Darcy felt a surge of admiration for her, even as her words frustrated him.
“Elizabeth,” he said, urgency threading his voice, “I am not the same man who proposed to you at Hunsford. I’m not even the same man before the duel, when I was overly concerned about my honor… and yours.”
His wounded shoulder throbbed with pain, and a fresh sheen of perspiration broke out on his forehead. But he ignored his discomfort, focused entirely on making her understand.
“The man before you now has learned what truly matters. Not through sermons or lectures or moral instruction, but through loss—the near loss of his life, yes, but more importantly, the loss of the woman he loves through his blindness and arrogance.”
A slight breeze stirred the air. Elizabeth’s face softened, her eyes showing the first real glimpse of the warmth he had come to cherish during his illness.
“Do you remember,” Darcy continued, “what I said to you during my fever? About Pemberley?”
“You spoke of many things during your fever, Mr. Darcy.”
“I spoke of the lake at sunset,” he prompted, “how the light catches on the water.”
A smile touched her lips. “Yes, I remember. You were quite descriptive in your delirium.”
“And the hillock where we would watch the stars together,” Darcy continued, encouraged by her softening expression. “The north-facing slope where we would spread a blanket and count constellations.”
“You have a vivid imagination, sir.” The blush spreading across her cheeks suggested his words affected her more deeply than she wished to admit.
“Not imagination, Elizabeth. Vision.” He took both her hands in his, ignoring the strain it placed on his injured shoulder. “A vision of what could be—of what should be. You belong at Pemberley, not as a visitor or guest but as its mistress. As my wife.”
Elizabeth’s eyes glistened with emotion, though she maintained her composure. “Mr. Darcy, your conviction does you credit. But I cannot?—”
“Cannot?” he interrupted, an edge of desperation entering his voice. “Or will not? If your heart is truly indifferent to me, Elizabeth, say so now, and I will trouble you no further. But if there is any part of you that returns my feelings, even in the smallest measure, do not reject what could be the greatest happiness of both our lives out of concern for what others might think.”
A single tear escaped, trailing down her cheek before she could catch it. Seeing that solitary evidence of her emotion affected Darcy more powerfully than any words could have.
“My heart is not indifferent.” Her voice was barely audible. “But that is precisely why I cannot accept you now. I care for you too much to risk your future happiness on emotions heightened by extraordinary circumstances.”
The words carried the weight of her deeper fear—that she had spent so long fighting to prove herself worthy of his respect, she could not bear to accept his proposal only to watch that hard-won regard fade into regret.
“I can praise your sentiments,” Darcy said softly, brushing away the tear’s trail with his thumb. “But they are spoken by a woman who underestimates her worth. I would not have you make such a momentous decision based on fear rather than hope.”
“And if I were to accept you now,” Elizabeth asked, “and you were to return to Pemberley, to your life among the first circles, only to discover that what you felt was the product of fever and danger rather than lasting attachment—what then?”
“That will not happen,” Darcy insisted.
“You cannot know that with certainty,” she countered, though her tone held more sadness than conviction.
“I can and do,” he replied. “But if you require proof of my constancy, I will provide it. A week, a month, a year—whatever time you need to be certain of my regard.”
Elizabeth hesitated, vulnerability flashing across her features before she mastered it. A jay called from a nearby tree, the harsh sound underscoring the tension between them.
“And if I were to tell you that I might accept your proposal in six months, a year, if your feelings remain unchanged—would that satisfy you?” There was a vulnerability in her question that pierced Darcy to the core.
“Nothing would satisfy me but having you as my wife immediately,” he admitted. “But I would accept a delay if the alternative is losing you entirely.”
Elizabeth studied him, her eyes searching his face as if seeking confirmation of his sincerity. The dappled sunlight played across her features, highlighting the gold flecks in hereyes, the delicate curve of her lips, and the stubborn chin that spoke of her indomitable spirit.
“Then I propose a compromise,” she said, her voice steadier than it had been. “You shall return to Pemberley to complete your recovery. I shall remain at Longbourn. We will correspond, and when you are fully restored to health—when sufficient time has passed for both of us to be certain of our feelings—you will return. If it comes to pass, our eventual union must be above reproach for both our sakes.”
It was not the acceptance he had hoped for, but neither was it the rejection he had feared. Still, Darcy found himself reluctant to yield so easily.
“I will return, but how long is enough to convince you? Six weeks? Six months, a year? If I ask you again to be my wife—what then, Elizabeth?”
Her lips curved into a smile that held a genuine warmth. “Then, Mr. Darcy, I believe my answer would be quite different.”
