Darcy raised her hand to his lips, uncertain. “May I—” he began.
Elizabeth nodded. “Please,” she whispered.
Her fingers were warm. Her grip was steady. Darcy’s composure failed at last. It did not shatter dramatically; it simply gave way. He straightened, though he did not release her hand, because releasing it felt impossible. “Princess Elizabeth,” he said, “will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
Elizabeth’s eyes filled. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Mr. Darcy. I will.”
Without a word, he drew her into his arms.
Elizabeth made a small sound and then leaned into him, her forehead resting against his shoulder.
Darcy closed his eyes and sighed with relief.
The world outside the parlour might contain kings, titles, oceans, and laws. It might contain Adrian, and Fitzwilliam, and all the inevitable disorder that would follow the announcement of their engagement.
But for this one moment, there was only Elizabeth, warm and real in his arms, and the knowledge that she was his.
He bent his head. His lips brushed hers. “Thank you,” he whispered. Nothing else would come.
“You are welcome,” she murmured, and then, with the faintest return of mischief, “Now, surely, we may be finished with the peas.”
His smile was rather self-satisfied. “As you wish.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Elizabeth sat with Mr. Darcy exactly as they had been for the past several minutes, close enough that their knees nearly brushed, hands joined as if either of them might vanish should the other let go, and smiling with the foolish, helpless serenity of two people who had just experienced something miraculous.
Mr. Darcy’s thumb moved once, lightly, over the back of Elizabeth’s hand, as if to reassure himself it was real.
“I will have to consult your father,” Mr. Darcy said, and then his gaze dropped to her mouth.
The look was so intent that Elizabeth felt her own breath catch. He leaned in. Not with haste, not with hunger, but with an unmistakable certainty.
Elizabeth tilted her chin up.
A male voice nearly shouted a greeting nearby.
Mr. Darcy halted so abruptly that Elizabeth almost laughed at the expression that crossed his face. It was part irritation, part reluctance, and part something like disbelief that the rest of the world persisted in existing at all.
He withdrew. “Later,” he said.
She wished to say something clever, but in the end all she could manage was a nod and a breathy “Later.”
There were footsteps, a pause, and then the parlour door opened.
Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared first, as if the house belonged to him; he paused on the threshold long enough to take in Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy in one sweeping glance, and his mouth slowly widened into something approaching triumph.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, excellent.”
Mr. Darcy’s expression was perfectly civil, which Elizabeth thought meant he was measuring the distance to the door, and deciding whether it was acceptable to throw a colonel back out into the street.
Behind Fitzwilliam came Adrian, his cheeks pink with winter air and a folded packet in his hand where the broken seal was royal and not at all English.
He bowed to Elizabeth with a flourish that managed to be both respectful and faintly theatrical. “Cousin.”
“Adrian,” Elizabeth said. “Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Mr. Darcy offered a bow that was impeccable and a shade too controlled.