Page 153 of Colour My World
“A rare creature.”
“She has written to Mrs Ecclestone.”
He blinked. “The governess from Longbourn?”
“The Bishop of Rochester’s cousin.”
“Yes, so I learned.”
“Six weeks,” Georgiana said. “To begin in February.”
Darcy arched a brow. “A governess for my aunt.”
“A companion,” she corrected, lips curving faintly. “Though the difference may prove academic.”
Darcy’s mouth lifted at one corner. He gave a soft laugh. “You are our mother’s daughter.”
“Am I finally?”
He looked down into his mother’s eyes—one blue as a Derbyshire summer sky, the other the same but ringed in gold.
“You always were.”
* * *
Darcy stood in the entrance hall—gloves in hand, coat fastened, hat tucked beneath one arm. His carriage waited in the drive, the wheels already dusted with snow. The butler appeared, bristling with disapproval as ever and said nothing as Anne de Bourgh descended the stairs.
She walked with quiet deliberation, her hands folded before her. At the base of the stairs, she stopped and extended a folded slip of paper.
“She meant to write it,” Anne said. “But could not.”
Darcy took it.
A gentleman becomes most himself not when he leads—
but when he is received.
He looked up. Anne met his gaze, eyes steady. “My mother will say I am turning sentimental.”
And so you did.Darcy allowed a breath to escape. “I shall not report you.”
Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile. “That would be most prudent.”
Epilogue
Longbourn Chapel, June 1812
The morning sun filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting dappled light over the assembled guests. The scent of roses and honeysuckle lingered in the air, mingling with the hum of conversation and the faint rustle of silk and soft-spun wool.
Elizabeth stepped into the chapel, her hands steady, her heart less so. She had never envisioned this moment, not like this.
Yet, there he was, waiting at the altar, standing tall and impossibly perfect in his tailored morning wear. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Her husband-to-be.Her husband.
A hush fell as her father placed her hand in Darcy’s. The cool weight of the Darcy rubies graced her throat, but it was his touch that anchored her.
She squeezed once. He squeezed back. The ceremony commenced.
Elizabeth barely heard the words, though she repeated the vows with clarity and conviction. Beside her, Jane stood serenely, a bouquet of white roses in hand.
