came together.

“I am not counting.”

“Your lips are moving, Mr Darcy. Either you are counting or you are praying, and I should like to know which, so I may step accordingly.”

“I am praying,” Darcy said gravely. “For the safety of your slippers.”

She laughed again, and he turned her down the line, careful to perform the right motion.