That license fairly burned a hole in Darcy’s pocket. He must speak! After all, where was the risk? He had Aunt Jane’s blessing.
Or—perhaps not? For a questioning expression now lurked in Elizabeth’s beautiful eyes. Darcy drew a long breath. He dare not assume a victory; Collins and Elton had made that mistake. Was it now his turn to be roundly refused? Would Fitzwilliam Darcy, the prize of the matrimonial market, face the cruel irony of a rebuff?
And yet he dare not delay, for this private moment would not last. Even now he could hear someone playing the pianoforte in the drawing room. With a hammering heart, Darcy reached for Elizabeth’s hand. Her fingers were cold; he covered them with his own to warm them. “Elizabeth,” he began.
And then he stopped, for there was a clattering in the hall below. “What now?” he muttered.
Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled. “A footmen has dropped the teapot?” she suggested. “Or perhaps it is Mr. Wickham, returning to challenge someone to a duel?”
Darcy felt his lips curve into a smile. “Never that. Wickham is not a crack shot—and he knows that I am.”
“Are you?”
His smile turned into a grin. “Near enough.” He took another long breath and said, “Elizabeth.” Again he stopped. Was he mad, to be proposing in a public passageway?
Darcy released Elizabeth’s hand. “I won’t be a moment,” he told her. “Wait right here.” Into the drawing room he went. On a table beside a sofa was what he needed: a branched candlestick.
Jane was at the pianoforte, with Miss Bates standing behind. “Christmas is coming,” sang Miss Bates in a warbling soprano, “the goose is getting fat…”
That song again! Darcy’s fingers closed around the candlestick’s column, and Miss Bates paused. “Mr. Knightley,” he heard her call, “do come and sing with me. You too, Miss Woodhouse.”
Heaven help them! And him too, if he was noticed! But he had no such luck, for Darcy heard her say his name. “You’re just the man we need,” gushed Miss Bates. “I would so love to form a choir for wassailing, but Mr. Bertram refuses to join us. Do say that you will.”
“Ah, presently, perhaps.” Darcy snatched up the candlestick, sending a shower of wax onto his sleeve, and fled. Elizabeth met him on the other side of the drawing room door. Thank goodness she was smiling!
“Miss Bates is singing?”
“I fear so.” Darcy turned to secure the door. “I pity that Christmas goose. And us, if Miss Bates comes out and finds us. She is laying plans for wassailing.”
“Oh, surely not until Christmas …”
He answered with a speaking look. “She thinks,” he said, “that we ought to practice.”
Elizabeth gave a gurgle of laughter. “Oh dear.”
“Come,” said Darcy. “Quickly.” He caught Elizabeth’s hand and drew her across the passageway and into the ballroom. He set the candlestick on the floor and turned to close the doors. As before, rain tapped steadily at the windows.
Darcy kept still, listening for sounds of pursuit.
“Are we safe?” Elizabeth whispered.
“I—believe so.”
But what this? Something was wrong with his voice! He could not propose sounding like a goose! In other words, like Collins …
Darcy drew forward a chair for her. “So we return to the scene of the crime,” she said laughingly. “Poor Emma. Look, here is Mr. Elton’s mistletoe.” She bent to pick the fallen sprig.
“And poor you, as well,” said Darcy.
He saw her eyes find the floor, and he heard her sigh. “I was hoping that you would forget about Mr. Collins and what he said to me. His list of my deficiencies was painfully accurate.”
Darcy felt himself wince. He’d embarrassed her, the last thing he intended. Gently he removed Elton’s mistletoe from her grasp and let it fall to the floor. “I realize,” he said, “that this is neither the time nor the place …”
And it wasn’t. Everything about this proposal was wrong. He had not spoken to her father, he had no ring, and—heaven help him!—he ought to be kneeling.
The rain continued to strike the windows, but it now occurred to Darcy that it was a gentle sound. Right as rain. Yes, everything about this proposal might be wrong—but at the same time, everything was right. Even though he did not know what her answer would be.
He gazed at Elizabeth’s face, made more beautiful by the rosy candlelight. “Hear my soul speak,” said Darcy softly. The words were Shakespeare’s—not, perhaps, the most eloquent beginning, but heartfelt. His gaze never left her eyes as he lowered himself to one knee, his heart thundering in his chest.
Elizabeth became very still. He reached for her soft hand, cradling it in his own, pleased to find it was cold no longer. He felt her fingers tremble. Darcy trembled too!
“I love you dearly, Elizabeth,” he said simply. “With all my heart.”
And then he found that he could speak—for she was smiling. “I am as great a fool as Collins,” he confessed in a rush, “and I have been in mortal fear of sounding as ridiculous as he, in desiring such a prize. But I do love you, Elizabeth, truly.”
Did she give his fingers a gentle, reassuring squeeze?
“You may dislike me as heartily as you do Collins, and I would not blame you,” he went on. “But I wonder if …”
Here Darcy paused, for upon this question hung all his future happiness. “I wonder if you love me enough to consider becoming my wife.”
