Chapter 6
HONOURABLE
After sharing one last nightcap with Bingley, Darcy sought his own chamber more out of habit than fatigue. When he was just outside his door, he heard his valet still moving about and tidying up within, and a sense of reluctance made him pause.
He could enter and allow Roberts to guide him ritually through the divesting of his attire until the rhythm of such routine lulled him once more into thinking that today had been like any other before it.
Or, he could prolong the enchantment of the evening by returning to the library, rebuilding its fire, and indulging in the recent memory of Elizabeth, her eyes dancing in mischief as she offered the clever quips of the Fool.
And Elizabeth, her cheeks rosy and her lashes fluttering in surprise when Darcy knelt before her as the King of France.
Elizabeth, who danced with him and showed true pleasure in his company, and who smiled at him with a real warmth that was so different from the archness of manner she had once presented to him.
It was this warmth that seemed to signal to him a new response from her, a tangible change in her feelings that he could sense in every look and every shy but welcoming touch.
The hope within him was crackling to life again, fanning into flame as it fed on the tinder of the acute longing he had for more of her.
Walking through the darkened halls eased some of the restlessness the longing evoked.
As he turned down the staircase, he could see that the library door was ajar and the room dimly lit.
The servants, having made quick work of tidying away the sundry costumes and props, must have extinguished the candles and left the weak fire to burn itself to cinders.
He swung the door open a little farther to let himself inside but was surprised to find on the study table one lit candle that did not belong in the room.
And there was another anomaly—bent down by the waning fireplace was a dark form, which suddenly stood up.
The shape of the dimly lit figure was one he would know anywhere, no matter how late the hour.
“El—Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy whispered, surprise having made him nearly forget his manners.
“Mr Darcy, forgive me for intruding on your privacy,” she replied, moving aside to retrieve her candle from the table.
In its light, he could see her more clearly.
Over her own day dress, she had wrapped herself in a shawl, which seemed as much a nod to modesty as to the chill of deep night.
Her hair was a curling dark mass held only loosely with a gleam of bright ribbon.
When his gaze moved back to her face, he could see some chagrin in her expression as she explained, “I am afraid I lost that beautiful hair comb that I wore as Cordelia—perhaps somewhere on the floor during the final tragic scenes of her demise. I returned here to search for it, but the fire was nearly out, and so were the sconces and the candles.”
“I can help you light them,” Darcy heard himself offer. But he did not move.
Elizabeth’s eyes glowed with amusement in the candlelight. “It seems fortunate to me, sir, that you are still awake in my hour of need,” she said teasingly. “Perhaps, however, you simply returned here to choose a book, or to ensure all was put to rights after our production of King Lear.”
“More like I caught a little of Lear’s madness,” replied Darcy with honest quickness. “My mind is not at rest.”
“Is there some threat upon this household of which I am unaware?” she asked, taking a step closer to peer at him. And oh, her teasing, teasing tone!
He grinned back at her. “If there were, would you call up the French king’s army, like Cordelia, and come to my aid?”
He had meant to return her teasing in equal measure, but he seemed to have surpassed his mark. As soon as he mentioned the King of France from their play, she bit her lip and looked down at her candle. Was she blushing again? In the golden light playing on her face, it was difficult to tell.
“I should not be so flippant,” Darcy offered apologetically. “There is more merit in the Bard’s words than madness. As the Fool, I think you conveyed that very clearly.”
“I am glad I was more than merely foolish in that role,” Elizabeth replied. “There is always so much layered meaning to uncover in Shakespeare’s works.”
“And in his characters. I have thought particularly on Cordelia’s virtues since speaking of her today.”
“She was a very noble lady in the best sense of that term,” Elizabeth agreed, raising up her candle and readjusting her shawl. “And I wish I could remember where exactly, as I portrayed her final scenes, I fell upon this floor.”
“Ah, yes, your search. Here, lend me your candle for a moment,” said Darcy, reanimated by her reminder and moving to light some of the high mirrored sconces on the wall beyond Elizabeth’s reach, which immediately brightened the room.
Whilst he worked, Elizabeth had brought herself back to the fireplace and added sufficient kindling to coax it back into a brief, flaring blaze.
Darcy returned to her with the candle in time to catch her gazing at him before she also recalled herself to her task, scurrying off to peer here and there around the footings of shelves and legs of furniture for the missing ornamental comb.
But Darcy had not mistaken her look—she had been observing him, her expression so soft as to seem nearly dreamy, yet with the deeper concentration of fascinating feeling. If the admiration he had read there was yet another work of this night’s strange magic, it seemed a shame to waste it.
It was now or never. “Miss Elizabeth, might you—”
“Aha! I have found it!” she cried in triumph, reaching under the tripod legs of a specimen table and holding the glittering comb aloft with a grin.
By retrieving her prize, her shawl had unwrapped itself, and her gown underneath now bunched oddly, gaping just enough to reveal the top of her creamy shoulder.
It occurred to Darcy that perhaps in her haste to change her clothing and begin her search, she had not fully closed the back of the bodice.
