Page 30 of Honor Requires

“And you must go,” Mrs. Gardiner said gently.

“I must,” he replied. “I leave within the hour.”

Elizabeth felt the words settle within her, heavy and immovable. “So soon?”

He turned to her then, and whatever restraint had governed him dissipated. “So soon,” he said. There was a brief silence, one that stretched just long enough to become significant.

“I do not expect to be gone long,” he assured her. “A fortnight, perhaps. I shall return before you leave for London.”

Elizabeth searched his expression. He intends it. There was no uncertainty in him—no hesitation. “You will return,” she said. How silly of me to doubt him!

“I will return,” he answered, with a firmness that left no room for doubt. “Miss Bennet, I would not willingly relinquish what has begun between us.”

Her heart stirred at the words. “And what has begun?” she asked, though her voice was lower now.

He stepped nearer. “That which I mean to pursue,” he said. “That which, with your consent—and your father’s—I mean to secure for my life.”

Elizabeth’s breath trembled. “You speak very confidently, sir.”

“I speak with certainty,” he replied. “I simply wish to reinforce that which we discussed on our walk in the park.” There was no flourish in it. No grand declaration. Only truth.

Mrs. Gardiner rose then, her tact as gentle as ever. “I believe I shall see whether breakfast has been readied,” she said, and withdrew without awaiting reply.

They were alone. For a time, neither spoke.

Elizabeth looked down at her hands, then back at him. “You must not delay on my account.”

“I would delay, if I could.”

“You would not.”

“No,” he admitted.

A faint smile touched her lips. “That is what I admire in you.”

His gaze deepened. “And what I admire in you,” he said, “is that you understand it.”

There was something in the air between them—something fuller, deeper than before. No longer merely the promise of affection, but its certainty.

Elizabeth lifted her hand, almost without thinking.

He took it.

“Two weeks,” she said.

“Two weeks. I shall not be gone a day longer.”

He hesitated then—just a little—before raising her hand to his lips. The touch was brief, but it carried with it all that he did not say. He released her, instead cupping her cheek with his hand. His gaze drifted to her lips, and slowly, he lowered his until they caressed her own. It was a chaste kiss, but nonetheless exhilarating.

Elizabeth felt her heart would burst. When he released her, she did not immediately withdraw.

“Fitzwilliam,” she said. The name stilled him, and he smiled tenderly.

“I shall expect you in precisely two weeks.” She studied his face, memorizing every angle, every feature.

“You may depend upon me.” He left soon after.

And though the room felt lonelier for his absence, Elizabeth carried with her a certainty that sustained her—he would return. He had said so, and Mr. Darcy was a man of his word.