Page 142 of Colour My World
Chapter 51
Oakham Mount, the following morning...
The air bit at his skin, sharp with the remnants of the storm, yet he felt no chill. Darcy had risen before the sun, dressed with precision, mounted his horse, and set out for the place Bennet had appointed. He rode slowly, though his pulse urged haste.
Now, atop Oakham Mount, he waited.
Faint gold and lavender traced the sky. The rising sun promised the first warmth of the dawn. Then, she appeared.
Elizabeth.
The mist curled around her as she stepped onto the path, her hem darkened by the damp earth. Her bonnet, tied loosely beneath her chin, allowed the wind to tease free the darker strands of her hair. She stood against the dawn, her breaths soft clouds. Not sculpted perfection, not symmetry, but something alive. The world did not bow to her. It leant in, drawn by something it could not name. And she was walking towards him.
She stopped before him, The Book pressed reverently to her chest.She had read it.He knew before she spoke.
“You are early.” She seemed amused.
He swallowed. She shivered.
Darcy removed his greatcoat and extended it, a thick woollen wrap. His hands remained steady despite his rampaging heartbeat.
She blinked at the offering, then at him. Slowly, she smiled.
He draped the warmth over her shoulders.
She gathered the fabric closer and inhaled. “Thank you.”
Darcy could only stare. Her presence, her gratitude, her choice to be here at all—overwhelming.
She arched a brow. “Are you ever going to speak to me? Orshall I spend this entire morning as a museum exhibit while you stare, and I freeze?”
His lips parted. Nothing.
“Mr Darcy.”
His breath shuddered.
“Ask me something. Anything.”
A sharp gust of wind tore through the mountaintop, but it was nothing to the tempest within. He exhaled and rid himself of the damned water in his ears.
“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
* * *
She had known, had she not, that this moment would come. Yet, standing there, wrapped in the scent of him, the warmth of his coat upon her shoulders, she felt utterly unprepared. She clutched the book tighter. She could feel its shape, imagined the words inside, the truths she had uncovered.
Mr Darcy had not moved. His lips, parted as though he might speak, pressed together again. His usual intensity tempered by something unreadable.
Did he know? Could he possibly understand what I see?
Mr Darcy. A rose aire. His words. His heart. Her heart.
She exhaled. She was Elizabeth Bennet. She felt her lips curl at the edges. “Well,” she said, “that was rather well said.”
* * *
Darcy stared. For a moment, one stretched impossibly long. He did not move, did not breathe, did not think. Then, he laughed. Low at first, barely more than an exhale, but then richer, deeper, freer.
