Neither spoke. It was not an uncertain silence. It was one of consideration.
Darcy drew a breath. “I hope,” he said, “that I do not presume upon your patience.”
Elizabeth’s hands folded lightly before her. “You have not done so yet.”
A faint shift in his expression suggested the remark had not gone unnoticed. “I am glad of it,” he said. “Though what I am about to ask may test that patience more than anything I have yet said.”
She raised a brow slightly. “That is a formidable introduction.”
“I would rather be candid than risk misunderstanding,” he replied.
Elizabeth inclined her head. “As you prefer.”
Darcy did not speak at once. He seemed, for a moment, to consider his words, not in hesitation, but in precision. “I have,” he began, “taken the liberty of forming an opinion regarding your character—one that has, I believe, been made clear to you in recent days.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved faintly. “I believe it has.”
“And I am aware,” he continued, “that such expressions, however sincere, are of little consequence if they are not accompanied by conduct that reflects them.”
Elizabeth’s gaze steadied upon him. “That is true.”
He met her look directly. “I would not wish to speak further without first knowing whether my attentions would be… welcome.”
The words settled between them. Elizabeth felt their weight at once—not oppressive, not overwhelming, but significant in a way that required a response more considered than any she had yet given.
“You ask,” she said slowly, “whether I would object to your… attentions.”
“I ask,” he replied, “whether I may have your permission to offer them.”
There was no arrogance in the request. No presumption.
Elizabeth drew a breath.
For so long, she had believed such a moment would never come—that the question itself would remain outside the bounds of possibility. And now that it had come, she found herself not unprepared, but uncertain in a different way.
Not whether she felt. That, she had already acknowledged. But whether she dared to act upon it. “You place me in a difficult position,” she said, though her tone held no reproach.
“I would not do so willingly.”
“And yet you do.” She smiled slowly, taking in his face, the countenance she had come to adore.
Darcy inclined his head. “I do.”
She considered him for a moment longer. “And if I were to refuse?” she asked.
“I would accept it,” he said. “Though not without regret.”
“And if I were to grant it?”
His expression softened, though only slightly. “Then I would endeavor to prove myself deserving of your confidence.”
Elizabeth felt something in her chest tighten—not with fear, but with the weight of what he offered. “You are very certain,” she said.
“I am,” he replied.
“Of me?”
“Yes.” The simplicity of the answer left no room for doubt.
