Page 32 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
B itter cold wind shortened the path Darcy and Elizabeth had meant to take towards Oakham. Neither wanted to return to the house and lose these moments of privacy, however brief. Elizabeth suggested they sit at the hermitage, an impractical little folly much closer to Longbourn, as it at least had a roof and walls to keep out the wind. Hand in hand, they made the trek together.
Elizabeth felt as if she were floating in a dream of unadulterated happiness. This man, whose fingers were wrapped around hers, would be her husband—the sudden unreality of the thought struck her. She would, surely, waken soon. Too many times, her happiness had been based upon unfounded wishes, fantasies and fairy tales. She had promised herself that she would no longer lead with those childlike hopes. Was she falling into them again so easily, so thoughtlessly?
She stopped abruptly, halting him, too, in the middle of the path. He looked down at her, his dark eyes curious as he let her go her hands.
Reaching up, she traced the broad line of his shoulders, hearing the scrape of wool against her gloved fingertips.
“Is aught the matter?” he asked, appearing concerned.
“No,” she said, unable to explain. Her hands moved to the strong jaw. Her gloves were in the way, and even though the air chilled her, she discarded them before resuming her explorations. His hat fell to the ground beside her gloves when she touched the overlong locks at his nape and felt upwards into the chinchilla of his hair—mussing curls that his valet had ruthlessly flattened. He held utterly still for her.
Even though they were alone, on a little-used path, in a wilderness stretch of Longbourn land, it was not precisely safe to take such liberties. But she could not care; she could not control tomorrow, or even the rest of today. Anything could happen in the hours stretching forward.
“I am memorising this moment, and you in it,” she whispered. “I never want to forget. It is so easily done, you know—I will annoy you, and you will irritate me, and I will not think of how your body feels beneath my hands, or about the way your mouth presses mine, gentle at first, then with greater heat and strength, until all I can think of is how to get closer to you. One cannot exist within passion—crops would never be planted, dinners never cooked. The world would cease its orderly spinning if one did. But oh, I never wish to forget this little minute in time, or the feelings I never dared hope to feel once more.”
He kissed her again, then, his mouth doing just what it had already done so many times today—teasing, tantalising, sending all those dazzling feelings to the surface of her skin.
“I would make you my wife this moment if I could,” he said, his voice rough with desire.
“What if we forget, too often and too much?” she asked, still haunted by the notion of an ephemeral passion. “My parents did, and I am certain they are not alone in the convention. Do not most, even if they care about love in the beginning?”
“Did not you witness your mother’s efforts to extract your father from the cardroom and join her on the dance floor at Bingley’s ball?”
She frowned at him. “I know you were appalled by those efforts.”
“Who cares for my opinion? Or the opinion of anyone else in that cardroom? The only opinions which matter are those of your mother and father.”
“My father was annoyed and embarrassed by her.”
“At first, I suppose. She does not follow the usual patterns of propriety. But perhaps you also noticed—by the end of the first set, your father was enjoying himself, and her. They appeared almost youthful, and for the evening at least, he seemed quite happy in the exuberant wife of his youth.”
She was surprised he had noticed that; she had as well. “I do not know if I will ever be so provoking as she is. If you ignore me in favour of cards, you will likely be left to your game.”
He smiled his heart-stopping smile, so seldom displayed. “If I am stupid enough to choose the cards, I would deserve it. My point is that if we fall into a pattern we do not care for, we can change it. If your mother can try it, why cannot we?”
He was not wrong. Mama was not particularly introspective or insightful, but she had managed to dance the rest of the night with her husband, heedless of convention. Surely, they could manage equally as well. She bent to retrieve her gloves, but she stuffed them in her coat pocket rather than donning them. Watching her, he removed his as well. She swept up his hat and placed it carefully on his head, at an angle she could admire, grinning at his slight surprise, trying to imagine the day when she would be as comfortable with his body as she was with his hat placement. It seemed impossible to know a man that intimately. She placed her hand within his bare one as they resumed their walk.
“The difficulty is that our lives are lived so separately. Your concerns will be your tenants and your properties. Mine will be our home and our children.”
“You cannot care or understand my concerns, when I share them? I will not be able to understand yours?”
“I do not know. It is not common,” she answered.
“Is it common for a woman to defy all convention and become the greatest angler Hertfordshire has ever seen?”
She had to smile. “I am not the greatest.”
“You are, but you threw away your proof and I am the only one who knows of it. If you had not tossed the Monster back into the Lea, whenever I am behaving in a stubborn or obtuse manner, you would be able to point to it and prove your superiority. As it is, you shall have to blindly trust me to remember.”
It felt so good to laugh, and then to be able to speak to him of the carp that had jumped out of the river and onto the bridge, how the experience had led to her wandering onto Netherfield lands and thus to witnessing the encounter with Mr Wickham and Miss Darcy. He told her more about the rest of his family, about the cousin they all pressed him to marry who wanted nothing more than to be left alone, and of Pemberley.
They reached the hermitage, a little building with no door, only a sort of wood-framed gap, meant to resemble an opening between tree roots. It was too small to be gloomy, the ‘doorway’ providing ample light into the interior. Elizabeth seated herself upon the small wooden bench, but Darcy—having already removed his hat—remained standing before her, his neck bent to accommodate the low ceiling.
“There is room enough for two to sit,” she said, shifting on the bench to make more space. But he did not join her there; instead, he knelt upon the dirt floor at her feet, still gazing solemnly.
“I returned to London for one reason,” he said.
She nodded. “To bring Miss Darcy away from this area, and any possibility of Mr Wickham trying his strong-arm tactics upon her again.”
He shook his head in disagreement. “Not at all. Wickham will not be bothering any young ladies for a long, long while.”
“Really? Where has he gone?”
“He was collared by an impress gang, and will be serving in His Majesty’s navy for the next several years.”
He appeared neither glad nor triumphant at this plain recitation of Wickham’s fate. She could not even, really, tell whether he had arranged it—although how did he know, if he had not? He had never liked Miss Darcy’s abuser, but if he was responsible, he took no pleasure in dispensing this justice.
“Why, then, did you return to town?”
Instead of answering, from an inner pocket he withdrew a very small, very humble, scarred wooden box. “When I first recalled this was amongst the family treasures stored in the townhouse vault, I believed it would be perfect for you. However, now that I am about to make a gift of it, I worry that it is all wrong. That I have made a mistake. I want you to know that this is the least of the treasures I want for you. I will cloak you in jewels, heaps of them, until you cannot lift your head for the weight of sapphires and rubies.”
She smiled, and pressed a brief kiss upon his lips. “I will prize whatever it is, my love.”
He handed over the box, and she opened it. Inside, resting upon a small scrap of battered velvet, was a slim, plain gold band, worn thin in places. There was nothing very costly about its appearance, or precious that a woman should desire it.
“When the one-handed servant-widow lay dying, she pressed her wedding ring into the hand of the then-master of Pemberley—a young bachelor at the time. She told him he should give it to his one true love, but although appreciating the sentiment, he did not, at the time, think much of the ornament. By the time he died, however, her legend was already begun, and he explained to his heir the ring’s source, just as my father explained it to me. No bride of Pemberley has ever worn it. I want you to have it, whether or not you wish to wear it yourself. It is yours, as it was always, I believe, meant to be.”
“Oh,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears as she slipped the band around her finger. It fit perfectly. “Oh, my love, my dearest love,” she breathed. “I will cherish it as my most valued possession.”
“Will you marry me?” he asked, still solemn. “Will you be my one true love, from this day forward, for better or worse, for always and ever?”
“Yes,” she said simply, her tones hushed. “And you will be mine.”