Page 61 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

It was not desperate or hasty, but something full and rich, like a promise made without words.

She gave herself over to it—marveling at the way her skin tingled, her heart soared, her breath mingled with his.

Instinctively, she pressed herself against him, yearning to remove any distance between them.

She felt his breath hitch, felt the change in him.

Then the kiss was no longer tentative.

His mouth moved over hers with increasing urgency, no longer questioning but claiming, no longer merely affectionate but charged with feeling too long held in restraint.

One of his hands slid from her waist to the curve of her back, his palm spanning the space between her shoulder blades.

She felt his fingers flex against her as he pulled her closer still, until there was no space between them but the pounding of their hearts.

Heat bloomed beneath her skin. Her senses roared awake—every nerve alive, every part of her aware of the pressure of his mouth, the strength in his arms, the shiver of delight that rippled through her as she answered him with all the feeling she could not put into words.

He met her with equal fervor, pouring into the kiss every word he had not yet said, every promise not yet spoken.

Her head spun. She never wanted it to end.

Only him.

Only them.

And then—

The carriage slowed.

The wheels crunched against the gravel drive of Longbourn.

They broke apart, breathless. He pressed his forehead to hers, still holding her close.

“Home,” he whispered.

She smiled against his cheek, her heart fluttering like a bird against his chest.

Yes , she thought. Home .

∞∞∞

Darcy stepped down from the carriage before the horses had fully halted, reaching up at once to assist Elizabeth as she descended.

Her hand lingered in his a moment longer than was strictly necessary, and when she finally stepped back onto the familiar stones of Longbourn’s front walk, she glanced toward the house, then back at him, hesitant.

Before either of them could speak, the front door opened.

A tall, gray-haired man in sober livery stepped into the light, his posture straight and dignified despite his years.

He moved quickly down the steps with the ease of someone long familiar with the terrain.

As he approached, he paused, his eyes taking in Elizabeth’s torn gown, mussed hair, and swollen lips.

“Miss Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth offered a weary smile. “I am all right, Stephens. Truly.”

Stephens closed the distance between them quickly, his movements crisp for a man well into his fifties. “You are early, miss. And your gown—” His eyes narrowed in concern, flicking to Darcy with wary assessment.

“Yes, there was a bit of an adventure this evening at the ball. I imagine my father will tell you all later, but be assured that Mr. Darcy was not the cause of my disheveled state. In fact, our engagement was announced this evening during supper.”

Stephens’ brows rose at her words, and his gaze shifted to Darcy again—this time sharper, more evaluating.

Darcy, still rather reeling from the kiss in the carriage, was slow to respond. Engagement. Announced. The words echoed somewhere in his chest, warm and reverberating, even as the rest of his mind struggled to keep pace.

That she would say so plainly, so naturally, that they were engaged—it stunned him more than it ought. She was not shy, to be sure, but he had not expected such calm ownership of what had happened tonight. His own thoughts were still tangled between elation, desire, and disbelief.

He stepped forward and gently took Elizabeth’s arm, intending to escort her up the steps. “Allow me to—”

But Stephens moved.

He did not lunge or jostle, but with the certainty of a man accustomed to command within his sphere, he stepped directly into Darcy’s path. The effect was immediate—and unexpectedly firm.

“Thank you, sir,” he said with a short, deferential nod. “But I will see Miss Elizabeth in.”

Darcy halted, his brows lifting. He looked down at the man—shorter, older, plainly dressed—and was surprised to see the faintest edge of resistance in Stephens’s spine. It was not insolent, but neither was it servile. It was protective.

“I have known Miss Elizabeth since the day she was born,” Stephens added, tone courteous but immovable. “She is in good hands now.”

Darcy opened his mouth to speak, unsure if he meant to argue or simply assert his right to remain at her side—but Elizabeth turned to him with a soft smile and laid her hand briefly on his.

“It is all right,” she said quietly. “Stephens is more like an uncle than my father’s valet—they have been together since my father’s school days.”

