“In the garden at Netherfield, when Jane was ill. You told me that someone you once trusted deceived her.” Elizabeth stepped closer still, until they were almost touching. “That secret, thatdangerous, painful secret that could destroy your sister if widely known, you entrusted to me. You opened your heart to me about your deepest fear and your greatest responsibility. About the guilt you carry for not seeing the deception sooner.”
“It was Wickham.”
“I feared it was so once I considered the situation fully,” Elizabeth said firmly. “A man playing games does not share his beloved sister’s vulnerability with someone who means nothing to him. When I remembered that conversation and understood its meaning, I knew whom to trust. I chose to trust you.”
Darcy’s eyes closed. When he opened them again, they were bright with unshed tears.
“Darling Fitzwilliam, evidence can be twisted. Facts can be manipulated. But character, true character, cannot be faked over time. I have witnessed your devotion to your friend, your care for your sister, and your concern for Jane during her illness. I have seen your honor, your integrity, your capacity for deep feeling. That is the evidence I chose to accept as truth.”
Darcy pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her as if he could not bear to have any distance between them. “Elizabeth, do you understand what you have given me? My lord!”
Elizabeth reached around him in return, feeling the tremor that ran through his frame. “I chose us. Because some things are worth the risk. We are worth that risk.”
They stood there, holding each other. Then Darcy pulled back, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “You need to know the truth about Wickham. All of it. Who he is. What he has done. Why he would do this.” He gestured toward her father, who joined them. “Sir, you should hear this, too.”
“Then tell us,” Elizabeth said.
And so he did.
“Mr. George Wickham is vile,”Elizabeth said with such vehemence that fierce satisfaction surged through Darcy.
“He is,” Darcy agreed. “And dangerous. Particularly to young women who do not yet recognize charm without substance.” He faced Elizabeth’s father.
“Miss Lydia, in particular, seemed quite taken with him, based on what I overheard when I arrived. He delights in passing himself off as a harmless gentleman. Then he strikes with the suddenness of a viper before slithering away.” Darcy released Elizabeth, though he immediately entwined his fingers with hers. “You strike me as a man who understands the value of information and how to use it wisely.”
Her father nodded once, then looked down at where Darcy was holding his daughter’s hand.
“Sir, I have the ninth drawing in my pocket. If you do not mind?”
The corner of Mr. Bennet’s mouth tipped up. “I shall step outside and guard the door.”
“Elizabeth,” Darcy said, then had to clear his throat. He could feel the weight of the piece in his coat pocket, as if it were a living thing. “Did you, by chance, happen to include the eight pieces you already possess in your reticule?”
“I did.”
“Might I see them, please?”
She took them from her purse and handed them to him.
Setting them on a table, he withdrew the wrapped paper. He held it out to her, and she took it with her free hand.
“May we…” She touched the drawings with reverent care. “May we assemble them together? All nine pieces? Fitzwilliam, our story is not complete without it.”
“It is not,” Darcy agreed. “Shall we?”
Together, they arranged the pieces in the order he gave them to her. Darcy watched her face as the image took shape. The chessboard and pieces. The Fool’s Mate. Their sleeves. Their hands reaching toward the center.
Then she unwrapped the ninth piece and held it up to the candlelight, studying it before placing it in the void at the heart of the image.
In the ninth piece, their fingers touched. Just barely, but unmistakenly. His hand and hers, meeting over the queen. And there, where their fingers met, he had drawn another piece, a king, standing side by side. Not opposing each other across the board as in the game, but together. Unified. As equals.
Elizabeth’s breath caught audibly. Her hand came up to cover her mouth as she stared at the complete picture.
“Fool’s Mate,” Darcy said, his voice rough with all the emotion he had poured into these drawings over the past weeks. “That morning, you defeated me in four moves. A victory so complete, so elegant, that I could not help but admire it even as I acknowledged defeat.”
He reached out and traced the queen. “Elizabeth, you captured my heart in even fewer moves than that.” His finger moved to the king. “But this drawing is not solely about that morning. It is about everything that came after. The conversations that drew us closer, the gradual understanding that what began as a duel had become a courtship—no, more than that. Had become love.” He finally looked up to meet her eyes and found them bright with unshed tears. “This is what I have been trying to tell you all along. You are my equal, Elizabeth. You are my match.”
He took both her gloved hands in his, holding them as carefully as he had held the drawings. “The queen to my king. The woman I love. The woman I want to stand beside in unity for the rest of my life.”
