Page 157 of What Change Entails

Mr. Darcy had fallen silent. Her attention drifted from the reins to his face. He was no longer watching the road. The full force of his attention rested upon her, and with it came the terrible likelihood that he had seen where her thoughts had wandered. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he merely knew enough of desire to recognize it in another.

The air beneath the trees felt suddenly too close.

“Elizabeth.” Her name from his mouth was nearly her undoing.

She could not answer.

His fingers closed more firmly around the reins. The mare stood patient and mild before them, flicking one ear toward the leaves.

Darcy leaned nearer… an inch. Then another.

Elizabeth did not draw back. Every rule ever taught to her clamored in protest, but they did so at some distance, like voices from another room.

He stopped before his mouth touched hers, so near she could feel his breath stir against her cheek.

His voice came roughened, scarcely above a whisper. “Elizabeth, have I any hope?”

The question brought with it such force that for a moment she could not speak.

His expression searched hers, uncertain, undemanding, and afraid. That undid the last of her resistance.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He let her words wash over him; the word relieved some great burden within him.

Elizabeth, who had been sensible often enough to resent it, moved first. She bridged the small distance between them and pressed her mouth to his. The world narrowed to the warm shock of contact.

Darcy went still for the space of one heartbeat, perhaps two. Then his hand came up to cup her face with a tenderness that made her tremble. He gathered the reins into his other hand and turned fully toward her, careful even in urgency. That arm slid around her waist, drawing her nearer on the narrow seat.

The kiss deepened.

Elizabeth had no experience by which to judge it. No comparison, no prepared opinion, no witty observation with which to defend herself. There was nothing but Darcy’s mouth moving against hers, the warmth of his hand at her cheek, the strength of his arm around her while the horse shifted lazily before them and leaves stirred overhead.

It should have frightened her. It did, a little. Mostly it made every moment before this seem thin and unfinished.

Darcy drew back first, though not far. His forehead nearly touched hers. His breath came unevenly, and his thumb rested against her cheek as if he had forgotten to remove it.

“Forgive me,” he said.

“No.”

His eyes opened.

Elizabeth swallowed, suddenly appalled by her own boldness and unwilling to surrender it. “That is, there is nothing to forgive.”

His expression was so nakedly revealing that she had to look down.

“Elizabeth,” he said again, and the sound of her name had changed. Or perhaps she had changed in hearing it.

He gathered himself with visible effort, though his hand remained at her face for one more stolen second before he lowered it. “I love you most ardently. I know I have said so before with every fault of pride and temper to poison it, but it remains true. More true now, because I know you better. Because I know myself better.”

Her fingers twisted together in her lap.

She had thought she was prepared for such words. She was not.

“At Hunsford,” he continued, each phrase uneven, “I spoke of struggle when I ought to have spoken of honor. I spoke of inferiority when I should have been grateful merely to stand before you. I cannot unsay it. I have wished many times that I could.”

Elizabeth reached for his hand before courage deserted her.