“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to raise painful memories.”
“They are not only painful.” He glanced at her sideways, a small smile touching his lips. “She would have liked you, I think. She valued wit and warmth above all else. She had little patience for simpering or false modesty.”
Elizabeth laughed despite herself. “Then we should have gotten along famously. I have never simpered in my life.”
“No.” His voice had gone soft again. “No, you have not.”
They walked on, their conversation flowing more easily now. Elizabeth asked about his sister—carefully, sensing the topic was delicate—and Mr. Darcy answered with surprising openness. Georgiana was shy, he explained, but talented. She played the pianoforte beautifully. She loved books and gardens and long walks in the countryside.
“She sounds lovely,” Elizabeth said.
“She is. She is the best person I know.” Mr. Darcy paused, then added quietly, “I hope you might meet her someday.”
Elizabeth's heart stuttered.
She looked at him and saw the hope he was trying so hard to contain. The longing he would not allow himself to express. The question he was not yet ready to ask.
They approached Longbourn through the back garden, their footsteps slowing as though neither wished the walk to end. The morning had warmed slightly, the frost retreating from the grass, but Elizabeth felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.
She did not want to go inside. Did not want to return to the chaos of her family, the noise and demands that would swallow this moment.
She stepped beneath a low-hanging branch, pausing to adjust her bonnet—and stopped.
A ragged piece of ribbon fluttered from the branch above her head. Caught in its tangle was a sprig of mistletoe, clearly hung there days ago, its white berries gleaming in the pale winter light.
Lydia's handiwork, no doubt. Elizabeth stared at it, her cheeks warming.
Mr. Darcy halted beside her. He followed her gaze upward, and his breath visibly stilled.
They stood frozen, neither moving, neither speaking. The air between them changed completely—charged with possibility, heavy with everything unsaid.
Elizabeth's heart pounded against her ribs.
Mr. Darcy took half a step toward her. A subtle movement, barely perceptible, but unmistakable in its intent.
“Miss Bennet...” His voice was deep, almost unguarded. Elizabeth met his gaze. She did not step back. Did not look away. Did not offer any of the deflecting wit that had always been her armor.
She simply waited.
Something flickered in his eyes—a vulnerability that made her ache.
He took another half-step.
And then stopped.
His jaw tightened. She could see the battle playing out across his features—desire warring with restraint, wanting checked by honor.
“I would never presume upon such a moment,” he said quietly, “without your full welcome.”
Elizabeth's breath caught.
She wanted to speak. Wanted to tell him that she did welcome it—welcomehim—in ways that no longer frightened her but filled her with certainty.
The words came easier than she expected.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I do wish it.”
Mr. Darcy's breath caught. His eyes darkened with something that made her pulse race. He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, could see the rapid beat of his pulse at his throat.
