Page 172 of Companions of Their Youth
She turned to face him.
“I thought I had spoken honestly yesterday,” he said. “But I did not realize how much pain I caused until I saw the look on your face.”
Her breath caught.
“Last night,” he continued, “I could not sleep. I thought about everything—what I would feel if our roles were reversed. What I would think if you had been with other men before me. And I realized the depth of my hypocrisy.”
He stepped closer. “I hated that look in your eyes. That fear. That self-doubt. And I realized I had never truly considered how the past can wound the future—even without intent.”
Her eyes burned.
“This morning, I stayed behind after service,” he said. “I went to Mr. Sanderson. I confessed everything. Not just to him—but to God. And I believe I have been forgiven.”
He took another step toward her, his gaze steady and full. “But now I must ask forgiveness from you.”
She blinked quickly, willing the tears back. “Darcy—”
“I know,” he said gently. “I know you want to say it is nothing. That you understand. That it’s reasonable. But your feelings were wounded, Elizabeth. And they matter. I never wish to dismiss or ignore them. You are… the most precious thing in my life.”
Her lip trembled.
“I do not want to enter our marriage with even the faintest shadow,” he said. “If ever you feel insecure, if ever you wonder whether I regret or compare, I promise I will remind you with my words, with my actions, how wrong that fear is.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.
“I am not ashamed of you,” he said. “I am ashamed of myself. That I ever lived a life where I could not see how deeply these things would matter.”
“I just…” she whispered. “What if I cannot please you? What if—what if you find me wanting?”
He stepped forward and gathered her gently into his arms. His embrace was warm and sure, his breath soft against her hair.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, “even the few kisses we have shared mean more to me than anything I ever experienced before. Because there was no love in those past encounters. Noconnection. No reverence. I want you—but not only in body. I want your laughter. Your fire. Your faith. You.”
She leaned into him, her face buried in his chest, her arms circling his waist.
“I will never compare you to anyone,” he said. “Because there is no comparison. You are the beginning and end of my desire. You are my home.”
She looked up at him, tears still clinging to her lashes. “Then yes,” she whispered. “You are forgiven.”
He lowered his head and kissed her gently—slowly—his lips brushing hers with reverence. She melted into him, and the kiss deepened, blooming into something richer, truer.
The ache inside her stilled.
In his arms, she felt whole.
She felt loved.
She felt home.
∞∞∞
The next two weeks passed in a whirl of ribbons, receipts, the last of the banns, and relentless bustle.
Elizabeth had hoped for long walks and quiet talks with Darcy before the wedding—perhaps an afternoon or two alone in the drawing room, even a shared stroll in the pale winter sun. But such hopes were soon drowned beneath an avalancheof fittings, lace samples, trousseau ordering, and guest arrangements.
Mrs. Bennet threw herself into the wedding preparations with a kind of manic delight, orchestrating everything from the embroidery on Elizabeth’s gloves to the precise arrangement of the bride’s cake. Mr. Darcy, it seemed, had all but vanished into thin air—but Elizabeth knew it was not by his own design. Instead, he had taken refuge in her father’s study as Elizabeth battled her mother, with Jane playing peacemaker.
“I do not see how I can spend an entire morning arguing over table linens,” Elizabeth had murmured once to Jane.
