Page 66 of Darcy's Guarded Heart
She could not say yes. Not now. It was not the moment. And yet she could not dismiss it either. A part of her—deep, quiet, and true—was glad he had spoken.
“Oh, Mr Darcy,” she began, uncertain what to say.
But he gently raised a hand.
“I know,” he said. “Now is not the time. I don’t ask you for an answer. I only ask that you think about it. That you allow the possibility.”
She met his gaze and nodded. “Yes. I will.”
Just then, Mr Bennet reappeared, his stride brisk and his face sombre.
“They were here,” he announced. “Two hours ago, no more. They’ve continued north.”
Darcy felt his breath steady. Time was short, but not yet lost.
“Then let us go,” he said. “We may still reach them before it’s too late.”
And as he climbed into the carriage beside Elizabeth, he did so with a heart fuller than it had been in years—not certain, but no longer closed. He felt a rare lightness settle over him. Having shared the full truth with Elizabeth—the shadows of his past, the mistakes he had made, and the quiet fears that had ruled his heart—he now sat in the carriage with a strange peace. Her response had been gentle, understanding, and above all, compassionate. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to hope—not only for his sister’s future, but for his own.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Elizabeth
Elizabeth sat across from Mr Darcy, her gaze turned out the window, but when she looked back at him and smiled, something passed between them—soft, unspoken, but sure.
They continued in companionable silence for a while before a shout rang out.
“Stop the carriage!” Mr Bennet called, suddenly leaning forward.
The driver pulled the reins and brought the carriage to a halt.
“That coach belongs to my nephew,” Mr Bennet explained, pointing down the road. “Young Mr Phillips. He and Thomas are close, there’s every chance—”
He did not finish the thought before dashing from the carriage, waving towards the approaching coach. Elizabeth scrambled to rise. Mr Darcy was already outside, turning quickly to hand her down. Her hand lingered a moment longer than necessary in his, the squeeze unmistakable.
The oncoming carriage slowed, then stopped.
And there they were—Thomas, and beside him, Georgiana.
Mr Darcy took a step forward. “Georgiana!”
Elizabeth’s hand fluttered to her chest. Would he keep his word? Would he let her choose freely, or now that she stood before him, would his protectiveness take hold again?
Before he could say more, Georgiana stepped from the carriage, placing herself before Thomas with a quiet strength.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said, her voice steady despite the flush in her cheeks, “do not blame him. He has not acted to hurt me.”
“I think,” Mr Darcy said slowly, “that we have all made mistakes.”
His tone was level, not accusatory. Elizabeth let out a quiet breath of relief.
“I certainly have,” Thomas said plainly. “I never should have taken Georgiana without your consent. It was rash. But I love her, and I will not see her denied happiness for the sake of position or fortune.”
Elizabeth’s heart stirred at Thomas’s courage. She recognised the signs—his clenched hand, the tension in his posture. He was worried, and yet he stood firm.
Mr Darcy nodded, a hint of weariness in his expression. “I can see that. And I trust you have not yet married?”
Georgiana shook her head. “No. Thomas insisted we return. He said it would not be proper.”