He looked once more at Stephens, who stood waiting, his expression unbending but respectful.

Darcy inclined his head. “Very well.”

He turned to Elizabeth. Her eyes shone gently up at him, tired but steady. “Good night, Fitzwilliam,” she murmured.

“Good night,” he said softly. “Sleep well.”

She nodded, and with that, Stephens guided her inside with quiet efficiency, leaving Darcy alone in the cold hush of the porch.

Only once the door shut behind them did he return to the carriage, climbing in slowly, his lips still tingling from where they had touched hers.

The vehicle rocked forward, lanterns swinging gently with the motion.

He leaned back, breathing in deep. His thoughts circled around her smile, the press of her lips to his, the way she had said our engagement like it was already a promise written in stone.

She is mine, he thought again, this time with more certainty. And I—I am hers.

He let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh.

He needed to speak with the vicar.

The banns would be called at once.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth stepped into the warmth of Longbourn’s entrance hall, Stephens guiding the door closed behind them. The lamps glowed low, and the familiar scent of beeswax and hearth smoke seemed to welcome her home.

“I truly am unharmed,” she said again as they crossed the hall. “You need not hover so, Stephens. My father will tell you everything, and I promise I will recover with no more than a night’s sleep.”

Stephens gave her a long, measuring look, then let out a soft exhale and nodded. “Very well, miss. If you say so.”

His eyes softened, and for a moment the stern lines of his face gave way to a look of such paternal fondness that her throat nearly closed. She smiled up at him.

But before either could say more, she yawned. Immensely. Her hand flew to cover her mouth, but the moment passed, and Stephens chuckled.

“I believe that is my cue. Come along now. Let us get you to bed before anyone sees that gown.”

He ushered her gently up the stairs, calling softly for Sarah as they reached the landing.

The young maid appeared from the nearby corridor within moments, her eyes widening at the sight of Elizabeth’s rumpled gown and disheveled hair.

“Oh, Miss! Your dress—!”

“It is all right, Sarah,” Elizabeth said, stepping into her room. “It looks worse than it is. One of the soldiers had a bit too much to drink and stumbled into me. Mr. Darcy was there, and he protected me.”

She began unfastening the torn shoulder with fumbling fingers. “And we are to be married,” she added, her voice soft but sure.

Sarah gasped, then beamed. “Oh, Miss Bennet—how wonderful! Congratulations! He is a good man, that Mr. Darcy. Always polite to the servants, even in a rush. Mrs. Nicholls says he’s the only guest at Netherfield who leaves his boots outside the kitchen instead of treading through the back stair.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Of course your mother would tell you.”

“She has a soft spot for you girls, ever since she was a maid at Longbourn herself. Says you and Miss Jane used to pluck the flowers off the parlor arrangements just to gift them back to the maids.”

Elizabeth grinned as she sat, letting Sarah tug off her shoes. “I always preferred Polly to Meg. Polly let me sneak biscuits when I returned from walking. Meg scolded every time Mark and I came in covered in mud.”

Sarah laughed as she folded the damaged gown neatly. “You and Master Mark did stir up your share of trouble.”

“Just do not let your Aunt Peg know I preferred her sister,” Elizabeth replied with a wink. “She never did forgive me for losing her thimble in the water jug.”

Once she was in her night rail and wrapped in the warmth of her counterpane, Elizabeth finally allowed herself to exhale.

The house was quiet now. No footsteps in the hall. No shouting downstairs. No danger.

She lay still, her limbs too weary to move, her mind still tingling with the events of the night—the fight, the kiss, the announcement. Her thoughts drifted lazily between Wickham’s pistol and Darcy’s embrace, between fear and joy, disbelief and hope.

I must write to Mark , she thought with a sudden jolt. And I must speak to Georgiana before Mama blurts out the news over breakfast.

But not now.

Now, she was warm, safe, and engaged .

She turned her face into her pillow with a sleepy smile and drifted into dreams.