The sudden heat in his blood had nothing to do with the candle still held near his heart.
He set aside the light and approached her.
Elizabeth, misreading his intent, held out the heirloom in her hand to him.
He paused long enough to catch her gaze meaningfully, then bent instead to her shawl where it dangled near her feet.
She was stiff like a porcelain doll in her surprise, but she did not recoil as he made a circuit around her back, winding her shoulders in the woollen fabric until he was in front of her again, holding the edges together above her breast. She was breathing a little quickly for someone standing so still.
So was he.
“It seems a night for discovering hidden treasure,” said Darcy in a voice that shook very slightly.
He gathered his courage and finally asked, “Can you forgive me, Miss Elizabeth, for not seeing you for the treasure that you are? In my arrogance and conceit, I have fought my attraction to you. I have been both fond and foolish—I was too concerned with what society expected of me, and what ambitions my relations held for my connexions and fortune. But you—with all your kindness and your fine eyes and your clever wit—you are yourself a dowry.”
There. He had made his confession at last. He was close enough to watch her eyes widen and bloom with understanding. It made him bold enough to begin again. “Elizabeth, might you— Could you consider—”
He let his hand drift to her open palm. He wrapped his fingers around hers, closing her hand over the comb gently. Then, having already practised this once already in their play-acting, it felt both natural and necessary to take his knee again before her in so serious a moment as this.
“Would you marry me? Become my wife? I cannot bear the thought of you leaving this house in mere days without knowing when you will return.”
Her face for a moment was frighteningly inscrutable as she stared at him and took in his words. It was difficult for Darcy to remain in suspense, but he held on to hope—and her hand.
She drew closer, still searching his face. Then her free hand moved down to cup his cheek. Darcy let out a shaking breath just as she drew in her own breath to speak.
“You seem so certain now,” she remarked in some disbelief, “but I came here so very uncertain. The Mr Darcy of Hertfordshire was not someone I thought I could admire. And yet the Mr Darcy of London has shown me in every way that he can be a man of good character. I wonder if, in saying yes, that I would somehow marry both men, though they but little resemble each other.”
Darcy shut his eyes, revelling in the touch of her warm, soft fingers on his cheek, a touch he feared might be too fleeting.
“I had to first humble, then mend, the arrogance and pride you encountered in me in Hertfordshire. Painful though it was, I owe Bingley my thanks for revealing these flaws in my character when he first came away to London. The Mr Darcy you met the second time I came into Hertfordshire was already much changed from the one who left it.”
Elizabeth’s smile grew. “Then I suppose I owe Mr Bingley my thanks as well for such a gift.”
It was not precisely an answer, but it was enough to make his heart burn and ache. He turned his face, unable to resist closing his eyes and pressing a kiss into the tender cradle of her hand.
She loosened her grasp from both his face and his hand rather abruptly, and his heart nearly stopped until he realised that now her arms were coming around him, and she was crouched level with him on the floor.
His face was soon pressed into her hair, and for a moment all he could sense was the heat and scent of her, seemingly all around him.
He could very nearly breathe her in. “Elizabeth,” he gasped, “is this your answer?”
“Yes,” she replied, somewhat unsteadily. Then, sounding more certain and more pleased, repeated, “Yes, Mr Darcy. I will marry you.”
He sat back on his heels to look at her face and to cup her cheek with the same querying affection she had shown him.
“Oh,” he said, recognising in her fine eyes that frankly admiring gaze that had so inspired him moments ago.
“My dearest, you have honoured me above any man tonight. I promise to cherish you well so that you will have no regrets.”
She smiled, and he could not resist touching his forefinger to the dimple in her silken cheek. “I admit I do have one regret already,” she confessed slyly.
Darcy knew her well enough not to feel alarmed but instead delighted by her playful tone. “And what is that?”
“In all my searching of this room, there was not one sprig of mistletoe to be found.”
The words were scarcely out of her rosy mouth before Darcy pressed forwards, capturing it with a tenderness that soon grew rather wild.
He was aware, as his hands slid to her shoulders, that once again that woollen wrap was gone, and he had Elizabeth before him in a loosened gown.
He gentled the kiss, carefully reaching within himself for restraint.
When they were both aching for breath, he released her mouth and let himself enjoy placing sweet kisses softly on her brow, her cheeks, and then her neck, as his hands wandered into her hair. Elizabeth gave a humming sigh of delight that made his heart soar.
“I should speak to your father in the morning,” he murmured. “There is no reason to delay, is there?”
Elizabeth frowned, toying most distractingly with his cravat. “Tomorrow will be Jane and Mr Bingley’s one and only Christmas Day as an engaged couple. I admit I am reluctant to overshadow their joy with our news. We can wait one more day, can we not?”
“I shall keep my silence if it pleases you,” Darcy offered, stifling some disappointment. Now that he had her pledge, he was suddenly very eager to acknowledge their understanding.
She kissed the edge of his frown. “Only one day,” she affirmed. “After all, it is Christmas.”