Chapter 15
15
T he days had never passed so slowly.
A week had gone by since Elizabeth had overheard the gossip in town—since she had learned of Darcy’s supposed engagement.
And still, there was no word from him.
No letter. No explanation.
Nothing.
At first, she had told herself she did not care. She had forced herself to sit with her family at meals, to sip at tea she could not taste, to read books whose words blurred together on the page.
But her body betrayed her.
She could not eat without nausea rising in her throat.
She could not sleep without restless dreams waking her in the night.
She could not think of anything but him.
The man she had trusted.
The man she had believed.
The man who had promised—promised—that he would come for her.
And yet, he had not.
So, that morning, just before the sun had fully risen, she left the house without a word.
She needed air.
She needed to breathe.
She needed to walk until she felt like herself again.
She followed the familiar path toward the rolling fields beyond Longbourn, where the grass was still damp with dew, where the world was still quiet and untouched.
She had just crested the hill when she heard it?—
The sound of thundering hooves.
Her breath caught in her throat.
And then—he was there.
Darcy rode fast, too fast, his great black horse cutting across the field like a streak of shadow against the gold of the morning light.
Elizabeth froze where she stood, heart hammering wildly, disbelieving what she was seeing.
She must have imagined this.
She must be dreaming.
But then—he was off the horse.
And then—his arms were around her.
She barely had time to gasp before he was pulling her close, crushing her against his chest, burying his face into the curve of her neck as he exhaled in a great, shuddering breath. "Elizabeth," he rasped, his voice shaking with something raw, something fierce.
Her hands clutched at his coat before she could stop herself, fingers curling into the thick wool, pressing into the solid warmth of him, the realness of him.
"You came," she whispered, breathless.
Darcy drew back slightly, enough to look at her, his hands cradling her face, his thumbs brushing softly over her cheekbones.
"I only just heard the rumors," he said, his voice unsteady, urgent, filled with something close to anguish. "They are not true. They were never true. Elizabeth, you must believe me."
Her lips parted, her chest tight with something between relief and disbelief.
"You are not engaged to Anne?" she whispered.
Darcy’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something dangerous. "No," he said firmly. "Never. Not for a single moment. It was always you."
Elizabeth let out a soft, shaky breath, her hands lifting to grasp his wrists, to feel him, to make sure this was real.
"But why—" she hesitated, struggling to form the words, struggling to understand. "Why did you not write? Why have you been gone so long?"
Darcy exhaled sharply, his forehead pressing against hers for the briefest of moments, as if he needed her to steady him.
"I returned to Pemberley. I have been organizing everything," he admitted. "I wanted—I needed—to be able to meet you properly. To be able to ask for your hand, not as a man desperate to steal you away, but as a man who could offer you the life you deserve."
A jolt of warmth rushed through her.
His hands fell away from her face.
And then—before she could even think, before she could comprehend what was happening?—
He was on one knee.
Elizabeth gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, her heart pounding so fiercely she thought it might break apart.
Darcy looked up at her, his face open, unguarded, entirely hers.
"I cannot live without you," he said. "I have tried. I have failed. I love you, Elizabeth. I have loved you from the moment I saw you. I will love you until my last breath."
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she could not move, could not speak, could do nothing but stare at him, utterly undone.
Darcy swallowed, his voice lower now, rough with emotion. "Marry me," he said. "Come with me to Pemberley. Let me spend every day for the rest of my life proving to you that I was made to love you."
Elizabeth let out a soft, broken sound, one hand falling from her mouth, her fingers trembling.
And then—finally, finally?—
"Yes," she whispered.
Darcy exhaled sharply, as if those words had released something in him, something deep and buried and unshakable.
And then—he stood again.
And then—his hands were on her waist, pulling her against him, his lips hovering over hers, giving her one final moment to pull away.
She did not.
She never would.
His mouth claimed hers with all the passion, all the desperation, all the aching longing they had suppressed for far too long.
Elizabeth melted against him, her hands curling into his coat, clinging to him, drinking him in, reveling in the way he trembled beneath her touch.
The world disappeared.
There was only this.
Only him.
Only them.
Darcy pulled away just enough to look at her, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling, their hearts pounding. "Come," he whispered. He lifted her onto his horse.
Elizabeth let out a breathless laugh as Darcy swung up behind her, his arms wrapped securely around her waist, holding her close.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
He pressed a kiss to the side of her temple, his voice full of something warm, something endlessly content.
"Nowhere in particular," he said. "I simply want to be with you."
Elizabeth smiled, leaning back against his chest.
And as they rode through the rolling countryside, as the wind whispered through her hair, as Darcy pressed another soft kiss to her shoulder, she knew?—
This was what happiness felt like.
"I brought my physician with me," he said softly.
Elizabeth blinked, turning slightly in his arms. "You… what?"
"He is at Longbourn now," Darcy said. "Seeing to Kitty. I could not bear the thought of you worrying over her when I had the means to help."
Elizabeth stared at him. "You did this for me?" she whispered.
Darcy smiled, pressing another kiss to her hair. "I will do anything for you," he murmured.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, breathing him in, letting herself finally—finally—accept the truth.
He was hers.
And she was his.
Forever.