Darcy swallowed. “I really hurt you.”
“It is all in the past. I am not hurt anymore. I cannot be if you admired my eyes soon after that.” She chuckled. After a moment, she added, “If I want to be honest, I was disappointed, no – mortified. I believe I should have liked to be chosen.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Any lady in the room hoped, I am certain.”
“You wished I danced with you?”
“I think, yes, even if I did not admit it. Who would not want to be chosen by a handsome, very eligible man?”
Darcy stood and started to pace. When he stopped, he looked at Elizabeth. “It never occurred to me! I was occupied with the inconvenience of being there.” He stepped to her. “Forgive me.”
Elizabeth stood. “We both erred. It was not just you. I have not always judged you fairly.”
Darcy’s gaze did not leave her.
“No,” he said, almost to himself. “Nor I you.”
The admission, once made, seemed to alter something between them. For a moment, neither spoke. The quiet was not awkward, but charged – as though both were suddenly aware of how little now remained unspoken.
Darcy’s eyes lowered, not in retreat, but in consideration. He seemed to hesitate – not from doubt, but from a restraint he was no longer entirely certain he wished to maintain.
When he looked at her again, there was something in his expression she had not seen before – something steadier, and yet more vulnerable for its steadiness.
“Elizabeth…” he began, then stopped, as though weighing whether he ought to proceed. Darcy’s eyes dropped to Elizabeth’s pink lips. When he looked into her eyes, he continued,
“Elizabeth, can I-may I kiss you?”
Elizabeth swallowed. She allowed herself the smallest smile. She nodded.
Darcy leant forward and bestowed a short, heartfelt kiss on her lips.
When he withdrew, she opened her eyes and regarded him. Then she protested, “No, no, no. This cannot be it. You kissedme longer when we were interrupted, and I have seen even my parents kiss longer than this.”
Darcy’s mouth repressed a laugh. But then his expression grew serious. He glanced toward the door. He drew her closer, his hand steady at her waist, as though he feared she might retreat – though she gave no indication of it.
“Then I must endeavour to improve,” he said quietly.
Elizabeth’s breath caught – not from uncertainty, but from anticipation she no longer attempted to disguise.
This time, when he bent toward her, there was no hesitation.
His lips met hers with greater certainty, yet without haste – as though he meant to prove something not only to her, but to himself. There was no interruption now, no intrusion, no hurried withdrawal. Only the quiet awareness of one another.
This time, his restraint did not falter, yet neither did it withdraw too soon; and Elizabeth felt the difference more keenly than she would have believed possible.
She did not draw back. If anything, she leant into it.
Her hand, almost without her knowing it, came to rest lightly against his coat. The world beyond the room – Wickham, the morning, the unease it had brought – seemed, for a moment, to recede entirely. There was nothing now but the quiet certainty of his arms about her.
When at last Darcy withdrew, it was not abruptly, but with visible reluctance. He did not immediately release her.
Elizabeth looked up at him, her eyes bright, though her composure was not entirely what it had been. “Yes,” she said; she had to clear her throat. “That-that is much better.”
A faint smile touched Darcy’s lips – rare, unguarded. “I am glad to have your approval.”
“You may depend upon it,” she returned, though more herself now.
There was a pause – but it was no longer uncertain.
Darcy’s hand remained at her waist, though less firmly now, as though he were allowing her the choice to remain or step away.
