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Mr Darcy seemed unsettled by the compliment.

“I corrected an error I should never have made, nothing more,” he murmured.

“There is another matter detailed in this letter.” Elizabeth swallowed hard, navigating the perilous transition to the next revelation. “A matter of a different nature. It concerns someone we both know, and a situation that brings me shame.”

Mr Darcy’s expression hardened, a fierce light sparking in his eyes. “You need never feel shame in my presence, Miss Elizabeth. Speak freely.”

“It concerns Mr Wickham.” Elizabeth forced the dreaded name out. “My sister Lydia wrote from Brighton that Mr Wickham was forced to leave his regiment. His creditors from London located him and he was arrested for debt. He has been taken to London and is to be imprisoned in the Marshalsea.”

He closed his eyes, a muscle feathering in his jaw, the only outward sign of his reaction to the ruin of the man he had grown up beside.

“Marshalsea.” Mr Darcy repeated the name of the debtors’ prison with sadness. He opened his eyes, glancing at her. “I am unsurprised by the nature of his downfall, though the swiftness of his ruin is startling. The man has no moral compass whatsoever.”

“I did not believe you.” The full weight of her past folly crashed down on her. “When I read your letter in Kent, detailing his true character and his vile attempt to ruin your sister, I struggled to accept the truth. I had allowed his charming manners to blind me. I championed a scoundrel, and I accused you of ruining him.”

Mr Darcy gazed into the distance for a moment. “You were deceived, Miss Elizabeth, as many have been deceived by him. You had no knowledge of his true nature.”

“I had the ability to observe, yet I chose prejudice!” Elizabeth shook her head, determined to offer the apology he so richly deserved. “I judged you based on a single slight at an assembly, and I allowed that bruised vanity to colour every interaction we shared thereafter. You saved your sister from a terrible fate. You have sought to repair the harm done to mine. You have shown an honour I refused to recognise, while I have offered you nothing but scorn.”

She lowered her chin, mortified by her own past conduct. “I was horribly, dreadfully wrong, Mr Darcy. I offer my most sincere apologies for the cruel words I spoke to you at the parsonage. I did not know you at all.”

The garden was silent, save for the gentle rustle of the leaves in the slight morning breeze.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

The unguarded adoration she had witnessed minutes ago had returned, amplified tenfold, blazing in his dark eyes. There was no anger in his expression, no lingering resentment for her rejection, only tenderness.

“I require no apologies,” he stated, his words measured and deliberate. “My own conduct at Hunsford was unpardonable. I approached you believing my consequence was enough. I insulted your family, your station, and your pride. You offered me a necessary, albeit painful, correction.”

He was not retreating! Mr Darcy was advancing, tearing down the final walls of misunderstanding that stood between them.

“You illuminated my failings with a clarity no other person has ever dared to use,” he continued, his gaze locked firmly with hers. “You taught me a lesson in humility that I needed to learn. If you can find it within your heart to forgive my past conduct, I shall consider myself the most fortunate of men.”

“There is nothing left to forgive, sir.” Elizabeth offered a tremulous smile. “The slate is clean.”

He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding under the fine linen shirt. He seemed to gather his resolve.

“Miss Elizabeth.” He spoke her name with a reverence that made her toes curl within her boots. “When I wrote my letter to you in Kent, I detailed my history, but I did not retract my sentiments. I must speak plainly now, for I cannot endure another moment of misunderstanding between us.”

Elizabeth’s world narrowed to the intense eyes studying her features.

“My affections and wishes have not altered in the slightest,” he declared. “The passage of two months has only served to solidify the truth of my feelings. I love you still. Most ardently.”

A tear escaped Elizabeth’s eye, tracing a warm path down her cheek.

“I do not ask for your hand today,” he added quickly, apparently misinterpreting her silence, a flicker of vulnerability masking his confidence. “I know I must earn your good opinion. I know my aunt complicates matters. But I ask for your permission to officially court you during your stay at Pemberley. I ask for the opportunity to prove my true character to you, without the shadow of my pride or the interference of others.”

“You have my permission, Mr Darcy,” she whispered, her joy bubbling over into a laugh. “Indeed, now that all these terrible misunderstandings are cleared, I find I very much wish to know you better.”

Mr Darcy lifted his arm, offering his open palm.

Elizabeth did not hesitate. She placed her gloved hand in his, and he closed his fingers around hers, offering a firm, secure, and incredibly warm connection, the simple physical contact sending a thrilling rush up her arm.

They stood together in the garden, the morning sun warming their shoulders, surrounded by the beauty of his estate. The promise of the courtship stretched before them, an exciting path devoid of the shadows that had previously plagued their acquaintance.

Elizabeth felt giddy with the turn of events. She was at Pemberley, and the master of the estate was holding her fingers as though they were the most precious jewels in his possession.

The perfect, romantic silence was shattered with the violence of a cannon blast.