“If I love you enough?” cried Elizabeth. “Of course I love you enough!”
Darcy could not help himself; he stood to his feet and caught Elizabeth in a crushing embrace, pressing his lips to hers.
He was overwhelmed as she cupped his face with her hands. Only the threat of imminent discovery made him break the kiss.
After that, there were glorious wedding details to work out. Darcy did not intend to wait if he could help it. “Since you are unable to return home—” he began.
“Because of the mumps,” Elizabeth put in, smiling. “And Mama’s interference.”
“I rise up and call her blessed,” said Darcy. “Now then, what I am wondering is this: would you enjoy spending Christmas with me at Pemberley?”
“With you,” she repeated.
“And with my sister.”
“As your—or rather, her—guest? With Jane?”
“Not with Jane,” Darcy said gently. “And not as my guest. As my wife, dear heart.”
“But—but that is impossible, Fitzwilliam. How can we be married so soon? Moreover, what will people think?”
Darcy could not help grinning, for she used his name, his Christian name. “I care nothing for what people will think. But there is something I need to show you.” He brought out the folded license and gave it to her.
Elizabeth opened it and read it through without saying a word. “A special license,” she said at last. She raised her astonished eyes to his. “How long have you had this?”
“Not long,” he said truthfully.
“Of course not,” she said, as if to herself. “It takes time; you had to send for it. But—Fitzwilliam, why did you not tell me sooner? Was it—oh, I disliked you for the longest time!”
“And with good reason.” He put an arm around her; she leaned her head against his shoulder.
“And all the while you loved me,” she marveled. “But when you heard Mr. Collins propose—? What must you have thought? No wonder you threatened him with violence.”
“Did I?” said Darcy, bemused, watching the expressions flit across her lovely face.
“You did. And Mr. Wickham, too.”
“I seem to have been quite busy.” Darcy allowed himself to caress a lock of her silky hair, breathing in her scent. “Do you know,” he said, “uppermost in my mind—once we settle the details of our wedding day—is discovering where my silver sleeve buttons are.”
She pulled away, knitting her brows. “Your what?”
Darcy studied her expression. Perhaps it would be better if he did not bring up the dream? “It makes no difference; they will turn up somewhere.”
“Sleeve buttons,” she repeated. “For—your shirt?”
She remembered!
“Actually,” he said, “they could well be in my bedchamber at Pemberley. That is where I saw them last.”
He heard her gasp. “In your—?”
“But I digress,” Darcy continued smoothly. “I will call on your father in the morning and, if possible, start for London in the afternoon. Along with your family—those who are free to make the journey.”
“That would be every one of us. And Jane. I won’t have Jane left behind.”
“Nor I, Bingley. If all goes well, on the third day from this we shall be married.” He could barely contain his elation.
“Married,” she breathed. “Will wonders never cease?”
“After a sumptuous wedding breakfast at a hotel of your choosing,” Darcy went on, “we’ll be off for Pemberley.” He paused. “What say you to this plan?”
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her cheek. “It is all so sudden …”
“Is it too sudden, my dear? Would you prefer to wait?” This was the right thing to ask, but deuced painful just the same.
“People will say—you know what they will say.”
“I do indeed,” he agreed gravely. “No doubt it is the same for every couple. But we know the truth, you and I. Dearest Elizabeth, would you rather remain here with Jane?”
Elizabeth was now frowning at the floor. “I cannot return home because of the mumps,” she said. “Moreover, Miss Woodhouse and Miss Bates will be leaving, whereas Mr. Bertram—” She looked up. “Fitzwilliam, what of him?”
“I fear Bertram is out of funds, stranded here until Quarter Day. And while I am willing to redeem his sorry watch from Mr. McGready—and reimburse the man for the money paid to Wickham for your bracelet—I draw the line at transporting Bertram to wherever he lives.”
Elizabeth smiled impishly. “So he must stay at Netherfield. With Caroline.”
It was all Darcy could do not to laugh. “It could do Bertram good. Bingley is not a gamester and, as you know, he likes everyone. As for Miss Bingley, she might welcome the diversion. For once Charles tells her of his engagement to your sister—”
“A not-so-happy Christmas for her.”
“Must it be so for you?” Darcy said gently. “Would you prefer to spend Christmas at Netherfield? Or with me at Pemberley?”
She was silent for a time, and Darcy held his breath. Aunt Jane or no, the choice was Elizabeth’s.
“To say truth, Fitzwilliam,” she said at last, “I would much rather spend Christmas with you.” Blushing, she fingered the license. “Even if it means marrying you in two days’ time.” A coy smile reappeared. “I’ll have you know, sir, that I am not usually so brazen,” she added, with a twinkle. “Or so impulsive. But in this case—”
The only thing to do was to kiss her. More than once and rather more passionately than before.
Impulsiveness, Darcy decided, became his Elizabeth very well. Theirs would be a very happy Christmas indeed.
The End