Page 94 of A November to Remember

Darcy stilled, weighing the moment.

Extemporise, he thought. Robert extemporises constantly. How hard can it be?

“Dawson,” he said, “has made a quick trip to London, to procure something I required for tonight. Would you like to see it, Miss Elizabeth?”

Her eyes went wide, then narrow, then wide again, curiosity lighting her features. “Oh, I must.”

Darcy led her away, guiding her past the clusters of gossiping matrons and to the glass doors opening onto the rear terrace. The moment they crossed the threshold, the heat and noise of the ballroom disappeared, leaving behind the chill of the November night.

The air was slicing through the thin fabric of Miss Elizabeth’s gown, and she shivered. The terrace was deserted, illuminated only by the pale light of a waxing moon and the golden spill of the ballroom windows. The stone balustrade gleamed with frost. Behind them, the second set was forming.

Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself. Darcy removed his coat and put it round her shoulders before either of them had spoken a word. He stood in his waistcoat not feeling the cold at all. This was either love or the early stage of a fever. He was prepared to accept either.

“Well?” she urged.

He held out the parcel.

She looked at it. She looked at him. “You have brought me a parcel.”

“Yes.”

“Wrapped in oilcloth.”

“Dawson is thorough.”

“And string.”

Darcy stared at the impeccably tied knot, cursing his valet’s dedication to his trade. “Dawson is very thorough. He rode all the way from London, and I suppose he was concerned about rain.”

“Mr Darcy.” She took the parcel from him and turned it over in her hands. “I have known you six weeks. You have insulted me, apologised to me, defended me against your own friends, rescued a child in front of me, and asked to court me on the recommendation of your horse. Nothing you have done has been ordinary. So, I confess I am somewhat at a loss as to why you have brought me out onto a cold terrace, to present me with what appears to be a very small parcel of fish.”

“It is not fish.”

“I should hope not.”

“Open it, Elizabeth.”

She glanced up at the use of her Christian name, but she pulled at the string without a comment. The string did not yield and she pulled harder. Dawson had tied it with the same care he brought to Darcy’s cravats, which meant it could survive a shipwreck.

“Allow me.” He took it back and wrestled with it, but he could not undo it either.

Elizabeth tilted her head, enjoying his struggle with the twine. “Are you proposing, Mr Darcy, or unpacking?”

“I am attempting the former. My valet has made the latter necessary.” He got a fingernail under the string. It gave, thank God. He unwrapped the oilcloth only to find a second wrapping of tissue. Under that, a blue velvet box. Darcy opened it with trembling hands to reveal a sapphire the colour of deep water, set in gold that had been worn thin at the back by a hand he had loved more than any other in his childhood. It was not a large stone. His mother had never cared for large stones.

“It was my mother’s.”

“That is not a proposal, Mr Darcy,” she noted, in a voice that was not quite steady.

“I am getting there. Bear with me.”

“You are taking the long way round.”

“I have a speech.”

“I do not want a speech.” She stepped closer. “I want the question.”

He held out the box with both hands.