Page 32 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
Darcy wanted to deny it, to maintain the fiction of strength, but the concern in her eyes made pretense seem foolish. “Yes, I am not yet as recovered as I had hoped.”
They made their way to the bench, and Darcy sank onto it with relief. Elizabeth seemed more shy than before, at a loss for words.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and Elizabeth automatically blotted it away with her handkerchief. The gesture was so reminiscent of her care during his fever that Darcy felt his heart constrict.
“I received your note,” she said, withdrawing her hand as if suddenly aware of the intimacy of her action. “It was most kind of you to express such gratitude.”
The formality in her tone troubled him. This was not the witty Elizabeth who had read to him through fevered nights, who had jested with him about stern gentlemen, and blushed at the flowers he’d presented her.
“It was not kindness that prompted my letter,” he replied softly. “But honesty.”
“Nevertheless, I appreciated your thoughtfulness.”
“I had hoped you might respond,” Darcy ventured, studying her understated beauty. The curve of her cheek, the determined set of her chin, the sweep of dark lashes against her skin—all had become precious to him during their time together, and more precious still in their separation.
“I…” She hesitated, her fingers pleating the fabric of her skirt. “I was not certain a response was expected.”
“Not expected, perhaps, but hoped for.” Darcy shifted slightly, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder to better see her face. “You promised to return when I was better.”
A faint color touched her cheeks. “I did not know if you would remember that promise. It was spoken during your fever.”
“I remember everything, perhaps not in perfect sequence, but with perfect clarity. Your voice reading poetry. Your hand cooling my brow. Your promise that your heart would not leave me.”
The color in her cheeks deepened, spreading down her neck in a way that had always fascinated him. “Mr. Darcy?—”
“Fitzwilliam,” he corrected gently. “You called me by my given name then.”
“That was… improper of me,” she replied, her gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the garden wall. “You were ill, and I was your nurse. Certain informalities might be excused in such circumstances, but they should not continue beyond them.”
Her withdrawal confused and dismayed him. This was not the reunion he had imagined.
“Has something changed, Elizabeth?” he asked, deliberately using her given name. “Has something occurred to alter your feelings since we parted at Netherfield?”
She turned to him then, her expression softening with what appeared to be genuine concern. The July sunlight filtering through the oak leaves dappled her face with patterns of light and shadow, turning her eyes to liquid amber.
“You have been gravely ill, Mr. Darcy, near death. Such experiences can alter one’s perspective temporarily. Emotions become heightened, words are spoken that might not reflect one’s true, settled feelings.”
Understanding dawned, bringing with it a curious mixture of relief and indignation. “You believe my regard for you is a product of my illness? A fever-induced attachment that will fade with my recovery?”
“I believe that extraordinary circumstances can create impressions that may not endure once normal life resumes.”
A butterfly fluttered past, landing briefly on a nearby flower before moving on. Darcy watched its carefree flight, gathering his thoughts before responding to what he now recognized as Elizabeth’s central fear.
“My feelings for you, Elizabeth, were firmly established long before the duel. Before my illness. Before Hunsford, even.” He turned toward her, the movement pulling at his wound, but worth the discomfort to meet her eyes directly.
“They have remained constant through rejection, through fever, through what I believed might be my final hours.”
He took her hand then, the touch sending a current of awareness through him despite the gravity of their conversation.
Her fingers were cool against his feverish skin, and slightly calloused from needlework—the hands of a gentlewoman who did not shy from useful occupation.
Not the soft, idle hands of London society ladies, but stronger, more capable. More real.
“I came today to ask you to be my wife,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Not from fever-induced sentiment, not from gratitude for your care, but from the deep conviction that my life would be incomplete without you.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught, her eyes widening. The pulse at her throat quickened visibly, betraying the emotion she strove to conceal behind her calm exterior.
“Mr. Darcy, you cannot?—”
“I can and I do,” he insisted, tightening his grip on her hand. “I love you, Elizabeth. With a clear mind and sound judgment. I ask you to marry me, to become mistress of Pemberley, to share my life and fortune.”
