Mary gasped. “He is everything I imagined in a Byronic hero—but with sense and virtue.”
Elizabeth laughed. “He would be horrified by the comparison, Mary.”
“And before we return to Longbourn,” she added with a conspiratorial smile, “Mr. Darcy means to take me to a ball—his aunt’s annual gathering.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “A London ball? With Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes!” Elizabeth replied, her smile softening. “I never thought I should look forward to such a thing, but now…I find I cannot wait.”
The sisters remained awake long into the night—talking, dreaming, and laughing. Three young women on the cusp of bright futures, their bond deeper than ever.
The morning air in London held the whispers of spring, cool against Elizabeth’s cheeks as she stepped onto the stoop of her uncle’s house on Gracechurch Street. A carriage stood waiting, but it was not the vehicle that drew her notice. It was the man standing beside it—tall and composed, his coat neatly brushed, a modest bouquet of violets and pale roses in his hand.
“Mr. Darcy,” she greeted, her smile blooming as she descended the steps.
He bowed with quiet formality, then held out the flowers. “For you, Miss Elizabeth.”
She accepted them, touched. The petals were delicate, their fragrance subtle and sweet. “They are lovely. Thank you.”
“There is a park not far from here,” he said after a brief pause. “Would you…take a turn with me?”
“I should like that very much.”
The park proved a quiet haven nestled between streets already bustling with carriages and foot traffic. The gravel path wound past budding trees and early flowers pushing through the soil. Children’s laughter rang in the distance, and birds sang overhead—but Elizabeth scarcely heard. The world had narrowed to the gentleman beside her and the muted cadence of their steps.
They spoke first of light things—the brightness of the morning, Jane’s upcoming wedding, the absurdity of London fashions. Then came one of their easy silences: that companionable hushthey had come to share, full of meaning yet free of pressure. Darcy slowed, but even before he did so, Elizabeth felt the shift. She sensed it in the way he glanced more than once to the gravel path before them.
He paused beside a low stone bench. Darcy turned to her at last, his gloved hands clasped behind his back.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, then paused and softened it: “Elizabeth.”
The sound of her name on his lips made her breath catch.
“I have thought of this moment a thousand times, and yet, no imagining has ever come close.”
She looked up at him, heart fluttering.
“There was a time I believed no woman could look at me without pity—or revulsion. My aunt called me marked, cursed, unworthy of affection—and worse.” He met her eyes with quiet intensity. “But you sawme, Elizabeth. Not the mark I bear, not the name I carry—not the man society measures.Me, Elizabeth—the man beneath it all. And you offered more than civility or tolerance. Your offered kindness. Wit. Affection. You challenged me, changed me.”
Elizabeth’s eyes stung with unshed tears.
“You are the only woman who has ever looked past my outward appearance—looked upon me without flinching. The only one who has loved me—not in spite of my infirmity, but regardless of it. And I…”
He drew a breath and dropped to one knee. “I love you, Elizabeth. I always shall. Heart, soul, entirely. If you would have me—if your feelings have not changed—will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
For a moment, all she could do was look at him: this man who had stood rigid in her company, now knelt before her in vulnerable hope. This man whose pain she had come to know—and whose heart she now held in her hands. She could hardlyspeak, so full was her heart. But she stepped closer and took his hands in hers.
“My feelings have changed. They have deepened, Mr. Darcy. I love you. I have never been more certain of anything. Yes, I will marry you.”
The breath he released was almost a laugh—soft, incredulous. He rose, bringing her hand to his lips. The kiss he pressed to her glove was not for show. It was reverent. Grateful.
They sat on the bench for a time, speaking in low murmurs, their hands never parting. The city moved around them: ladies glanced over their shoulders, gentlemen looked on with surprise, curiosity, or disdain. But they did not notice. Not now.
They were wrapped in their own little world—two hearts, each marked in its own way: his, outwardly; hers, within. Yet both had come to be seen, known, and chosen—proof that love, when it looks beyond the surface, may heal what pride and misjudgment cannot.
The walk back to Gracechurch Street was unhurried, filled with soft laughter and quiet promises. Elizabeth’s cheeks were flushed—not from the breeze, but from the joy still blooming in her heart. Her hand rested lightly on Darcy’s arm, and though they kept a proper distance, the fondness between them was unmistakable.
When the door to her uncle’s house opened and she stepped inside, Maria gasped. “Oh, Elizabeth—your face! You are glowing!” She darted forward and looked from one to the other. “You are engaged! Oh, you must be!”
