Chapter 13 A Christmas Morning Proposal
A CHRISTMAS MORNING PROPOSAL
On Christmas morning, Elizabeth lay in the gray, pre-dawn light, the memory of Mr. Darcy’s kiss still burning on her lips.
Her cheeks flushed.
She had expected awkwardness, perhaps. A brief, proper brush of lips, performed for the watching crowd. Instead, she had met warmth. Tenderness. A depth of feeling that stole her breath and left her trembling.
She felt the ghost of his fingertips against her jaw. She still remembered how her heart had hammered when he deepened the kiss, when the rest of the world had fallen away and there was nothing but his mouth on hers and his hand cradling her face like she was something precious.
She had made a sound—she remembered that now, with mortification and wonder in equal measure. A soft, involuntary thing that had escaped before she could stop it.
And he had felt it. She had felt his breath catch, the way his hand tightened against her skin.
Oh, she had breathed when they finally separated.
Just that. Just oh.
It was wholly inadequate to describe what had happened to her.
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks and smiled.
Mr. Darcy would come today. He had promised—early, he had said, with an intensity that suggested dawn itself might be too late. He would speak to her father, ask the questions that propriety demanded, and then...
Then she would be engaged.
The thought made her laugh aloud in the quiet room.
Jane stirred in her bed. “Lizzy? Are you well?”
“I am perfect,” Elizabeth said. “Absolutely, ridiculously perfect.”
Jane's knowing smile was visible even in the dim light. “He will come, you know. A man does not kiss a woman like that and then forget to propose.”
“Jane!” Elizabeth threw a pillow at her sister, who caught it with a laugh.
“I saw your face when you returned to the carriage. I have never seen you look like that.” Jane's voice softened. “I am so happy for you, Lizzy. So very happy.”
Elizabeth crossed to her sister's bed and embraced her. “We are both to be happy, then. Both of us, at once. Mama will be insufferable.”
“She will be in raptures.”
“That is what I said. Insufferable.”
They laughed together, and Elizabeth thought her heart might burst from the joy of it.
The clock had just struck ten when the sound of hooves on gravel made Elizabeth's pulse leap.
She was at the window before she realized she had moved.
Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam—rode up the drive on his gray horse, his dark coat stark against the frost-covered landscape. He dismounted with careful grace and handed the reins to a startled groom.
He had come.
Early, as promised.
Mrs. Bennet's shriek echoed through the house. “Mr. Darcy! On Christmas morning! Hill! HILL! The good tea—fetch the good tea!”
Elizabeth watched him approach the door, her heart so full she could barely breathe. In a few minutes, he would speak to her father. And then he would ask for her hand publicly.
And Elizabeth would say yes.
Again.
The sitting-room door closed behind them, and Elizabeth found herself alone with the man she loved.
He stood in the morning light, tall and handsome and looking at her with such open adoration that her breath caught.
“Your father gave his blessing,” he said. “Rather dryly, I might add. He suggested I would need fortitude to survive your mother as a relation.”
Elizabeth laughed. “He is not wrong.”
“I told him I would consider it a privilege.” Mr. Darcy stepped closer, his voice dropping. “Any price is worth paying, Elizabeth, if it means I may call you mine.”
“You may call me yours regardless of price.” She reached for his hand. “You have had my heart for weeks now. The formalities are merely... formalities.”
“Nevertheless.” He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her fingers. “Elizabeth Bennet, will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”
She smiled—that radiant, incandescent smile she could not have contained if her life depended on it.
“Yes,” she said. “A thousand times yes.”
He pulled her into his arms, and she went willingly, her face pressed against his chest, his heart pounding beneath her cheek. For a long moment, they simply held each other—two people who had found their way through pride and prejudice and mistletoe to arrive at this perfect, impossible joy.
“I love you,” he murmured against her hair.
“I know.” She pulled back to look at him, her eyes bright with happy tears. “I love you too. I believe I mentioned that last night.”
“You did. I have thought of nothing else since.” His thumb brushed her cheek, catching a tear. “Say it again.”
“I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
His smile could have lit the room.
The sitting-room door burst open, and Mrs. Bennet's shriek announced to all of Hertfordshire that her second daughter was engaged.
The chaos that followed was everything Elizabeth had expected and more.
Mrs. Bennet wept and planned and proclaimed herself the happiest mother in England. Then she rounded on her husband with triumphant fury.
“Two proposals before Twelfth Night, Mr. Bennet! TWO! And you said you would eat your hat! Now you must eat mine as well!”
“I said I would eat my hat if Bingley proposed before Twelfth Night.” Mr. Bennet folded his newspaper with dignity. “I made no such wager regarding Mr. Darcy. The hat remains uneaten.”
“Semantics! You owe me at least a single hat, sir! In gravy!”
“I owe you nothing but my continued forbearance, Mrs. Bennet.”
Elizabeth caught Mr. Darcy’s eye and bit her lip to keep from laughing. He looked faintly alarmed—as any sensible man would, witnessing his future mother-in-law in full cry.
“Welcome to the family,” she murmured.
“I am beginning to understand your father's fondness for his study,” he replied.
Later, Mr. Bennet drew her aside.
“My dearest Lizzy,” he said quietly. “I could not have parted with you to anyone less worthy. But I have seen enough now—of his character, his constancy, the way he looks at you—to know you are in excellent hands.”
Elizabeth embraced him, her heart too full for words.
“Be happy,” he said. “That is all I ask.”
“I will,” she whispered. “I promise I will.”