Page 108 of Companions of Their Youth
She said yes.
He replayed it again and again—the surprise in her eyes, the way her lips parted in astonishment, and the smile, just the barest curve, when she finally agreed to a courtship. It had not been a grand gesture, nor a moment steeped in poetry or perfection. But it had been real. Earnest. And it was enough.
He was still smiling to himself when Fitzwilliam shifted beside him and said casually, “You appear unusually pleased for a man whose sister just injured a young lady with a vase.”
Darcy cast him a look.
Fitzwilliam smirked. “Ah. So that is it.”
He said nothing.
Bingley, who was gazing dreamily out the opposite window, sighed.He is either thinking about Miss Bennet or his late dinner… I cannot tell which.
Darcy cleared his throat. “Bingley.”
“Hm?”
“I must ask a favor. Please do not speak to your sisters about what transpired at Longbourn today. Georgiana’s misstep must be kept quiet, for her sake.”
Bingley turned from the window, nodding earnestly. “Of course. Poor Miss Elizabeth! Poor Miss Bennet—she was so distressed! I hardly knew what to do. But she did seem to rally, especially when I offered her my handkerchief.”
Fitzwilliam snorted.
When they arrived at Netherfield, Miss Bingley descended upon them with theatrical horror.
“Wherever have you been? Dinner has been waiting for half an hour—Cook was beside herself! Oh, Mr. Darcy, you must come in this moment, you are so chilled—”
“I must change,” he said shortly.
“But it shall only take a moment! You must escort me to dinner—”
Darcy made for the stairs. She seized his arm, trailing after him like a barnacle affixed to a ship’s hull.
He said nothing. When they reached his chamber, he simply stepped inside and shut the door.
Firmly.
Her protest echoed down the corridor.
Darcy exhaled, pressing his fingertips to his temples. The sharp contrast between Elizabeth’s clarity and Miss Bingley’s insipid coquetry was almost painful. How had he ever found such company tolerable?
When he rang for Bates, the valet arrived within moments, but he bore more than fresh garments.
“A letter, sir. Hand-delivered from Meryton.”
Darcy’s blood ran cold.
The paper. The wax. The familiar, elegant script.
With leaden fingers, he broke the seal and opened it.
I was meant to be yours, and we were meant to be one. Do not give up on us now, my love. I will finish what we have begun.
He sat down hard in the chair by the fire.
God help me. She is here.
Chapter 23
