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She decided to give him courage before he asked the question.

“You have been attempting to speak to me alone all morning, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth stated gently, her tone laced with affection. “I thought I might assist you.”

He halted and turned to face her, the vulnerability in his expression causing her heart to ache with tenderness.

“I have attempted to secure a private moment for three days,” he confessed, his words rough. “But my family has a remarkable talent for interference.”

“They only wish to see you happy,” Elizabeth offered, smiling. “Their methods are unconventional, but their intentions are pure.”

Mr Darcy exhaled a steadying measure of air.

“This past week,” he began, his tone low and searching, “has been the most extraordinary period of my life. I have experienced a joy I never believed possible.”

“I share that sentiment, sir.” She met his gaze, offering him the truth. “I have been wonderfully happy here.”

Mr Darcy absorbed the confession, hope blossoming in his eyes. Yet, the ghosts of his past failure seemed to hinder his tongue. He required one final push to abandon the prepared perfection he believed she required.

“I must confess a small secret, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth murmured, a teasing lilt returning to her speech. “The tiny blue flower you presented to me during the picnic... I have kept it. I pressed it between the pages of a book.”

Darcy stared at her, astonishment slackening his features. “You kept the flower? A simple weed from the lakeside?”

“I did,” Elizabeth confirmed, her smile widening. “Because you chose it yourself. No one instructed you to pick it, nor did anyone dictate the colour. It was a sincere offering.”

He blinked, the absurdity of the situation piercing his anxiety. The tension drained from his shoulders, and a chuckle rumbled in his chest, breaking the solemnity of the moment.

When he spoke again, his words no longer sounded rehearsed. The laughter released him, allowing him to speak plainly, from the depths of his soul.

“You are correct,” he murmured, the amusement fading into intensity. “I require no instructions when it concerns you, Elizabeth. My heart requires no prompter.”

He stepped closer, abandoning the polite distance of a promenade.

“I do not wish to offer you grand, poetic declarations,” he said with honesty. “I wish to offer you my life. During these past days, I have discovered what my existence lacks. When I enter a room, I search for your presence. When I read a passage in a book, I find myself desiring your opinion. I collect small observations throughout the day because I know they will amuse you.”

Elizabeth felt tears pricking the corners of her eyes. It was not a speech concerning her inferior connections, nor was it a reluctant surrender to a passionate madness; it was a promise of a full life.

“I want that companionship for the rest of my days,” he continued, his gaze locked on hers, pleading and certain all at once. “I want to hear what you think, Elizabeth, especially when you think me wrong. I want to share the smallest, most ordinary moments of my day with you, because I find they matter more when you are present.”

His fingers trembled as he pressed her hand more closely against his sleeve.

“My affections and wishes have not changed,” he whispered, the final remnants of his pride surrendered. “I love you. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

There was no hesitation. There was no coy delay, nor was there any desire to employ her usual defensive wit.

“Yes.” Elizabeth delivered the word immediately, her tone clear and ringing with certainty.

His breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as though he dared not trust his own hearing.

“Yes,” she repeated with a tearful smile. She released his sleeve, moving her palms to rest on the lapels of his coat. “Yes, yes, yes!”

The transformation in his countenance was spectacular, every shadow of doubt vanishing.

“Elizabeth,” he breathed, the single word carrying a universe of relief.

She would not allow the moment to conclude with mere acceptance. He had offered his heart; he deserved to know the depth of her own devotion. His astonishment made her wonder whether he had hoped for her consent without daring to expect equal affection. She intended to correct that assumption.

“I must tell you,” Elizabeth continued, her words soft and earnest. “I had begun to dread the prospect of leaving Pemberley. At first, I blamed the impending journey. I blamed the dust of the roads and the heat of the season. It was a convenient explanation, but it could not survive honest examination.”

Mr Darcy remained still, hanging on her every syllable, his fingers closing over hers.