Page 101 of The Lost Prophecy

“Nor, strictly speaking, have you,” the valet pointed out reasonably.

Miss Bingley turned her face aside, but not quickly enough to conceal the sudden curve of her mouth. Miss Elizabeth’s expression softened before she restored it to a severity which Darcy suspected required effort.

“Your argument would be persuasive if it did not depend on the belief that I feel nothing for you.”

“I do not believe you feel nothing.”

“You merely believe that whatever I feel is insufficient, temporary, or too confused to be trusted.”

“I believe that you deserve the opportunity to determine it without the weight of my humanity on the scale,” he said.

“Then hear my determination.” She unfolded her fan, studied its painted surface for a moment, and closed it once more. “I have lived only one-and-twenty years, which places me at a considerable disadvantage in any contest of experience. During those years, however, I have never encountered anyone resembling you. I cannot claim the freedom to speak of ardent love in the middle of a ball, particularly before your valet and a lady who already considers my manners deficient.”

“My opinion of your manners has ceased to be the chief difficulty,” Miss Bingley observed, though her voice held less bitterness than Darcy expected.

Miss Elizabeth acknowledged the concession by inclining her head. “I can speak of regard. I can speak of respect, though you test it whenever you presume to settle my mind for me. I can speak of trust and of affection, because the thought of your destruction frightened me long before I knew that you might become human. I can also state, without impropriety, that I have no wish to imagine my life without your interference in it.”

Darcy’s face altered. He had smiled before, when courtesy demanded the gesture or Bingley’s absurdities defeated restraint, but this sensation broke across features long trained into severity and left him defenceless. Miss Elizabeth stared at the result, and her own composure gave way.

“There,” she murmured. “You see how much more agreeable you become when you stop deciding what is best for everyone.”

“I fear the improvement may not survive frequent use,” he said, still smiling broadly.

“I will consider it a challenge, Mr Darcy.”

Hope no longer invited him to imagine happiness. She stood before him and offered it freely, with clear eyes and a sharper understanding of the cost than he had had when he first surrendered his mortal life. Yet one question remained, and he would not allow prophecy, gratitude or the proximity of an impatient bowl to speak it for him.

Darcy stepped closer and extended his hand. She placed hers in it without hesitation. Her warmth passed through their gloves, living and certain, while his heart gave one slow, painful beat.

“Elizabeth Bennet, will you marry me, not to fulfil an ancient promise, nor to restore what I lost, but because I love you and wish to share whatever life remains to me with you? If the binding fails, if I remain as I am, and daylight is forever closed to me, will you still become my wife?”

Her fingers closed around his.

“Yes.” She met his gaze without laughter, though happiness trembled at the corners of her mouth. “I will.”

The punch bowl erupted in silver light.

Fletcher nearly dropped it. Radiance spilled through the gaps between his hands, flashed on the buttons of his coat, and illuminated Miss Bingley’s astonished face. He drew it closer, fighting to contain a glow which had become bright enough to attract notice from the nearest dancers.

“Control yourself,” Miss Bingley hissed at the bowl. “There are two hundred and eighty people in this room, and half of them have daughters.”

The light pulsed once, then subsided, leaving the inscription bright around the rim and Fletcher with such profound satisfaction that Darcy suspected his valet had been wishing for this moment more than Darcy had.

“Sir.” Fletcher glanced at the card room. “Mr Bennet is still at play.”

Darcy had faced armies, elders, and starving creatures stripped of every remnant of reason. None had inspired the apprehension produced by the sight of Miss Elizabeth’s father arranging his cards opposite Sir William Lucas.

She followed his eyes. “You wished for certainty. You now have it.”

“I have your consent. Your father may prove less generous.”

“He is unlikely to kill you. Literally.”

“That possibility offered greater comfort before this evening.”

Miss Bingley stepped aside and created a narrow path to the card room. Her composure had returned, polished over whatever private disappointment she intended to endure without witnesses.

“You should go before Mrs Bennet notices that you have been holding Miss Elizabeth’s hand for several minutes. If she reaches the correct conclusion without assistance, the announcement will be made before Mr Bennet is consulted.”