Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Papa loves what grows without needing much encouragement. It reminds him of himself.”
He returned the smile, though his thoughts were elsewhere.
“I must say,” she continued, after a pause, “I enjoyed myself greatly last night. The evening exceeded my expectations.”
“I am glad,” he said simply. “You seemed—content.”
“I was,” she replied.
They walked for a few moments in silence, the soft rustle of the gravel their only sound. At last Elizabeth, unable to restrain her curiosity, said, “I could not but observe a change in your countenance earlier, when my sister mentioned Mr. Wickham.”
He hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly. “You observed correctly. But I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, it is nothing that need concern your family. I am certain it is not the same man. The Wickham I know would not trouble himself with honest employment. He has long been... otherwise engaged.”
“For you to speak of a man in such a manner, he must have done you some wrong,” Elizabeth said softly.
Darcy’s expression grew remote. “Not only me,” he said, his tone low. “He wronged the memory of my father and betrayed a trust that should never have been broken. But I would rather not speak of it now.”
“I understand,” she said softly, sensing the depth of feeling he restrained. Then, with a tactful change of subject, she added, “It occurred to me only this morning, as I was thinking of our conversations, that you seem to know much of my family, yet I know so little of yours.”
Some colour found its way back to Darcy’s face as he smiled. “On that subject, I believe your cousin, Mr. Collins, has spoken freely enough of my aunt, Lady Catherine, and my cousin Anne. I mentioned my sister to you yesterday. There are only a few others—my uncle, the Earl of Matlock, and his son, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Georgiana spends much of her time at the Colonel’s house when she is in London, as she is preparing for her first season.”
Elizabeth smiled. “It sounds a happy little circle.”
“It is,” he said, with a quiet sigh. “Though family can sometimes feel more duty than delightful. And duty—” he paused—“can be a tiresome master.”
“Duty,” she repeated. “Such as the expectation of marrying one’s cousin?”
His eyes turned toward her, a glimmer of amusement softening his otherwise grave expression. “Just so. My aunt has long cherished that particular plan, though I cannot seewhy happiness must be sacrificed to family arrangement. As I told you when you visited Netherfield, I have no intention of marrying my cousin.”
“Oh, I can well imagine,” she said, her eyes alight with mischief. “My cousin, Mr. Collins, made me such an offer only days ago—to preserve our estate, he said. A most noble act of duty, if ever one was.”
Darcy’s step faltered, and he turned his head slightly toward her. “If I may be so forward,” he said, his tone careful, “may I ask what answer you gave him?”
“I refused him, sir,” she replied with playful dignity. “I would sooner marry the pillars of Longbourn than bind myself to such a man.”
He released a breath that might almost have been a laugh—quiet, uneven, and filled with relief. “I confess, I should have been astonished had you accepted. No offence to your cousin, but it would never have suited you. I doubt he could endure a wife with opinions.”
Elizabeth’s laughter rang softly through the stillness. “Then we are perfectly agreed, Mr. Darcy. I doubt it as well.”
They had reached the rose arbour, the air still fragrant with the lingering bloom. For a moment neither spoke. Then Darcy turned to her, his expression grave but tender.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he began at last, his voice low and steady, though there was tension beneath the calm, “I must speak what I have long endeavoured to silence. I told myself it was imprudent, unequal, unwise, yet I can no longer pretend indifference. When first our dogs grew so attached, I thought little of it, save that it afforded me more opportunity than was proper to observe your fine eyes.”
Elizabeth felt her breath quicken. The sound of her heart seemed suddenly loud in her ears, each word of his drawing hernearer to something she had not imagined she would hear. Her hands trembled faintly within her gloves.
Darcy’s voice softened. “But what began in chance, those brief meetings and small conversations, became before I knew it the moments I most desired. I know it has been but two months since I came to Hertfordshire, and that our acquaintance began far from pleasantly. Yet each encounter has undone me a little more. Your wit, your kindness, your spirit, they have overcome every argument of reason or caution. You have captivated me entirely. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
Her mouth felt dry, her thoughts scattered like leaves in a sudden wind. For a long moment she could not speak, could scarcely even breathe. The world had grown strangely still—the murmur of the breeze, the soft stir of the garden, even the faint laughter from the house seemed distant, unreal.
At last she found her voice. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, though it trembled, “I... I did not expect this.”
“Nor did I,” he replied quietly. “Yet here I stand, unable to do otherwise. I know the brevity of our acquaintance, and I know how others might judge it, but my heart will not be persuaded. If you can pardon my failings and accept the affection that now declares itself, I would count myself most fortunate.”
She looked up at him then, her eyes wide, her pulse unsteady. “You astonish me, sir. Entirely.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Then I must hope it is not an unwelcome astonishment.”
Elizabeth lowered her gaze, colour rising to her cheeks. “I do not know what I feel,” she said softly, “only that your action these past few days and your words have touched me more deeply than I expected.”
