Page 85 of Mr. Darcy's Honor

“What a peculiar twist of fate,” Elizabeth remarked, gazing at the star-filled sky. “Wickham as a clergyman, by your aunt’s arrangement.”

“It angers me,” Darcy admitted. “No consideration for you or Georgiana.”

“Yet, it is perfectly in character,” Elizabeth supplied. “She sought to remove me from your life and failed. Now she salvages what advantage she can from the situation.”

Darcy’s brow furrowed. “By elevating the very man who abducted you? The logic escapes me.”

“Control,” Elizabeth explained. “By providing Wickham with a living and a wife, she binds him to her interests. He cannot expose her involvement without implicating himself. And she presents herself to society as a benefactress, reforming a wayward soul through Christian charity.”

Understanding dawned in Darcy’s expression. “Calculating to the last.”

“Precisely.” Elizabeth turned to face him fully, reaching up to smooth the concern from his brow with gentle fingers. “But her schemes no longer matter to us, Fitzwilliam.”

His expression softened at her use of his given name, still a rare enough occurrence to carry special significance. “No, not when we’ve faced life and death.”

“I can’t imagine losing you.” She gazed at him, heavy with yearning, realizing that she’d almost lost him before she even knew she had him.

“You practically demanded that I live.” A corner of his lips turned up wryly. “I remember your voice, demanding I live so you could require explanations. Said you might have accepted me had I spoken to you as if you mattered. That you were worthy—not a failing, not a regrettable affliction.”

A strange flutter moved through Elizabeth’s chest. “You heard that? You remember?” She broke off, heat rising in her cheeks as she realized the implications.

Darcy’s smile turned decidedly mischievous. “Oh yes, I remember. Every word. You were right then. You are worthy now. Of everything I can give you.”

He reached into his waistcoat, producing a single white tulip, denoting worthiness.

Elizabeth accepted the tulip, twirling it in his face. “Shall I recall every feverish uttering, Mr. Darcy? I believe there was something about swans named Lizzy and Fitzy.”

Darcy’s cheeks turned a blazing red. “Perhaps we might agree to mutual discretion on that particular subject.”

“How very convenient for you,” Elizabeth laughed. “Especially since I have learned to keep secrets, even from Jane.”

His expression acknowledged her discretion, never mentioning the garden proposal and other details too private to share.

Above them, a shooting star traced a brilliant path across the clear night sky. Elizabeth followed its arc. A sense of completion, of rightness, settled over her like a mantle.

“A fortuitous omen,” Darcy murmured, his gaze following hers upward.

“Do you believe in such things, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth teased, surprised by this hint of superstition in her eminently rational fiancé.

“I believe I have been granted more good fortune than I deserve.” His voice was low and raspy. “If the stars wish to offer their blessing as well, I shall not reject it.”

“How very accommodating of you.” Elizabeth laughed softly. “And they say pride is your greatest fault.”

“Perhaps,” Darcy replied, his lips hovering over hers, “it is simply that I have found something I value far more.”

The End