Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
It was a strange position in which he found himself. Nearly all his life he had been told he was of great consequence and should be able to select his bride from nearly any genteel family in England. “I have nothing to offer you that is fit for a woman of your rank.”
Elizabeth’s brows drew together. “You think I require a coronet?”
“I think,” Darcy said, with effort, “that you were born to a world in which men are measured by more than their character.
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “And you believe that is what I wish?”
Darcy stared at her. Of course not. Her nobility of character was of more worth than any nobility of title she might possess. But he had little to offer a princess.
“Miss Bennet—”
“I asked you here,” she said, “because I did not wish to spend the rest of my life wondering whether I allowed something as important as this—” she gestured between the two of them”—to be decided for me.”
Darcy’s heart began to beat a little quicker.
Elizabeth’s gaze held his. “You have spoken of what is right. Allow me to speak of what I want.”
Darcy sat very still.
“I do not want,” Elizabeth said, “to be married into an alliance. I do not want a husband chosen because it is convenient for the Thurnian crown. I do not want to be handed about like a treaty in human form.”
Her voice did not shake, but there was something in it that made Darcy’s chest tighten, as if her indignation were a rope around his lungs.
“I want,” she said, “to choose.” She stood, and without thinking, he stood too.
Elizabeth took a step toward him. It was a small step, but it closed an entire world. “Am I mistaken in my choice, Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy took a step back. The intensity of her attention was unbearable.
“I have no title,” he said, and heard in his voice a bitterness he despised.
“No rank that could justify—” His voice caught.
“I can offer you only my name and my estate and my character. If those are not enough, then I will beg your pardon and go, and you shall never be troubled by me again.”
He finished and stood there rigidly, prepared to be dismissed, prepared to be ashamed, prepared to endure whatever her judgement might be.
Elizabeth’s face, for a moment, was unreadable. Then she laughed. “Oh, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy’s pulse hammered in his chest. “I do not see what you find amusing.”
“It is not amusing at all,” Elizabeth said, her eyes shining. “It is you. It is always you, insisting upon being honourable even when it makes you miserable.”
He could not reply.
She stepped closer, near enough now that he could see that the faint shadows beneath her eyes had disappeared.
“You asked me,” she said quietly, “to choose with full knowledge. Very well. I choose the man who insists rather doggedly upon the truth. The man who saved me in the hollow and who came looking for me even after we quarrelled. The man who treats my father and uncle with respect. The man who looks as though he might rather be shot than praised, and who always does his duty. The man who thinks he has nothing fit to offer, when in fact he offers everything I want. Am I wrong in my choice?”
Darcy could not breathe, but he took her hands in his own. “If your choice is me, you are not.”
She glanced down at them. “It is. I choose you.”
For a moment, Darcy could not speak. All his careful reasoning about why this match could never happen scattered like autumn leaves before a storm.
He had spent days convinced she possessed no nobility of birth, resistant to admitting that she possessed something far rarer: nobility of spirit.
Now she had chosen him, and every argument prudence had marshalled crumbled to dust.
“Elizabeth,“ he said, and was startled to find he had spoken her name aloud.
She only smiled.
Darcy raised her hand to his lips, uncertain. “May I—” he began.
Elizabeth nodded. “Please,” she whispered.
Her fingers were warm. Her grip was steady.
Darcy’s composure failed at last. It did not shatter dramatically; it simply gave way.
He straightened, though he did not release her hand, because releasing it felt impossible.
“Princess Elizabeth,” he said, “will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
Elizabeth’s eyes filled. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Mr. Darcy. I will.”
Without a word, he drew her into his arms.
Elizabeth made a small sound and then leaned into him, her forehead resting against his shoulder.
Darcy closed his eyes and sighed with relief.
The world outside the parlour might contain kings, titles, oceans, and laws. It might contain Adrian, and Fitzwilliam, and all the inevitable disorder that would follow the announcement of their engagement.
But for this one moment, there was only Elizabeth, warm and real in his arms, and the knowledge that she was his.
He bent his head. His lips brushed hers. “Thank you,” he whispered. Nothing else would come.
“You are welcome,” she murmured, and then, with the faintest return of mischief, “Now, surely, we may be finished with the peas.”
His smile was rather self-satisfied. “As you wish.”