Chapter 20
He had kissed her. No, she had kissed him!
The truth of it roared in his mind with all the wonder and disbelief of a miracle. Her hands still rested against his coat, her breath—soft, uneven—caught the faint light of the fire between them. For one exquisite instant, nothing else existed.
Then laughter rang out in the passage.
Two women’s voices, quick and shrill, drawing closer.
Darcy turned toward the sound, already half in alarm, when the door opened wide without so much as a knock. Miss Kendrick and Miss Talbot burst in, flushed from wine and mischief. Their laughter died on the threshold.
The sight they met was beyond all hope of denial: Elizabeth near the hearth, colour high, eyes wide; himself too near—far too near, his coat unbuttoned and his heart in full rebellion. Above them, like some absurd benediction, hung a bough of mistletoe.
Miss Talbot gave a delighted little squeak. “Well! Christmas favours come early this year.”
Miss Kendrick’s eyes glittered. “Indeed. How fortunate for Miss Bennet. Some ladies must wait a lifetime to be noticed under the mistletoe.”
Miss Talbot tittered. “Or to find themselves so—cleverly—placed beneath it.”
The words struck like sleet—cold, smiling, and meant to wound.
Elizabeth’s colour drained. Darcy felt her recoil beside him, a small, instinctive movement that made his own restraint vanish. He stepped forward at once, blocking their view, his voice smooth as ice.
“You have made your point, ladies. Now kindly leave.”
Miss Kendrick only smiled, too foolish to recognise danger. “We did not mean to intrude, I assure you. Such charming secrecy deserves to be admired.”
“Then admire it elsewhere.”
The flicker in his eyes must have warned her, for she faltered, even as her companion tugged her arm toward retreat.
He took another step forward. “You will remember this moment as nothing. Do you understand me?”
Miss Talbot curtsied in confusion; Miss Kendrick managed a brittle laugh. “Good heavens, Mr. Darcy, we are not in the habit of publishing what we see.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he said. “I should hate to think your amusement came at a lady’s expense.”
The door closed behind them with a whisper of silk and a hiss of gossip waiting to be born.
Elizabeth sank into the nearest chair, her hands pressed to her face. “It is over,” she said, voice roughened by shame. “They will tell everyone.”
Darcy stood a few paces away, unable to bear the distance yet afraid to close it too soon. The firelight caught her face—too pale, too proud to hide. “Then let them.”
Her head lifted sharply, disbelief cutting through the despair in her eyes.“You cannot mean that. It would have been scandalous enough, had we the chance to announce things properly. But this? They will call it deliberate—that I trapped you—”
“They may call it what they like.”
“They will ruin you!”
He only smiled. “They have tried before.”
“You will be a cautionary tale,” she whispered. “And I will be your mistake.”
He moved at once, crossing the space to kneel before her.
The motion felt instinctive, necessary, as if standing above her now would make a lie of everything he meant to prove.
“Do not give them that power,” he said. “They will talk because they must. They will twist what they cannot understand. But the truth is ours—it has always been ours. I will not trade it for their comfort.”
She looked at him, silent, as though she could not decide whether to believe him. He saw the tremor of her hands against her lap, the fine line of her jaw where pride warred with fear.
“You know what they will think of me,” she said at last. “Lydia’s name already stains mine. They will say I used you, that I lured you here, that I made you forget your consequence and your family—”
He caught her hand before she could pull away.
Her pulse thudded against his palm.“Enough,” he said.
“If they must invent a story, let it be that I found the one woman who could shame me into honesty. Let them think what they please. I have been the subject of gossip before; this time, I am proud of the reason.”
Her gaze fell to their joined hands. He could feel her searching for an argument and finding none.
“You would marry me,” she said, “and bear the scorn, and never once think I might have ruined you?”
He felt something fierce rise in him—defiance, devotion, joy all at once.“You could never ruin me,” he said. “You have already saved me—from arrogance, from loneliness, from myself. If they must sneer, let them. I would rather be pitied for loving you than envied for living without you.”
Her eyes changed at that—he saw it happen, the flash of doubt extinguished, the sudden resolve that stole his breath. She rose in one swift motion and took his face between her hands.
“Then you are mine,” she said.
He managed a broken laugh. “I have been yours since Kent.”
Her mouth found his before he could say another word.
There was no hesitation in her, no prelude—only the unguarded certainty of a woman who had made her choice.
