Page 36

She turned back to him. “We have both erred, it seems. You in your interference with Bingley and Jane, I in my silence about Wickham. Perhaps we might agree that neither transgression need prove fatal to what exists between us.”

Darcy’s face transformed with such unguarded joy that Elizabeth felt her eyes sting with sudden tears.

His countenance was awash with relief, though he tempered it with caution.

“I would not presume upon your forgiveness without proper atonement, Elizabeth. What exists between us is precious to me—more precious than I had anticipated when I offered that strange proposal in St James’s Park. ”

“We were such different people then,” Elizabeth said softly, remembering the desperate young woman fleeing a loveless marriage, and the proud, reserved gentleman offering salvation with cold practicality. “I scarcely recognise either of us in that memory.”

“I have found in you qualities I had not expected: compassion, understanding, a willingness to acknowledge error. These are not insignificant virtues.”

“Then may I hope—” Darcy began, only to stop as Elizabeth removed the publishing contract from her reticule.

“Nocturne wishes to publish my manuscript,” she said, unfolding the document. “They are most enthusiastic and have offered favourable terms.”

Darcy’s face brightened with genuine pleasure. “Elizabeth, that is wonderful news. I knew they would recognise your talent.”

“There is one matter requiring resolution,” she continued. “As a married woman, I require my husband’s signature to proceed under my own name.”

Without hesitation, Darcy produced a graphite pencil from his coat pocket. “May I?”

Elizabeth passed him the contract, watching as he signed his name beside the space left for his approval.

The sight of their names together on the page—Elizabeth Darcy, author, and Fitzwilliam Darcy, her husband—created a lump in her throat.

Her dreams and his support, intertwined on paper as their lives had become intertwined in reality.

The simple gesture—his unquestioning support of her literary aspirations—moved her more deeply than any declaration might have done.

“Thank you,” she said as he returned the document. “Not merely for this, but for believing in my work when others might have dismissed it as a frivolous pastime.”

“Your talent requires no permission from me,” Darcy replied. “But I am honoured to support your endeavours in whatever way I can.”

His eyes held hers, and Elizabeth felt herself drawn into their depths.

The same eyes that had once seemed so cold and distant now radiated warmth that reached into the most guarded corners of her heart.

Elizabeth was acutely conscious of his proximity, of the warmth in his eyes as he regarded her, of the momentous nature of the decision before them.

“Elizabeth,” Darcy said at last, his voice low and earnest. “These past days without you have been unbearable. I love you—not as a partner in a convenient alliance, but as the woman who holds my heart entire. Can you forgive me my errors and permit me to prove worthy of your regard?”

The words she had never expected to hear, spoken with such raw honesty that they seemed to vibrate in the air between them.

The simple declaration, delivered without artifice or elaborate rhetoric, pierced Elizabeth’s remaining defences.

“I forgive you,” she said as a tear slipped down her cheek.

“As I hope you forgive my concealment of Wickham. We have both erred, but I believe our understanding now stands on firmer ground for having weathered this trial.”

“Then may I also hope that your feelings for me have undergone a similar transformation?” Darcy asked, his expression vulnerable in a way she had rarely witnessed. His voice caught slightly on the word ‘hope’ and in that small break, Elizabeth heard all the doubt and longing he had carried.

“You need not hope,” Elizabeth replied, a gentle smile touching her lips. “I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Not as the stranger who offered escape from an intolerable situation, but as the man whose character I have come to admire and cherish.”

Something shifted in his expression then—as if the last of his defences had crumbled away, revealing the full measure of his devotion. “Elizabeth,” he whispered, her name a prayer on his lips.

Darcy’s hand reached for hers, their fingers intertwining with a naturalness that belied the distance that had stood between them. “May I kiss you, Elizabeth?”

She nodded. Her heart pounding with anticipation that was entirely different from the nervous uncertainty of their previous kisses.

Their lips met in a kiss, and unlike their previous tentative exchanges, this was a seal upon their reconciliation.

An acknowledgment of the depth of feeling that had grown between them despite every obstacle.

The world around them faded—the park, the distant city sounds, everything receded until there was only this: his lips on hers, the gentle pressure of his hand at her waist, the feeling of coming home after a long journey.

When his hand moved to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t realised had fallen, Elizabeth felt the last barriers around her heart dissolve completely.

When they drew apart, a comfortable silence enveloped them, broken only by the distant sounds of the city beyond the park’s boundaries. Darcy’s forehead rested against hers for a moment, their shared breath creating an intimate space that belonged to them alone.

“What shall we do now?” Elizabeth asked at length, though the question held none of the uncertainty it might have days before.

“Return to Pemberley”