Page 40 of Desired By Mr Darcy
Then, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, she heard it - the steady, unmistakable rhythm of approaching riders. She rose, her pulse quickening, and made her way to the window just in time to see them: Bingley, cheerful as ever, calling out a greeting to the servants, and beside him, Fitzwilliam Darcy, dismounting with his usual quiet grace.
Lizzy barely waited for propriety to dictate her next move. She excused herself hastily and made her way outside, the cool air rushing over her heated skin as she stepped onto the gravel path.
Darcy turned at once at the sound of her footfalls, and the moment their eyes met, the rest of the world faded away. He looked as he always did - tall, composed, devastatingly handsome - but there was something softer in his gaze, something unguarded that sent a shiver through her.
“Elizabeth.” His voice was rich with longing, and she had to clasp her hands before her to keep from throwing herself into his arms.
“Mr Darcy,” she teased, though her voice was breathless. “I had begun to think you would never return to Hertfordshire. There are mere days until our wedding; you lingered in London far too long.”
He stepped forward, lowering his voice.
“I have counted the minutes.”
“I have counted the seconds.”
For a moment, they simply stood there, eyes locked upon one another as though they would vanish. The gravel crunched behind her, and she heard Mr Bingley calling for Jane. Shesprang back, reminded that they were not alone, and they were not unseen.
“We must be patient,” he murmured, though his fingers twitched at his side, as if aching to touch her.
“I tire of patience,” Lizzy whispered, and his eyes darkened. “But I suppose, a few days more shall not hurt.”
Patience, as it transpired, was indeed something Lizzy lacked. Not in regards to Fitzwilliam, but her family. Her mother had become even more overbearing as the wedding neared, and her mind was frayed with talk of flowers and dresses. Mrs Bennet, never one to be accused of subtlety, had become utterly unbearable as the wedding day approached. Every waking moment was filled with discussions - nay, incessant monologues - on matters Lizzy could scarcely bring herself to care about. The seating arrangements, the colour of the ribbons adorning the church pews, the precise number of courses to be served at the wedding breakfast - these were, in Mrs Bennet’s mind, questions of the gravest importance. To Lizzy, however, they were nothing but trifles, insignificant details that paled in comparison to the true meaning of the day.
How many times had she been summoned to offer an opinion on lace versus embroidery, on violets versus roses, only for her input to be ignored in favour of whatever her mother had already decided? How often had she been forced to listen to lamentations about the expenses, the guest list, the absolute necessity of making the event as grand as possible? This evening, her final as Miss Elizabeth Bennet, her patience had at last frayed and she had told her mother to be quiet. The response had been so dramatic - gasps, exclamations, the clutching of handkerchiefs - that Lizzy had stormed from the house.
And so, she sat alone in the garden as the sun began to set the night before her wedding, tucked away in the gazebo.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy’s voice came from behind her. “I have been sent to fetch you for dinner.”
“Fitzwilliam! I did not expect you tonight.”
“I received a missive from your father inviting me to dine with you. I have been lead to believe things have been a little fraught today.”
“A little! My mother is quite mad. We shall have enough food for all of Hertfordshire at the wedding breakfast. I cannot hear another thing about flowers or dresses, or…”
“Then I will make no mention of anything other than my excitement to see you as you walk up the aisle tomorrow. You could wear rags and carry dandelions, and you would be the most beautiful bride.”
“You flatter me,” she smiled. “I am glad to see you. I suppose I must return inside.”
“I agree, before your mother accuses me of whisking you away before the vows have even been spoken.”
Lizzy took his arm, squeezing it lightly.
“Perhaps she would be right to worry. If you were to suggest elopement at this moment, I might not refuse.”
He chuckled, guiding her back toward the house.
“As tempting as that may be, my love, I suspect your mother would not recover.”
“Very well,” she sighed dramatically. “I shall endure one more evening of lace and roses and endless fuss. But after that, Fitzwilliam, you must promise me a life free of such nonsense.”
He looked down at her, his expression soft.
“I promise you a life filled only with what truly matters.”
And with that, Lizzy allowed herself to be led back inside, bracing herself for one final evening as Miss Bennet - with the comforting certainty that by tomorrow night, she would be Elizabeth Darcy.
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