A shadow passed across her face, subtle but unmistakable. “And your position in society? Your connections? Your family’s expectations? What about the objections to being aligned with…”
The question struck at the heart of what had gone unspoken between them. His former concerns about the unsuitability of such a match.
“At Hunsford,” he began slowly, his thumb tracing circles on her palm, “I spoke as a man who had never questioned the value of those things. I believed my position, my connections, my family’s expectations were advantages I offered you—benefits that would overcome what I foolishly termed ‘the inferiority of your connections.’”
He shook his head, self-recrimination clear in the gesture. “I was wrong, Elizabeth. Not just in my manner of proposing, but in my assessment of what truly matters.”
A dragonfly hovered near the bench, its iridescent wings catching sunlight as it paused midair before darting away. Darcy watched its departure, gathering his thoughts.
“When I faced death,” he continued, his voice steadier now, “I did not think of Pemberley’s ten thousand acres. I did not concern myself with my aunt’s disapproval or society’s judgment. I thought only of you. Of all the conversations we would never have, all the years we would never share.”
He reached up with his good hand, carefully tucking a stray curl behind her ear in a gesture of intimacy he could no longer resist. “I have spent my life surrounded by people who valued me for my name, fortune, and connections. You are perhaps the only person who has valued me for myself alone—who has challenged, questioned, and forced me to examine my character and find it wanting.”
Elizabeth’s eyes had not left his face, though her expression remained guarded.
The curl he had tucked behind her ear sprang free again, dancing against her cheek in the slight breeze.
“Your words are eloquent, Mr. Darcy. But eloquence in the face of death or illness is not the same as steadfastness through the mundane trials of daily life.”
“You fear I would come to regret choosing love over social advantage,” he said, the realization finally crystallizing in his mind.
“Not immediately, perhaps,” she acknowledged, her eyes meeting his with painful honesty.
“But in time… when the excitement fades, when the scandal of our union becomes tedious rather than novel, when you face the disappointment of your relations and the raised eyebrows of your peers year after year…”
“You imagine I would blame you for my choice?” The very suggestion wounded him, though he understood its source.
“I imagine,” she said with quiet dignity, her fingers twisting the handkerchief in her lap, “that even the strongest affection can wither under constant strain. And I would not wish to be the cause of your discontent, however unintended.”
Darcy felt a surge of admiration for her, even as her words frustrated him.
“Elizabeth,” he said, urgency threading his voice, “I am not the same man who proposed to you at Hunsford. I’m not even the same man before the duel, when I was overly concerned about my honor… and yours.”
His wounded shoulder throbbed with pain, and a fresh sheen of perspiration broke out on his forehead. But he ignored his discomfort, focused entirely on making her understand.
“The man before you now has learned what truly matters. Not through sermons or lectures or moral instruction, but through loss—the near loss of his life, yes, but more importantly, the loss of the woman he loves through his blindness and arrogance.”
A slight breeze stirred the air. Elizabeth’s face softened, her eyes showing the first real glimpse of the warmth he had come to cherish during his illness.
“Do you remember,” Darcy continued, “what I said to you during my fever? About Pemberley?”
“You spoke of many things during your fever, Mr. Darcy.”
“I spoke of the lake at sunset,” he prompted, “how the light catches on the water.”
A smile touched her lips. “Yes, I remember. You were quite descriptive in your delirium.”
“And the hillock where we would watch the stars together,” Darcy continued, encouraged by her softening expression. “The north-facing slope where we would spread a blanket and count constellations.”
“You have a vivid imagination, sir.” The blush spreading across her cheeks suggested his words affected her more deeply than she wished to admit.
“Not imagination, Elizabeth. Vision.” He took both her hands in his, ignoring the strain it placed on his injured shoulder. “A vision of what could be—of what should be. You belong at Pemberley, not as a visitor or guest but as its mistress. As my wife.”
Elizabeth’s eyes glistened with emotion, though she maintained her composure. “Mr. Darcy, your conviction does you credit. But I cannot?—”