Page 110 of Mr. Darcy's Fortunate Neighbor

“And you have been waging this campaign for years?”

Lady Sophia allowed herself a slender, triumphant smile. “I cultivated acquaintances wherever you wandered. Why else did I persuade you to take the townhouse beside mine? Yet you were a most recalcitrant subject—averse to dancing, critical of every eligible young lady. I began to despair that Anne’s wish would ever be fulfilled.”

“And then Mrs. Long wrote about the insult,” Darcy said.

“Yes, and it hit me that I should look deeper than the surface civilities. That a young woman with fine eyes and no fortune, who was insulted by the proudest man in the county, would then refuse a dance with him. I believe Mrs. Long recorded her words as, ‘Do not suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.’ I began to take note. And then, when Lady Catherine complained about the creature who had entangled you in Kent, I was more than intrigued. And when your cousin reported that you had left a Kentish parsonage in the worst state he had ever witnessed—soaked through, having written a letter you were not certain had been read—I knew.”

“You knew what?” Darcy asked, his breath catching. “About the letter?”

“Your cousin saw you hand it to her, although he knew not the reason. It was, of course, a severe breach of propriety, and itgot me to wonder… That a woman who could reduce Fitzwilliam Darcy to letter-writing despair was very probably the woman your mother had described. Imagine my felicity when I wrote Mrs. Long, inquiring about a friend of Mrs. Collins, and she confirmed that this young lady was none other than the Bennet girl with the fine eyes and sprightly wit.”

Darcy groaned, the sound of a man utterly vanquished. He could only pray that the particulars of his disastrous proposal and her withering refusal remained mercifully concealed.

“Well, knowing that she had somehow vexed you, although I had no inkling of the extent, I next called on you to propose the gift with you as the trustee. You, Fitzwilliam, fairly gave your feelings away by the way the color drained from your face and then flooded back to the tips of your ears. Hence, I put the fortune in motion. Everything I owned was required to bring her to London, to you, where your mother’s dream might have a chance.”

The music ended. Elizabeth curtsied to Lord Rokeby and turned toward the wall where Darcy sat, her eyes finding his across the room with the instinct that had become as natural as breathing.

She did not know. She had no inkling that her fortune was the fruit of a scheme, her sojourn in London the result of careful orchestration, her path since April shaped by the wishes of the departed and the will of the indefatigable. She believed she had chosen him in the hedgerow, guided by nothing but her heart.

That innocence was everything.

“She must never learn of this,” Darcy said.

“No.” Lady Sophia’s voice was firm. “She must never feel that her love was arranged or obligated. The gift was freely given. The fortune is hers regardless of whom she marries. And her heart—” She paused. “Her heart is her own, Fitzwilliam. She chose you because you poured tea for her mother, threw balls for herterrier, and pruned her dance card without flinching. She chose you because she wanted to. That distinction matters more than any intelligence I ever gathered.”

Elizabeth was crossing the room now, her stride quick and purposeful, her face lit with the radiant, unguarded expression she wore only for him.

“Your mother would have adored her,” Lady Sophia murmured. “The arguing alone would have delighted Anne beyond measure.”

“I know.” Darcy rose from his chair. “They would have liked each other immensely.”

“Go.” Lady Sophia waved him toward the dance floor. “Dance with your bride. Enjoy the fruits of my scheming. And when she asks why you are smiling, tell her it is because you are happy, which will be the absolute, glorious truth.”

Darcy crossed the room and gathered Elizabeth into his arms. She wore the ivory gown with the gold thread, and her eyes held a spark of mischief that signaled she had been watching him as he watched her.

“Mr. Darcy, you have been sitting against that wall for two sets,” she teased, though her hand rested against his chest with possessive warmth. “I was beginning to think you had taken root.”

“I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

He bowed as the orchestra surprisingly struck up the first bars of a waltz. “Might I have this dance?”

“I would be delighted.” She curtsied, and the curtsy promised a hundred dances and a thousand arguments and a single kiss in a hedgerow.

He led her onto the floor, drawing her close, his hand steady at her waist. He turned her, quick and breathless, and suddenly he was soaring, she with him, spinning until the assembly dissolved and nothing remained but the two of them.

A love chosen, freely given, and fiercely kept.

The End