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Her father chuckled, then sobered. "Take care, Lizzy. Marriages built on love can still founder if not tended properly." He glanced towards the carriage, his expression wistful. "I would not have you repeat my mistakes."

The admission—so unexpected, so rare—caught Elizabeth off guard. "Papa . . ."

"No, no," he said, waving away her response. "We shall speak of it another time, perhaps. For now, it seems you have a gentleman to summon." He reached into the carriage, rifled through his old leather satchel, and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “You will need these,” he told her, holding it out.

She took them.

Her father climbed into the carriage and closed the door. At his call, the carriage pulled away. Elizabeth stood watching until it disappeared around the corner.

When she turned back towards the house, she found Arabella waiting on the steps while two long-suffering footmen carried her belongings back inside.

"Good gracious, Lizzy," she said as Elizabeth returned up the steps. She released a heavy breath and pressed one hand against her heart. “You did leave it until the final moment. I was sure you would not leave, but you nearly proved me wrong.”

Elizabeth laughed, the sound bright and clear in the morning air. "I could not do that to you, Belle. I know how much you hate to be wrong.”

Arabella embraced her fiercely. “I appreciate you thinking of me.”

Elizabeth drew back, her smile slipping into a half-hearted glare. “You always knew, did you not?”

Arabella blinked. “Knew what?”

“That Mr. Darcy is the sort of man who likes women who are well-informed. Who challenge him. Who do not sit quietly embroidering handkerchiefs.”

Arabella did not even have the good grace to pretend she was contrite. “Of course I did.”

Elizabeth let out a breath that was part exasperation, part fondness. “You manipulative creature.”

“I prefer the term observant friend. ”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Now I have only to hope that Mr. Darcy will still want me.”

"Of course he will! But what changed your mind?"

Elizabeth's expression grew thoughtful. "Everything. Nothing. I simply realized that fear is a poor compass by which to navigate my life. Mr. Darcy has been attempting to tell me just that for weeks. I fear he will think me terribly slow." She pressed her lips together.

"What will you do now?" Arabella asked as they climbed the steps together.

"First," Elizabeth replied, at last feeling more like her mischievous self than she had since the masquerade, "I shall need to write a note to a certain gentleman, requesting his presence as soon as he is able."

"And then?"

Elizabeth's smile was radiant. "And then, my dear Belle, if the gentleman still wants me, I shall finally accept his hand, though he shall have to ask me properly this time." She blinked. “Whatever will I say in the note?”

Darcy stood before the mirror in his dressing room, adjusting his cravat. The note from the Abernathys had arrived an hour ago, brief and frustratingly uninformative: Mr. Darcy, I would appreciate a visit at your earliest convenience.

It was too soon for good news, but he would take her rejection like a gentleman. He glanced at his reflection in the glass. “At least I shall be well-dressed for my execution."

He had spent a restless night, alternating between hope that Elizabeth might choose him and preparation for the more likely outcome—her departure for Hertfordshire with her parents.

He had made his peace with the possibility, or so he told himself.

Better to have lost her than to bind her to him against her wishes. He had never wished for that.

Lawrence returned from cleaning the razor. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"No, thank you. That will be all."

The journey to the Abernathys' passed in a blur of nervous anticipation.

Darcy found himself rehearsing various responses to whatever Elizabeth might say, only to discard each one as inadequate.

By the time the carriage pulled up before the familiar house, he had resolved to simply listen, to accept her decision with dignity, and to ensure she understood that his feelings remained unchanged regardless of her choice.

Wilson admitted him with his usual efficiency, informing him that Miss Bennet awaited him in the drawing room. As Darcy approached the door, he schooled his features into what he hoped was an expression of calm readiness, though his heart hammered against his ribs with a painful intensity.

Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him as he entered.

Elizabeth turned at the sound of his entrance, and Darcy was struck by the marked change in her appearance.

Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and a sickly pallor had replaced her usual healthy glow.

They had only been apart overnight, and yet she looked as though she had not slept in a week.

All thoughts of maintaining dignified composure evaporated instantly. Darcy crossed the small room in three long strides, concern overriding all propriety.

"Elizabeth," he exclaimed, taking her hands in his without thinking. "Are you unwell? You look exhausted."

A small laugh escaped her, surprising them both. "Really, Mr. Darcy, have you learnt nothing since our conversation in the park?"

Her teasing tone momentarily silenced him. It was so unexpected, so reminiscent of their exchanges before her parents had arrived.

"I suppose I deserved that," he said at last, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But you are well?”

"You did, and I am," she agreed, her expression softening.

His confusion must have been evident, for she smiled, a real smile that reached her eyes and transformed her tired features.

"Mr. Darcy," she began, then paused, seeming to gather her thoughts. "I have been a fool."

He shook his head, still holding her hands in his, and opened his mouth to deny it.

"Please," she interrupted gently. "Let me finish. I have been afraid. Terrified, in fact, of repeating my parents' mistakes. This you know.”

Darcy squeezed her hands.

"But I see now that I was wrong and you were right.

