Dipping her head to hide her grin, Elizabeth finished her meal in anticipation of spending time with him.
The morning air was crisp,the plants and shrubs heavy with dew. A maid trailed far enough behind to allow for private discussion.
Bless Bingley’s enthusiastic, meddling heart. The garden was a perfect setting for giving her the next piece.
The fact that she had not fled in horror when he confessed his love had filled him with such relief that he had worked on theseventh piece late into the night, needing to capture the emotion while it still burned bright within him. He had not expected her to say she loved him in return—not yet, perhaps not ever—but she had touched his hand. That small gesture had given him hope enough to light the world.
“Do you have regrets, Elizabeth?” he asked, unable to bear the silence between them any longer. “About what I told you in the study?”
She faced him fully, her expression thoughtful rather than alarmed. “Why would I?”
“Because I revealed too much, too quickly. I should have been more cautious, more measured.” He struggled to find the proper words. “Richard always says I leap rather than step carefully when my feelings are engaged. That my intensity can be…overwhelming.”
“Are you overwhelming me now?” Gratefully, her tone was playful.
“I hope not.” He met her eyes, willing her to understand. “I cannot seem to help myself where you are concerned, Elizabeth. I have tried to proceed slowly, to court you properly with the drawings, to give you time to become accustomed to the idea of…” He stopped, aware he was doing it again. “And there. You see? I cannot even discuss my intensity without being intense about it.”
The corner of her mouth curved upward. “I had noticed.”
“Does it trouble you?”
She considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. “At first, yes. When I believed you were merely playing some elaborate game, your intensity felt dangerous. Manipulative, even.” She glanced down at her hands, then back to him. “However, now I understand it is simply…you, the way your mind works, the depth of your feelings when you allow yourselfto feel them…” She paused. “No, it does not trouble me. Though it does rather take my breath away sometimes.”
“In a good way or a terrible way?”
“I have not yet decided,” she said, her smile brilliant. “Do you regret telling me?”
“No.” The word came out without hesitation. “Never. I regret only that I may have burdened you with the knowledge before you were ready to receive my proclamation.”
She was quiet for almost a full circle of the fountain at the center of the roses. His heart hammered against his ribs. Had he said too much again? Pushed too hard? Moved too quickly?
Then she stopped walking, turning to face him. He forgot how to breathe.
“I cannot claim the same feelings,” she said. His heart plummeted. “Not yet. But Fitzwilliam…”
His given name from her lips startled him. It was unexpected, though it pleased him beyond measure. He would never tire of hearing it from her.
“Quid pro quo, sir. Since you choose to address me familiarly, do you mind that I did the same to you?”
“Mind? Never.”
A barely perceptible relaxation of her shoulders, a warming in her eyes, let him know without words that she appreciated his immediate response. She had been testing him, he realized. Seeing if he would retreat from the intimacy he had initiated, if he would balk when she claimed the same privilege.
He had passed.
“I want to…” She hesitated, choosing her words with unusual care. “To see if what I am beginning to feel might grow to equal what you have offered me.”
The relief was so intense it almost staggered him. He closed his eyes briefly, struggling for composure. “That is more than I dared hope for,” he managed.
“Is it enough?”
Enough?“You are giving me a chance, your honesty instead of easy platitudes. It is everything,” he said, and meant it with every fiber of his being.
He reached for her hand, then stopped himself. Propriety. The maid. He could not compromise her, not when she was giving him the gift of possibility. They resumed walking. Gradually, his racing heart steadied.
“Pray tell me about your estate, Fitzwilliam.”
Pemberley had always been his pride, his responsibility, his burden. Describing it to Elizabeth, watching her face as he spoke of the tenant families and the improvements he planned to make, it became a future he could offer her. A home he wanted to share.
