His cravat felt too tight. Darcy’s free hand moved to his neck, fingers tugging at the linen in a gesture he immediately regretted as too obvious. Elizabeth glanced up at him with mild curiosity but said nothing.
The grove appeared ahead, that circle of ancient oaks where new leaves filtered the morning light into shifting patterns. Darcy had chosen this location deliberately. Private enough for intimacy but visible enough to maintain propriety.
He led Elizabeth beneath the trees. Dappled sunlight falling between the leafy branches caught in her dark hair, picking out auburn highlights. She was here. With him. Alone. And he was about to make the most important request of his life.
Darcy stopped walking and turned to face her, his heart hammering against his ribs. Elizabeth stopped as well, looking up at him with pleasant expectation.
His carefully rehearsed words scattered like leaves in wind. Darcy opened his mouth and found that every eloquent phrase he had constructed had abandoned him.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, then stopped because his voice had emerged rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Miss Elizabeth, I have brought you here this morning because there is something I must tell you. Something I should have told you before now.”
Elizabeth’s eyes remained fixed on his face, her expression attentive but giving away nothing.
“I have admired you for longer than I care to admit,” he said, and the words came haltingly. “Your wit, your intelligence, your refusal to be intimidated by rank or consequence. You challenge me in ways I did not know I needed to be challenged. Make me question assumptions I have held without examination. I find myself thinking of you at the most inopportune moments, unable to focus because my thoughts have drifted to something you said or the way you looked when you said it.”
He was rambling, Darcy realised with embarrassment. But Elizabeth continued to watch him with that same attentive expression.
“What I am trying to say,” Darcy continued, forcing himself to meet her eyes directly, “is that you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. I cannot imagine my future without you in it, cannot contemplate returning to the life I had before I knew you. You have become essential to my happiness.”
His hand moved to his pocket, withdrawing the small velvet box that contained his mother’s ring. The morning light caught the gold band and made the small ruby glow. Darcy held it out toward Elizabeth, his hand trembling slightly.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said, and his voice dropped lower, intimate. “Would you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?”
The silence that followed felt endless. Darcy’s heart hammered against his ribs, each beat painful. He had made himself completely vulnerable, and now his entire future hung on her response.
Elizabeth’s face transformed, her expression shifting into a smile so bright it made Darcy’s breath catch. But there was something in that smile, something almost triumphant, that did not quite match the tenderness he might have hoped for.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, and her voice carried eager certainty. “Yes, I will marry you, Mr. Darcy.”
The words were exactly what he had hoped to hear. Yet something about the delivery made Darcy pause even as relief flooded through him. She had accepted immediately, without hesitation or surprise, without the questions or teasing that characterised her usual manner. Just simple, immediate agreement delivered with that bright smile that did not quite reach her eyes in the way he expected.
Darcy told himself he was being foolish. She had accepted him. What did it matter if her response lacked the complexity he associated with Elizabeth’s character? Perhaps she was simply overwhelmed by the moment.
He reached for her hand, intending to slip the ring onto her finger, and Elizabeth extended her hand readily. Her fingers settled into his palm with easy compliance, but there was something mechanical about the gesture. He pushed the thought aside and focused on sliding the gold band onto her finger.
“It fits perfectly,” Elizabeth observed, holding her hand up to examine the ring. “How lovely.”
The words were appropriate, Darcy supposed, but they carried none of the emotion he might have expected. She might have been commenting on a new pair of gloves. But perhaps she was simply not given to elaborate displays of feeling.
They began walking back toward the parsonage. Elizabeth Bennet had agreed to marry him. He should be euphoric. And he was happy, certainly, but beneath that happiness ran a current of unease he could not quite identify.
“I hope you will find Pemberley to your liking,” Darcy said. “The house is quite large, of course, perhaps intimidatingly so at first. But I think you will come to love it. The grounds offer excellent walking, miles of paths through woods and along the river. And the library contains one of the finest private collections in Derbyshire.”
“I am certain it will be everything charming,” Elizabeth replied, her tone carrying enthusiasm that somehow felt detached. “I look forward to seeing it.”
Darcy glanced down at her, searching her face for some sign of the curiosity he knew Elizabeth possessed. She always asked questions, always wanted to know specific details. Yet now she offered only vague approval.
“My sister will be overjoyed,” Darcy continued. “Georgiana has been most eager to meet you. I think she has been lonely for female companionship her own age.”
“Oh, we shall get along splendidly,” Elizabeth said, again with that bright enthusiasm that seemed to lack depth. “It will be delightful to have a sister.”
The phrasing struck Darcy as odd. Elizabeth already had sisters, four of them. Why would she speak as though gaining Georgiana would be her first experience of sisterhood? But perhaps she simply meant having a sister through marriage.
They had reached the edge of the parsonage garden. Darcy slowed their pace, reluctant to end this private time together despite his growing confusion. She had accepted him. That was what mattered. Everything else could be sorted out in time.
He was engaged to Elizabeth Bennet. His Elizabeth. The woman who had captured his heart. That joy should overwhelm any small concerns.
And Darcy was happy. He told himself that firmly as they approached the parsonage. He was happy. His future was secured with the woman he loved. The strange quality to her acceptance, the mechanical feel of her responses, the lack of specific questions or characteristic teasing – none of that mattered.
