Twenty-Three
Darcy broke into a smile so wide it ached.
The words still rang in his ears:Ask me again.
He had waited seven years and a lifetime for this moment. Now that it had arrived, his chest felt too small to contain the joy surging through him. He turned sharply and crossed to the chair where he had draped his coat earlier. His fingers, usually so steady, fumbled with the inner pocket until they closed around the small velvet box he had retrieved that very morning. The weight of it was unfamiliar; the ring inside had belonged to his mother, a sapphire that had waited decades for the right hand.
Still grinning like a fool, he turned back to Elizabeth. She stood exactly where he had left her, her cheeks wet with tears, her eyes bright and unguarded in a way he had never seen before. The sight of her here, in his study at Pemberley, choosing him, made his throat tighten with wonder.
“Elizabeth,” he said, voice rough with emotion, “it was you. Always you. And it will be forever you.”
He stood before her, the velvet box open in his palm. The ring sparkled like captured starlight.
“I love you. I have loved you through every mistake I have made and every year we have been apart. I offer you my fortune, my daughter, my heart, everything that is mine. Will you do me the honour of accepting my hand?”
For one heartbeat she was perfectly still.
Then Elizabeth laughed, a bright, startled sound that broke into a sob. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she pressed both hands to her mouth, her shoulders shaking with the force of joy and relief.
“Yes,” she managed, the word half-laugh, half-cry. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes.”
He pulled her into his arms in an instant. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. They held each other so tightly he could feel her heartbeat against his own. Her body trembled with laughter and tears; he felt both against his throat.
He drew back just far enough to cup her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that would not stop falling. Then he kissed her, soft at first, reverent, a seal on every unspoken promise they had danced around for months. She rose onto her toes to meet him, her fingers threading into his hair, and the kiss deepened, turning hungry and joyful all at once. When they broke apart, they were both laughing, breathless, their foreheads pressed together.
Darcy rested his hands at her waist, grounding himself in the simple reality of her. “I know you love my daughter,” he said quietly, his voice still unsteady. “But do you love me, even a little bit? It does not have to be much, because I willdo everything in my power to multiply it. Just... a fraction. That is all I need.”
Elizabeth pulled back slightly so she could look at him properly. Her eyes were luminous, shining bright. For the first time in all the years he had known her, she spoke his Christian name.
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, the word soft and sure on her tongue, “I love you. Totally. Irrevocably. Wholeheartedly. And this is my truth.”
The declaration landed in his chest like sunlight after an endless winter. He exhaled a shaky breath and pulled her close again, wrapping her in his arms as though he could hold the moment forever. She went willingly, tucking her head beneath his chin, her arms tight around his waist. They stood like that for a long time, swaying gently, the only sound their mingled breathing.
When at last they parted, Darcy kept one of her hands in his, unwilling to let go completely. “We should tell Anne,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth again. “She will want to know she is gaining a mother, not merely keeping a governess.”
Elizabeth’s laugh was watery but genuine. “She will have opinions. Many opinions.”
“She always does.” He brushed a stray curl from her temple, marvelling at the right to do so openly now. “But she loves you already. Almost as much as I do.”
“I do not know if I believe you,” she said with mischief, her eyes sparkling through the remnants of tears.
Darcy’s heart stuttered at the playful tone, so different from the guarded politeness she had worn for months. The smile that had never quite left his face widened further.
“I swear it, Elizabeth, please.”
“You have to prove it, Mr Darcy,” she said, her voice dropping lower, more dangerous.
She lifted onto her toes and bit the side of his jaw—not hard, but deliberate, the sharp little sting sending heat straight through him. The playfulness vanished in an instant, replaced by raw hunger.
In one swift motion he grabbed her by the backside, his hands filling with the soft curves of her through her gown, and deposited her on the edge of his desk. Papers scattered. The inkwell wobbled but did not fall. Elizabeth gasped, but her legs parted instinctively to make room for him as he stepped between them.
Their mouths crashed together. The kiss was urgent, messy, all the ties of restraint shattering at once. Her hands were everywhere—tugging at his cravat, sliding under his waistcoat, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He groaned into her mouth, one hand buried in her hair, the other roaming down her side, gripping her hip, pulling her flush against him.
He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down her throat, sucking at the sensitive skin until she arched against him with a soft whimper. His hands found the buttons at the back of her gown and worked them open with impatient fingers. The fabric loosened and he tugged it down along with her chemise, baring her breasts to the cool air of the study.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, the word reverent even in his desperation.
He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. Elizabeth cried out, her back bowing, her fingers tightening in his hair. He lavished attention on the tight peak, tongue flicking, teeth grazing lightly, then moved to the other, sucking and licking until both nipples were flushed dark and glistening. Her breaths came in short, desperate pants.