Page 95 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“What is it?” she asked, a thread of concern winding through her. “Are your feet cold?”

“No.” He was, naturally, wearing immaculately polished boots, but his composure was entirely in shreds.

“Then, why are you here?”

“I wished to see you,” he said, “before the church. To say something.”

“You could not wait four hours?” she asked, though she was smiling. “We will be married by luncheon. Surely whatever you wish to say could be said then.”

“You will be surrounded by your mother, your sisters, half of Hertfordshire, and Mr. Bingley, who has been pacing the Netherfield breakfast room since five o’clock and may need to be physically restrained before the processional.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Is he quite nervous?”

“He has changed his cravat four times. Caroline offered to tie the fifth, and he told her if she touched his neckcloth, he would seat her behind a pillar.”

“Charles is ever direct.”

“He is also carrying the ring in his waistcoat pocket and checking it every three minutes, which I believe has already worn a hole through the lining.”

“And you? Are you equally deranged?”

The expression shifted on his face—a softening that he allowed because they were alone and the rest of the world was busy with flowers and hair and missing shoes. “I have been quite deranged since December,” he said. “I expect this morning will cure it.”

“So you are unwell?” She tilted her head, suddenly concerned. “Is that what you wish to tell me?”

“No. I mean, I am well, I just…” His voice turned rough. “It could not wait. I cannot walk into that church without telling you⁠—”

“Telling me what?”

He stopped and took a breath, collected himself, although he was completely undone but needed to regain enough composure to be married.

“When I fell in love with you,” he said. “You deserve to know before we are married. Before we make vows that will bind us for life. You deserve to know exactly when I became yours, because you have wondered, and I have never told you properly.”

Elizabeth felt her heart turn over in her chest. “Fitzwilliam, when?”

“It was at the Netherfield ball when you accepted a dance with me.”

“I didn’t wish to.” Elizabeth blinked, her jaw dropping an inch. “I believe I was planning your execution throughout the entire figure. How on earth could that be the genesis of your passion?”

“You did dance with me and mocked me, my silence, and my inability to speak pleasantries. You suggested I was rude.”

“You fell in love with me because I insulted your manners in public?”

“No,” he said, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a terrifying sincerity. “But you looked at me closely, and you told me what you disliked. You did not attempt civility, and yet you studied my character—even if you arrived at the most appalling conclusions.”

“I am mortified.” Elizabeth felt the cold creeping into her slippers and flexed her toes to ward off a shiver. “I was horrible to you, accusing you of being eaten up with pride.”

“But you were honest. Every other woman in that room would have offered pleasantries, filled the silence with flattery. You were the first person in my life who cared enough to challenge me.”

“That is a most charitable interpretation,” she argued. “I believe I most thoroughly disliked you.”

“Because you refused to let me hide behind my name or my consequence. Because you saw me, Elizabeth, and I wanted—I needed—to become the man you might one day approve of.”

Elizabeth’s eyes stung. She blinked rapidly, determined not to weep before breakfast on her wedding day.

“That was not a poor answer,” she admitted. “Though I might have wished you had fallen in love with me when I was less combative.”

“I fell in love with all of you, but the combative parts are among my favorites.” He kissed her knuckles, one after the other. “Now, it is your turn to tell.”