Page 80 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

For a moment, he seemed unable to speak. When he did, his voice was rough with emotion. “Elizabeth, you have made me the happiest of men, undeserving as I may be.”

He again pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles - the only liberty propriety would allow in such a public place.

“You must rise, Fitzwilliam, before the frost claims you.”

He rose gracefully and offered her his hand. She accepted it, allowing him to help her to her feet, and stood perhaps closer than was strictly proper. For a moment they remained so, her hand still in his, both reluctant to break the spell of what had just passed between them.

“I had begun to despair,” he admitted quietly.

“Had you? I was not certain of my own mind until recently.”

“And now?”

“Now I am quite decided.” She allowed herself a small smile. “Although I must reserve the right to disagree with you on occasion.”

“I should be disappointed if you did not,” he replied, and, for the first time since she had known him, his smile was entirely unguarded. “Such perfect accord would make for a tedious union.”

“I am glad we understand each other, sir.”

“I believe we do,” he said, still holding her hand in his. “At last.”

The world around them was bitter with cold—but the cold no longer touched her. They walked slowly toward the main yard, where the carriages waited. Elizabeth was reluctant to end this interlude, to return to the world where they must observe proper forms and careful distances.

As they rounded a corner of the building, Darcy paused. “Elizabeth,” he said quietly, glancing toward a narrow passage between two wings of the hall where ivy grew thick against the stone walls. “Would you … that is, might you walk with me a moment longer?”

She followed his gaze to the secluded little alcove, hidden from the main paths but respectable enough—simply a quiet corner of the gardens. “Of course.”

He led her into the sheltered space, where the stone walls blocked them from view of the main yard. For a moment they simply stood facing each other, the magnitude of their new understanding settling between them.

He drew her tenderly into his arms, his touch reverent, and with a tenderness that said more than any vow. His gaze was steady despite the colour rising in his cheeks.

“I have not forgotten that night,” he said quietly. “In the music room. I presumed to touch you—without right, and without leave—far beyond what honour allowed me. I presumed too much.”

Elizabeth’s eyes did not leave his.

“It has weighed on me ever since,” he went on. “Not because I regret what I felt—only that I gave you no say in how it was first expressed. I could not again presume so far. If I am to love you, it must be by-your-leave alone.”

A long silence followed, but it was not uncertain. Her hands remained in his.

“You may, Fitzwilliam,” she said, voice thick with feeling. “For I am already quite undone by you.”

When he spoke again, it was in a voice scarcely above a whisper, but it held all the warmth and depth of his heart. “You cannot know what you have given me. I believed myself quite lost. But to be thus restored—to be loved by you—.”

Elizabeth, too overcome to answer, merely shook her head and pressed her hand to his cheek. Her fingers found the smooth line of his jaw, and she caught the scent that was purely him—the subtle fragrance of his shaving soap mingled with something warmer, more fundamental.

He kissed her then—softly, with solemn fervour.

His warm, soft lips were a startling contrast to the crisp air, creating a small sanctuary of heat between them.

This was no tentative brush, but a kiss that spoke of long-contained feeling, of honour and devotion and the tremulous joy of hope fulfilled.

His arm encircled her waist, drawing her nearer in a manner both reverent and unshakably certain, as though nothing in the world could move him to let her go.

Her fingers sought the soft curls above his ears, and she stood still, as though anchoring herself in the truth of his embrace.

What followed was deliberate, tender, and unhurried.

Where before she had been frozen by shock, now she met him willingly.

The freedom to touch him, to want him without reservation or shame, was almost dizzying.

When he lifted his mouth from hers, she made a soft sound of protest, and he smiled against her lips before kissing her again, more deeply this time.

Something unfamiliar and urgent stirred within her - a restless warmth that seemed to spread from where his lips touched hers to every corner of her being.

Her fingers moved to explore the strong line of his shoulders beneath the fine wool of his coat.

She had never touched a man so before. She had not realised how solid and warm and utterly different he would feel.

He pulled back, breathing hard, his control clearly fraying.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured, then captured her mouth again with barely restrained hunger.

She grew bolder, sliding her hand down to feel the muscled planes of his chest through his waistcoat.

The realisation that she could affect him so powerfully was intoxicating.

The heat of him through their clothing, the strength in his arms as he held her, the solid wall of his chest against her breasts, was overwhelming and wonderful and entirely improper. Her pulse quickened, and a strange, restless ache uncoiled low in her belly.

When his lips left hers to trail along her neck, she gasped at the unexpected sensation.

She clutched at his shoulders for support, her breath coming in short gasps that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the way her stays suddenly were impossibly tight, as though her body were trying to expand beyond the rigid confines of whalebone and silk.

. He seemed to sense her response and lingered, his mouth warm against her throat, his breathing ragged.

The gesture stirred the memory—he had kissed her there, in the music room at Netherfield, when reason had fled him and his judgement was clouded.

This was different. This was entirely by choice.

He reluctantly drew back. “I love you,” he said, lower now, the words barely more than breath.

A tremulous laugh escaped her. “I love you. I did not know it at first. I was too busy finding fault with everything about you.”

His lips curved, helplessly. “Then I am grateful your judgement of my character improved.”

Her brow arched. “Do not be too certain of that. I may still find you insufferable by Tuesday.”

“If so,” he murmured, drawing her close again, “I shall count Monday among the happiest of my life.”

“We should stop whilst I can still be called a gentleman,” he said against her skin, though his actions suggested otherwise.

“Should we?” she whispered, her voice barely recognisable to her own ears, her hands still exploring the fascinating landscape of his body with growing confidence.

“I regret to say we must. I have allowed myself…I beg your forgiveness…” he began, but she silenced him with a finger to his lips.

“You need not,” she said firmly. “We are engaged now, are we not? Surely one kiss, between those soon to marry, need not be condemned.”

“Not entirely,” he agreed, his eyes bright with laughter and something warmer. “I fear your bonnet tells a different story.”

Elizabeth reached up to adjust it, feeling the warmth in her cheeks. “Then we must compose ourselves before we emerge, sir. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Indeed, you do,” he said, straightening his cravat with fingers that were not entirely steady. “I am rather looking forward to scandalising it thoroughly once we are wed.”

“That is most improper, sir,” she said, trying and failing to sound stern “You are incorrigible!”

“Mrs. Darcy,” he replied with a smile that sent a fresh flutter through her, “had better learn to bear with such shocking behaviour.”