Twenty-Three
Darcy broke into a smile so wide it ached.
The words still rang in his ears: Ask me again.
He had waited seven years and a lifetime for this moment.
Now that it had arrived, his chest felt too small to contain the joy surging through him.
He turned sharply and crossed to the chair where he had draped his coat earlier.
His fingers, usually so steady, fumbled with the inner pocket until they closed around the small velvet box he had retrieved that very morning.
The weight of it was unfamiliar; the ring inside had belonged to his mother, a sapphire that had waited decades for the right hand.
Still grinning like a fool, he turned back to Elizabeth. She stood exactly where he had left her, her cheeks wet with tears, her eyes bright and unguarded in a way he had never seen before. The sight of her here, in his study at Pemberley, choosing him, made his throat tighten with wonder.
“Elizabeth,” he said, voice rough with emotion, “it was you. Always you. And it will be forever you.”
He stood before her, the velvet box open in his palm. The ring sparkled like captured starlight.
“I love you. I have loved you through every mistake I have made and every year we have been apart. I offer you my fortune, my daughter, my heart, everything that is mine. Will you do me the honour of accepting my hand?”
For one heartbeat she was perfectly still.
Then Elizabeth laughed, a bright, startled sound that broke into a sob. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she pressed both hands to her mouth, her shoulders shaking with the force of joy and relief.
“Yes,” she managed, the word half-laugh, half-cry. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes.”
He pulled her into his arms in an instant. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. They held each other so tightly he could feel her heartbeat against his own. Her body trembled with laughter and tears; he felt both against his throat.
He drew back just far enough to cup her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that would not stop falling.
Then he kissed her, soft at first, reverent, a seal on every unspoken promise they had danced around for months.
She rose onto her toes to meet him, her fingers threading into his hair, and the kiss deepened, turning hungry and joyful all at once.
When they broke apart, they were both laughing, breathless, their foreheads pressed together.
Darcy rested his hands at her waist, grounding himself in the simple reality of her.
“I know you love my daughter,” he said quietly, his voice still unsteady.
“But do you love me, even a little bit? It does not have to be much, because I will do everything in my power to multiply it. Just... a fraction. That is all I need.”
Elizabeth pulled back slightly so she could look at him properly. Her eyes were luminous, shining bright. For the first time in all the years he had known her, she spoke his Christian name.
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, the word soft and sure on her tongue, “I love you. Totally. Irrevocably. Wholeheartedly. And this is my truth.”
The declaration landed in his chest like sunlight after an endless winter.
He exhaled a shaky breath and pulled her close again, wrapping her in his arms as though he could hold the moment forever.
She went willingly, tucking her head beneath his chin, her arms tight around his waist. They stood like that for a long time, swaying gently, the only sound their mingled breathing.
When at last they parted, Darcy kept one of her hands in his, unwilling to let go completely. “We should tell Anne,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth again. “She will want to know she is gaining a mother, not merely keeping a governess.”
Elizabeth’s laugh was watery but genuine. “She will have opinions. Many opinions.”
“She always does.” He brushed a stray curl from her temple, marvelling at the right to do so openly now. “But she loves you already. Almost as much as I do.”
“I do not know if I believe you,” she said with mischief, her eyes sparkling through the remnants of tears.
Darcy’s heart stuttered at the playful tone, so different from the guarded politeness she had worn for months. The smile that had never quite left his face widened further.
“I swear it, Elizabeth, please.”
“You have to prove it, Mr Darcy,” she said, her voice dropping lower, more dangerous.
She lifted onto her toes and bit the side of his jaw—not hard, but deliberate, the sharp little sting sending heat straight through him. The playfulness vanished in an instant, replaced by raw hunger.
In one swift motion he grabbed her by the backside, his hands filling with the soft curves of her through her gown, and deposited her on the edge of his desk.
Papers scattered. The inkwell wobbled but did not fall.
Elizabeth gasped, but her legs parted instinctively to make room for him as he stepped between them.
Their mouths crashed together. The kiss was urgent, messy, all the ties of restraint shattering at once.
Her hands were everywhere—tugging at his cravat, sliding under his waistcoat, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
He groaned into her mouth, one hand buried in her hair, the other roaming down her side, gripping her hip, pulling her flush against him.
He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down her throat, sucking at the sensitive skin until she arched against him with a soft whimper.
His hands found the buttons at the back of her gown and worked them open with impatient fingers.
The fabric loosened and he tugged it down along with her chemise, baring her breasts to the cool air of the study.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, the word reverent even in his desperation.
He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.
Elizabeth cried out, her back bowing, her fingers tightening in his hair.
He lavished attention on the tight peak, tongue flicking, teeth grazing lightly, then moved to the other, sucking and licking until both nipples were flushed dark and glistening.
Her breaths came in short, desperate pants.
His hand slid under her skirts, pushing them up her thighs.
She was already wet when his fingers found her, slick and hot.
He stroked her slowly at first, circling the sensitive bud at her centre, then dipped lower, sliding one finger inside her.
She moaned, her hips rocking against his hand.
He added a second finger, curling them just right, his thumb pressing rhythmically against her swollen bud while his mouth continued its assault on her breasts.
Elizabeth was writhing on the desk now, one hand braced behind her, the other clutching his shoulder.
The sounds she made, the soft gasps turning into broken moans, all drove him wild.
He pressed his hips forward, letting her feel how hard he was through his breeches.
They rocked together in a frantic rhythm like desperate adolescents, the friction of fabric against flesh only heightening the need.
He sucked harder on her nipple, his fingers moving faster inside her, his thumb relentless.
Elizabeth’s thighs began to tremble. Her head fell back, a sharp cry escaping her as pleasure crashed over her.