My parents' unhappiness stems not from the circumstances of their beginning, or at least not only that.

It has been caused by their failure to nurture what could have grown between them.

My father retreated into his books and his sarcasm rather than attempting to understand my mother.

And she, for her part, sought refuge in her nerves and her obsession with gossip and marrying off her daughters rather than trying to reach him. "

She took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his.

"When you released me from our engagement, you gave me a gift I did not immediately recognize—the freedom to choose you, not from obligation, but from love.

And I do choose you, Mr. Darcy. With all my heart, I choose you.

" Her smile faltered. “Now I need only ask whether you still choose me.”

For a moment, Darcy could not speak. The words he had longed to hear, had scarcely dared hope for, hung in the air between them, almost too perfect to be believed.

"You are certain?" he asked at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "There is no pressure. No obligation."

"None," she confirmed with a radiant smile. "Only my own desire to spend my life with the man I love, if he will still have me."

"If I will still have you," he repeated, a laugh of pure joy escaping him.

"Elizabeth Bennet, I have written drafts of my proposal in my mind for weeks now.

None of them included you fleeing my presence, then demanding my attendance, or looking like you have spent the night wrestling demons. But I am ready if you are."

Her eyes narrowed. “Demanding your presence, sir? I thought my note offered an invitation.”

“ That is what you are focused on?” Darcy nearly laughed.

He was very nearly giddy, for he had come expecting the gallows and instead being offered everything he wanted.

“If your heart is truly mine . . .” He glanced at her for confirmation and was rewarded with a nod and a gentle smile.

His heart beat wildly, and he took first one of Elizabeth’s hands, then the other, in his own.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would you, without scandal, coercion, or any consideration other than your heart's inclination, do me the very great honour of becoming my wife? "

Elizabeth's laugh was like music to his ears. "No scandal? No coercion? How terribly dull, Mr. Darcy." Her dark eyes were luminous with tears. "But yes, my darling man. Yes, I will."

The happiness that surged through Darcy in that moment was unlike anything he had ever experienced. Without conscious thought, he drew her closer, one hand rising to cup her cheek with infinite tenderness.

"You know," he murmured, "if you had simply agreed at the first, we might have spared ourselves considerable trouble."

"I could not have agreed, as you had not asked me anything,” she teased.

Darcy could have laughed aloud again. Instead, he teased her back. “It was implied , as I had announced the betrothal.”

“If I had simply agreed, then we might not have learned what we needed to know," she replied. "Some lessons, Mr. Darcy, are worth the trouble they cause."

“And some ladies too,” he murmured back. “One in particular.”

Their faces were inches apart now, the rest of the world forgotten as they gazed at each other. Slowly, achingly slowly, Darcy leaned forward, his intention clear in his eyes.

Just as their lips were about to meet, the door swung open with a cheerful creak. Mrs. Abernathy bustled in, a tea tray in her hands.

"I thought you might appreciate some—oh!" She halted abruptly, her eyes widening at the scene before her. "Oh! My deepest apologies! I will just—Wilson, come back later! The tea can—no, never mind—I will just—"

She backed out of the room, the flustered apologies continuing even as the door closed behind her.

For a moment, Elizabeth and Darcy remained frozen in place, then simultaneously burst into laughter.

"I believe Mrs. Abernathy has guessed the outcome of our conversation," Darcy observed wryly when their laughter had subsided.

"Indeed," Elizabeth agreed, her eyes still sparkling with mirth. "Though I suspect Arabella informed her of my hopes the moment I sent the note to you."

Darcy raised an eyebrow. "Your hopes, was it? And here I thought I was being summoned to receive my dismissal."

"Never," Elizabeth replied, suddenly serious despite her smile. "Not now that I have finally found the courage to accept what my heart has known for some time."

"And what is that?" he asked, though her expression told him all he needed to know.

"That I love you," she said simply. "With all my heart. And that I can trust you with its safekeeping."

This time, when Darcy leaned forward to kiss her, there were no interruptions. His heart hammered in his chest as he bent down, aware of nothing but Elizabeth, her warmth, her nearness, the faint scent of jasmine that he had come to associate with her.

He pressed his lips to hers with gentle reverence at first, as though she were something infinitely precious he feared might vanish if held too tightly.

The softness of her response undid him completely.

Her hands found their way to his shoulders, drawing him closer, and any remaining hesitation dissolved like frost in sunlight.

He encircled her waist, steadying her as much as himself, feeling as though the ground beneath him had shifted. In all his imaginings of this moment—and there had been many—nothing compared to the reality of Elizabeth in his arms, returning his kiss with an ardour that matched his own.

When they finally parted, breathless and flushed, he could not look away from her enchanting eyes, which had darkened with what he could only hope was burgeoning desire.

"I believe, Mr. Darcy," she whispered, her voice teasing despite its tremor, "that this constitutes a most scandalous beginning to our official engagement."

"Then I look forward," he murmured, his forehead resting against hers, unwilling to increase the distance between them by even an inch, "to a lifetime of scandal with you."