Chapter 32 #3
A fierce warmth rose in him then—not merely affection, but admiration—that she should willingly part with her inheritance for the security of both their cousins.
“I spoke with Richard recently,” Darcy said, lowering his voice.
He glanced about, but no one stood nearby.
“He has saved part of his pay and invested it wisely—not enough to purchase an estate outright, but enough to begin. If we sell Netherfield to him at fair value, he could place a substantial sum in earnest, with the remainder repaid from the estate’s income in annual instalments, with proper interest.”
Her face brightened at his quick agreement to her plan.
“If Grandpapa intends a gift towards Jane’s dowry,” she added, “it may be applied towards the purchase without Richard ever feeling indebted to either of us. He cannot refuse a gift from my grandfather.”
Darcy reached for her hand, his thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles.
“I am glad,” he said softly, “that we think so much alike. I am pleased that we have come to an agreement on this matter so easily.”
“As am I.”
“I will speak to Richard later.”
He glanced behind them. Richard and Georgiana were now some distance away, both looking in the opposite direction.
“I believe,” he murmured, “we have been abandoned by our companions.”
“Or we are trusted not to behave improperly,” she replied, tilting her head and casting him a look that suggested she found the notion highly debatable.
“Or Richard knows that I have craved time alone with you, and he seeks to return a favour by allowing it. He is seldom subtle, but he is not entirely blind.”
The words were delivered lightly, yet his gaze darkened as it settled upon her, the humour giving way to something quieter and far more intent. His fingers tightened around hers, not enough to cause discomfort, but enough to betray that the admission had cost him more than he would openly confess.
Without speaking further, he guided her along the path to where a tall hedge curved inward, its sheltering branches shielding them from view.
His hand did not release hers; instead, his thumb traced slowly across her gloved knuckles as though testing the fragile privacy they had been granted.
The air was crisp, and her breath lingered faintly between them, mingling with his.
For a moment, they simply stood, closer than propriety permitted, looking at one another.
“We have been forced to be very restrained this week,” she said at last.
“It has cost me dearly to be near you but not be able to touch you.”
Her gloved hand rested lightly against his coat, just above his heart. The innocent gesture stirred him deeply, warming him in ways he could not wholly conceal.
“I did not like the distance,” she admitted. “We still saw each other and spoke often, but we were never truly permitted time to ourselves.”
“Nor did I like the distance.”
His hand rose, hesitated only briefly, then settled at her waist. Even through winter layers, her warmth was unmistakable.
“You must know,” he said quietly, “that every hour apart has felt unnecessary. I am grateful your grandfather is not asking us to wait for months.”
Her breath caught softly. “We are to marry very soon.”
“Not nearly soon enough,” he corrected. “I cannot wait until you are fully mine.”
Her lips curved into a sweet smile. “I am already yours.”
The world narrowed to the small space between them.
He lifted her hand and pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of her wrist, just where glove met skin.
When he raised his head, her eyes were luminous.
“Kiss me, William,” she said quietly.
For several heartbeats he did not move. Then his hand at her waist tightened, drawing her nearer still with unmistakable intent. He bent his head slowly, and though there was nothing hesitant in him now, he gave her the space to refuse or withdraw.
She did not.
Instead, her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, clutching rather than merely resting, and when his lips met hers, the restraint of the week dissolved between them.
The kiss was warm and deliberate at first, slow enough to savour, restrained enough to remain defensible if they were caught. Then it deepened. His mouth lingered, no longer content with mere tenderness, the pressure of it unmistakably intent. It was not hurried, yet it had ceased to be cautious.
The world beyond the hedge receded entirely as her breath caught, and his hand at her waist drew her closer still. What began in gentleness became something far more consuming, the discipline he prided himself upon yielding, inch by inch.
When at last he drew back, it was not from lack of desire but from the strength of his love for her. Their breaths mingled, uneven now, and he rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, as though mastering himself required that small anchor of contact.
Then, with visible reluctance, he stepped away from her.
“We must return to the house.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
Neither moved at first.
Only when the distant sound of Richard’s voice drifted nearer did they step back onto the path—composed once more, neither quite the same as before.