The world fell away; all that remained was the taste of her, the impossible warmth of her in his arms. He held her close, not in triumph but in wonder, the sound of the fire the only witness to the life beginning between them.
When she drew back, she stayed near enough that he could feel her breath against his cheek. Her eyes shone with tears that had not fallen.“They will call me reckless,” she murmured.
He smiled—genuine, helpless. “Then I shall be reckless, too.”
Elizabeth woke to a light that seemed too pale to be day. The fire had gone out, and the chill made every memory sharper. Her gown lay across a chair where she had left it; the small book rested on her table beside the candle that had burned itself to smoke.
She touched the ribbon binding once—green against her palm, soft as a promise—and the whole of the night returned in a rush: his voice, the door flung open, the laughter, the look in his eyes when she kissed him again.
For a moment, she hid her face in her hands, half in shame, half in wonder.
She had done the unthinkable, and she would not take it back.
A knock came, gentle but urgent.
“Lizzy?”
Mrs. Gardiner entered before she could answer, already dressed for the morning, colour high from the cold corridor. She closed the door behind her and crossed to the hearth.
“My dear,” she began, and stopped. “You look as though you have not slept.”
“I have not.”
Mrs. Gardiner studied her a moment longer, eyes kind but searching. “I think I know why.”
Elizabeth drew the counterpane more closely around her shoulders. “Then I need not explain.”
“I am afraid you must,” her aunt said quietly. “I went below for coffee, and I have heard enough to make me wish I had stayed abed. Miss Kendrick has been very busy this morning.”
The words made Elizabeth’s stomach twist. “So soon?”
“Gossip never waits for breakfast.”
Elizabeth laughed, a brittle sound. “Then it will have plenty to feast upon. She found me alone with Mr. Darcy last night.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s brows lifted, though her tone stayed calm. “Alone? I see. And what were you about, child?”
Elizabeth met her gaze squarely. “Accepting his proposal of marriage.”
The silence that followed was broken only by the faint crack of ice outside the window.
Her aunt sank onto the edge of the bed, expression softening. “Then it is true.”
“It is.” Elizabeth hesitated. “I love him, Aunt. I tried not to, but I do. And he—he has chosen me in full knowledge of all that stands against it.”
Mrs. Gardiner took her hand and pressed it lightly. “Then I hope he knows the fortune he has gained. Still, you understand what they will say?”
“They already say it,” Elizabeth answered. “They think I contrived to catch him. That with one sister fallen, another would do anything for consequence. I cannot stop them.”
“No,” her aunt said, “but he can. And I suspect he means to.”
Before Elizabeth could ask what she meant, the door opened without ceremony. It was Mr. Gardiner, a letter in hand and a look of mild pleasure upon his face.
“My dear,” he said to his wife, “a messenger has just come through from the Allenbys with a note asking after our welfare. He says the roads are clear at last—passable all the way to Towcester. Sir Edward is already sending word round to those who wish to travel this morning.”
Elizabeth rose at once, the quilt slipping from her shoulders. “So soon?”
“Quite soon,” he said. “Everyone is in a flurry below—servants packing, guests rejoicing. Half the house means to be on the road before noon.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked at Elizabeth, then at her husband. “Perhaps we should delay until the afternoon. There may be matters to settle first.”
Mr. Gardiner frowned. “Matters?”
Elizabeth swallowed. “There are indeed. I must see Mr. Darcy.”
Her aunt gave a small, approving nod. “I thought as much.”
Outside, the bells of the stable yard rang faintly through the snow—bright, urgent, calling the house to motion. Elizabeth stood a moment by the window, the cold light falling across her face. Somewhere below, he would be waiting, already bearing what the world meant to heap upon them.
He had not slept.
The house had gone still hours ago, the revelry burned to embers, but he had sat in the chair by his fire until the grate was cold and the light behind the curtains thinned into dawn. Sleep would have felt like betrayal.
At first, he had replayed every second of the night—the laughter in the corridor, the look in her eyes, the way her voice had trembled when she said, “You are mine.” Later, when the first bird called outside, he began to think instead of what would come next.
They were engaged now—though no announcement had been made, though the world did not yet know. He had no ring, no blessing, no plan beyond keeping her safe. He would have faced ten thousand whispering tongues with less dread than one careless sentence in a breakfast room.