Page 143 of The Difference of a Darcy
“Elizabeth,” he said softly.
She looked at him then, her eyes luminous in the lamplight.
He leaned in and kissed her—slowly, reverently, with all the quiet certainty of a man who finally knew his heart. It was not a kiss of urgency or hunger, but of devotion, a wordless promise that whatever awaited them beyond this strange world, they would face it together.
When he drew back, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide and uncertain.
“I know we are already considered married in this world,” he said, his voice low, “but you and I know the truth. I would not dishonor you, nor cheapen what we share. Elizabeth Bennet, will you marry me? Truly marry me.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “How… how can we? We do not use our real names, and it is not as if we can post the banns or afford a license.”
“It would be easy enough to marry over the anvil in Gretna Green,” he said. “The border is not so very far, and we can use our real names there.”
For a moment she only looked at him, her eyes searching his face. Then a smile began to form—soft, radiant, full of that quiet confidence he had come to love.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I will marry you.”
Something within him eased, something that had been bound tight for months. He released a breath he had not realized he was holding. “I do not know what is next,” he said, his voice unsteady with emotion. “But it no longer matters—not so long as you are with me.”
She smiled again, and he reached up, touching the small snowdrop still tucked behind her ear. Its stem was long and pliant. Carefully he removed it, twisting it about her finger until it formed a delicate circle of pale green and white.
“A poor thing for a wedding ring,” he murmured, “but it is the best I can offer until we figure things out.”
Her eyes shimmered as she looked at it. “It is perfect.”
He bent toward her once more, brushing a kiss against her lips—soft, tender, full of love and the promise of all that might yet be.
When they lay back against the pillows, her hand still in his, the tiny flower curled around her finger, the last thought that passed through Darcy’s mind before sleep claimed him was simple and complete.
Last Christmas, she made me wish that I had never been born. And now, because of her, I cannot imagine wishing for anything less than a life beside her.
Chapter 29
Darcy awoke with a start.
For one disoriented moment, he could not place where he was. The bed beneath him felt strange and familiar all at once. He blinked, and the ceiling above him came into focus—the carved cornices, the faint crack in the plaster near the window.
His heart lurched so violently he thought he might be ill.
He sat bolt upright. The chamber tipped and steadied around him. The scent, his own blend of cedar shavings and cold ash, was unmistakable. On the small escritoire by the hearth lay a scatter of papers, the first pages of letters begun and abandoned—his own cramped hand, slashed out and re-begun:Madam— Miss Bennet— Elizabeth—.Each one bore the mark of agitation and temper.
He stared at them, scarcely breathing.
Rosings.
He threw back the bedclothes and looked down. The nightclothes were the same he had worn that dreadful night—the night he had tossed and turned in bed, angry and miserable over Elizabeth’s rejection.
From the corridor came the sounds of the house at morning: the low burr of voices, a footman’s quick tread, the thin rattleof a coal scuttle, the distant strike of a grate being cleared. His throat tightened. A tremor went through his hands.
Was it all a dream?
No, that was not possible. It was too real, too detailed.
Darcy rose and crossed to the window and pressed his palm to the glass as if he could test the reality of the world by touch alone. The landscape beyond was bright with pale winter sunlight, the lawn glittering with frost. His breath fogged against the glass. He turned back to the room again, half afraid that if he blinked, the image would change—that he would find himself once more in the strange world he and Elizabeth had shared.
But nothing shifted. The chamber remained as it had always been.
He dragged in a breath that scraped, then another. Unable to bear the loneliness of the room any longer—when is the last time I awoke without her by my side?—he went behind the changing screen and tore his dressing gown from his body. He dressed with hands that would not be steady, mis-fastening one button and then another, then tearing them free to start again. He crammed his feet into his boots, forced them at last to heel, and seized his coat.