Her pleasure slicked his fingers, her inner walls clenching, her entire body shuddering with release.
Darcy kept moving through it, gentling his touch only when the tremors began to subside. He did not spend. The ache of his arousal was almost painful, but he held back, his breathing ragged.
Elizabeth slumped against him, her forehead resting on his shoulder, still panting. Even after her climax she looked unsatisfied, her eyes hazed with lingering want. She shifted against him, pressing closer, clearly craving more.
“When is the wedding?” she asked, her voice husky and direct, the implication unmistakable.
Darcy pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his own still glazed with need. He brushed a damp curl from her forehead with trembling fingers.
“I already have the special licence,” he said quietly. “It has been ready for months. We can do it whenever you want. We can do it today. I will go wake the vicar right now if you say the word.”
“Before we wake up the vicar,” Elizabeth whispered, still breathless and flushed on the edge of his desk, “it would be wise to inform your daughter, do you not think?”
Darcy rested his forehead against hers, trying to calm his breathing.
His hands were still on her hips, thumbs stroking slow circles over the fabric of her gown.
The ache in his body had not eased, but her words cut through his madness with their practicality.
She was right, of course. Anne had to hear it from them first, not from servants’ whispers or startled exclamations in the morning.
“Yes,” he murmured, pressing one last soft kiss to her lips. “You are right. We should wait until morning before waking anyone. Let them sleep.”
Elizabeth smiled, a small, tender curve of her mouth that made his chest tighten all over again.
She straightened her gown while he helped her down from the desk.
They lingered a moment longer in the study, stealing one more kiss, slower this time, full of promise rather than frenzy, before she slipped out into the corridor and back to her chamber.
Darcy stood alone for a long time after the door closed, his heart still racing, his body still humming with unspent need. He touched the spot on his jaw where she had bitten him and smiled.
The next morning dawned bright and clear over Pemberley. Darcy rose early, dressed with more care than usual, and made his way to the nursery just as the sun shone brightly through the tall windows. The door stood slightly ajar. He paused on the threshold, taking in the scene before him.
Elizabeth sat at the small table with Anne, who was still in her nightgown, her hair tousled from sleep, rubbing her eyes with one fist while clutching Muffin in the other.
A simple breakfast had been laid out; warm toast, butter, jam, and a pot of tea.
Elizabeth was speaking softly to the child, her voice warm and patient as always.
Darcy stepped inside. Elizabeth looked up and their eyes met.
A private smile passed between them, full of last night’s secrets and this morning’s anticipation.
Without a word, she reached for another slice of toast, buttered it generously, exactly the way he liked, and set it on a plate for him.
The small, domestic gesture made him settle with contentment.
“Good morning, Papa,” Anne said around a mouthful of toast, her voice still thick with sleep. “Miss Bennet says the sun is shining especially bright today. Do you think the butterflies will come out?”
Darcy sat down beside them, folding his long legs awkwardly, and accepted the buttered toast with a nod of thanks to Elizabeth. “I think they might, sweetheart. But first, we have something important to tell you.”
Anne tilted her head, suddenly alert despite her sleepiness. She set Muffin carefully on the table as though he, too, needed to hear this. “Is it about the new kittens in the stable? Because I have already named three of them.”
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. She gave him an encouraging nod, her hand resting lightly on the edge of the table near his. He reached out and took it, lacing their fingers together in plain view. Anne’s eyes widened at the sight.
“Anne,” he said gently, “Miss Bennet has agreed to marry me. She will become my wife, and your mother.”
The child was silent, her blue eyes moving slowly from their joined hands to Elizabeth’s face and back again. Her small brow furrowed in concentration as she processed the words.
“Does this mean Miss Bennet will never leave me?” she asked at last.
Elizabeth leaned forward, her free hand reaching out to brush a curl from Anne’s forehead. Her voice was warm, absolute, ringing with a certainty that left no room for doubt.
“Never,” she said firmly. “I will be your mamma from now on. Do you agree?”
Anne’s face transformed. The serious frown melted away into a radiant smile that lit her entire expression.
She launched herself across the table, throwing her arms around both of them at once.
Toast crumbs scattered and Muffin nearly toppled.
Darcy caught her easily, pulling her into his lap while Elizabeth wrapped her arms around them both.
“Yes!” Anne cried, her voice muffled against Darcy’s shoulder. “Yes, I agree! You will be my mamma and you will never leave and we can read stories every single night and you can help Papa carve new horses and we can have picnics by the pond and—and Muffin says he is very happy too!”
She pulled back just enough to look at Elizabeth, her eyes shining with pure delight. “Will you really be my mamma? Not just pretending?”
“Really and truly,” Elizabeth promised, pressing a kiss to the top of Anne’s head. “I love you very much, little one. And I love your Papa. We are going to be a family.”
Anne wriggled happily between them, one arm still looped around Darcy’s neck and the other reaching for Elizabeth’s hand.
She squeezed their joined fingers tightly, as though sealing the promise.
“Then I am the luckiest girl in Derbyshire. Even luckier than the princess in the tower, because my mamma came down all by herself and she is the best governess in the world and now she will stay forever.”
Darcy felt his throat tighten with emotion. He looked over Anne’s head at Elizabeth, who was watching them both. The three of them sat tangled together at the nursery table, a family in the making.
Anne chattered on, already planning for the wedding (“Muffin must have a new ribbon”), for the honeymoon (“Can we take him to the pond?”), and for all the stories Elizabeth would now read as a mother instead of a governess.
Every few sentences she would hug one of them again, or both, her small body vibrating with uncontainable joy.
Darcy held them close, one arm around his daughter and the other hand still laced with Elizabeth’s. The future stretched before him not as duty or careful arrangement, but as something warm and bright and full of laughter.
This was his family.