All her life had been governed by honesty and a sense of propriety, yet as she looked at him now, she felt, with sudden clarity, that she must feel love to its fullest in his arms, regardless of what might follow. His betrothed would never know, and she would carry within her, forever, the wind stirred by a true and ardent love, one she would never feel again. It was her right, for it was she who Darcy had first asked to marry him.
“Kiss me,” she murmured.
And he obeyed—for nothing could be more tempting than her lips.
His lips touched hers while his impatient hands began to make the acquaintance of her perfect body, which unexpectedly surrendered to his caresses, only making him more eager, conquering her in their first kiss that felt like the physical expression of love.
“Oh!” she exclaimed when his lips left her mouth for her neck. “I wanted just a small kiss.”
“There is no such thing between us, Elizabeth Bennet,” he murmured in her ear, making her tremble like a woman for the first time.
They stepped apart for a moment, unable to bear the passion any longer, suddenly aware that they stood in a forest, only minutes away from the others who were surely waiting for them.
“You are engaged,” she repeated.
“Could you let measkfirst if you would be my wife?” he enquired, amused, failing to grasp the meaning of her words or mistaking them for the embarrassment of a maiden slowly surrendering her innocence.
“Darcy! How can you ask me to marry you?” she cried, suddenly furious. “And Anne de Bourgh?”
“Anne? What has Anne to do with us?”
“Lady Catherine—” she began but then stopped, for in that instant, they both understood: her ladyship had lied.
A great sigh of relief escaped her, and she began to cry. He, stricken, tried to wipe away her tears, for he had never seen them before; perhaps he had even believed that Elizabeth Bennet did not know how to weep.
“My dearest,” he murmured, frightened. “My love do not cry, I beg you. I am engaged to no one…though perhaps to you…if you will have me…”
And she, still unable to speak, nodded with desperation and love, waiting for him to kiss her again—this time, no fears or doubts troubling her heart.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth and Darcy walked slowly back to her aunt and uncle, who held hands as though bracing themselves for news, uncertain whether it would be good or ill. Yet even from afar, the youngsters’ happiness was plain to see, and Mr and Mrs Gardiner breathed in relief. There was no need for words because their joy was apparent. Although their niece was about to become the mistress of Pemberley on that beautiful summer day, the only thing that truly mattered was love.
“Thank you!” Darcy said, shaking Mr Gardiner’s hand.
“Why are you thanking them?” Elizabeth wanted to know, already glowing in that mist that any woman in love carries about her.
“Because they brought you to Derbyshire…to me.”
“So that engagement to Miss de Bourgh was a…fantasy?” Mrs Gardiner asked graciously, still worried for her niece.
“Entirely,” answered Darcy with a short bow in Mrs Gardiner’s direction, thanking her this time for her delicacy. Lady Catherine had done something horrible, yet she was still his aunt.
“Finally, all’s well that ends well,” Darcy said, and they tacitly agreed that the previous day’s visit was forever forgotten and forgiven.
Meanwhile, Darcy’s carriage arrived, and they embarked once again, this time in the opposite direction—to Pemberley.
∞∞∞
They paused for a moment to admire Pemberley from the top of the hill, just as Elizabeth had wished from the instant the carriage began to move.
At the sight of the estate, spreading before them in quiet majesty, she took a deep breath, the sign of her strong emotions.
“It is your home,” Darcy murmured in her ear, and her joy shifted into that strange, unknown trembling she had first known in the woods beneath his kiss. As for a reason for her turmoil, she no longer knew whether it was the man beside her or the life that awaited her, but it did not matter any longer; all that was happening contributed to her happiness—the beautiful house, the joyful expression on his face, the hand that found hers and lifted it to his lips as though they were the only souls in the world. Everything merged together, and a symphony of sensation arose in her, a stir within her body, for being his wife meant also becoming the mistress of Pemberley.
But the moment did not last long, for two tiny figures moved restlessly on the front steps of the house, waving to them with unmistakable eagerness.
“Oh, good heavens!” exclaimed Darcy. “It is Georgiana and Anne—they are waiting for us.”
