Would Elizabeth wear the locket openly this evening? Perhaps she had already set the quills to use; he thought it likely. It was not in his nature to bestow tokens lightly, yet the thoughtof her fingers clasping the chain, her ink-stained hands guiding one of the gilded pens he had chosen, stirred something deeply possessive within him. She wore his gifts as though they belonged to her, as though they had long waited for her alone. If all went well—if she returned his affections—she would one day bear his name.Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy.The very notion made him draw a steady breath and let it out slowly.
And yet…
It was a novel thing to feel uncertain. He had never known doubt in such matters, not truly. For most of his adult life, the world had yielded to him. He had inherited both a name of consequence and a fortune to match, and he had been taught to expect deference in all respects, especially in marriage. Ladies swooned, mothers schemed, and chaperones pressed their daughters into his path with near-comic frequency. Their admiration had long since become background noise—insistent, predictable, and wearisome.
But Elizabeth…she had unsettled everything. She met his gaze with open challenge, measured his words, and found them wanting. She had wounded his pride, sharpened his wit, and—without intending it—captured his heart. Ambition and greed held no sway with her. Indeed, he feared she might sooner marry a poor curate, if affection and respect were present, than accept a man simply because he possessed ten thousand a year. For that very reason,he wanted her, needed her, all the more. And he could not simplyofferher a life of wealth and consequence.
He had to be worthy of her.
Bingley’s familiar voice called from the library, drawing him from his thoughts. The gentlemen had formed a habit of sharing a glass of port before their evening excursions, a last comfort before venturing into the cold carriage.
Darcy joined him by the fire, noting the heat rising from the bricks at their feet and the thick lap rugs draped across theirknees. Still, their breath misted the air, a stark reminder of the winter beyond the panes.
“Evening soirees are far more agreeable in June,” Bingley muttered, tugging the rug higher. “There is something unnatural in dressing for company when one’s fingers are stiff from cold.”
Darcy gave a low grunt of amusement. “I believe you say this whenever the temperature falls below forty degrees.”
“And yet it remains true. We have been out nearly every night since returning. Far more than we ever are in town. Is it always this lively in the country?”
“I suspect not. Perhaps the local families are eager to take advantage of our presence.”
Bingley laughed. “Perhapssomeoneis hoping to take advantage ofyourpresence. Not that you would notice. You remain impervious as ever.”
Darcy gave no reply. Bingley knew him well, but not well enough to guess how veryvulnerablehe felt in Elizabeth Bennet’s company. Not yet, at least. In time, perhaps, he might tell his friend everything.
“I do enjoy these evenings, but I suspect you would prefer to remain here with a book.”
Darcy’s gaze lingered on the firelight dancing across the floorboards. “Normally, yes.”
He felt Bingley watching him—curious, probing—but offered no further explanation. He would not speak her name, not here, not yet. Too much was at stake, and he could not bear the thought of hearing it bandied on another’s lips until he knew it belonged to him.
The carriage drew up before Haye Park’s wide front steps. Light streamed through the windows, warm and inviting, as though beckoning them inward. Music and laughter echoed from the drawing room, underscored by the measured rise and fall of conversation. Darcy paused before entering, breathingin the cold, sharp air and pressing down the fervent wish that threatened to overwhelm him.
Had she arrived? Was she thinking of him? Did she wear the locket? He could not say. But as he crossed the threshold into the fire-lit hall, he knew with certainty that he would trade every estate he owned—Pemberley included—for a single smile from Elizabeth Bennet.
She stood near the fireplace, speaking to a pair of gentlemen, the flickering light playing over her features. Miss Lucas stood beside her, adding the occasional comment, but it was Elizabeth who animated the circle, her eyes alive with intelligence and humor. Darcy lingered in the hall longer than propriety required, content for a moment simply to observe her. She laughed at something one of the men said, and the sound sent a thrill coursing through his frame.
One of the gentlemen was Mr. Arthur Willis—married, respectable, and dull. Darcy recalled the name from one of Mrs. Bennet’s early boasts when she had spoken of the “four-and-twenty families” as evidence of Meryton’s consequence. Mr. Willis’s wife stood a few paces away among the matrons, gesturing animatedly as she spoke, her look reminding Darcy of Mrs. Bennet when she discoursed on lace.
At length, Elizabeth and Miss Lucas curtsied and politely excused themselves. Elizabeth faced the company, and a gentleness stole over her countenance as her gaze swept the room and landed on him. Her eyes lingered. Something passed between them—subtle, yet powerful. Darcy offered a small, tender smile, one reserved for her alone, willing his feelings to be read in that single glance.
She murmured something to Miss Lucas and then crossed the room with unhurried grace, every step purposeful. He admired the poise she bore, not derived from fortune or high connections, but from confidence and character.
“Good evening, sir,” she said, pausing before him. Her fingers toyed with the gloves she wore—hisgloves, sent days earlier with only a stanza and without his usual note, left to speak for itself and trusting she would understand. In her hair, pearl combs gleamed, catching the candlelight like moonlight on water. About her throat hung a fine gold chain and the diamond locket he had wrapped with his own hands. She wore his gifts openly, each one a silent acknowledgement of his regard.
“Good evening to you, Miss Elizabeth. I scarcely recall seeing you look so lovely.”
And she did. The cream gown she wore was simple, yet elegant, its lines drawing the eye to her light and pleasing figure. Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the fire—or perhaps laughter—and her eyes shone with such brightness that his heart quickened.
Grasping at conversation, he recalled Bingley’s remark and seized upon it. “Is Hertfordshire always so…eventful during the festive season?”
She laughed, the sound on him like sunlight through leaves. “Yes, it is, sir,” she said, leaning in a she set a gloved hand upon his arm, a casual gesture, but one that made his pulse leap. “The four-and-twenty families in the area have made a kind of rivalry of it. Those whose houses can accommodate a crowd vie for the most splendid assembly. It is no formal contest, not officially, but everyone understands it as such. Nearly every evening in December is thus spoken for.”
He regarded her with amused indulgence. “Howveryentertaining.” He privately thought the custom absurd, but it pleased her, and that was enough. “I believe I have gone out more this winter than in many years past.”
“Are you so unsociable, sir?” she teased, withdrawing her hand from his arm, as if belatedly aware it had lingered there. “I thought you had amended your ways.”
“I have, which is why my words hold. My time in Hertfordshire has altered me, I assure you.”
