Page 2 of The Engagement at Longbourn

CHAPTER TWO

A Promise in the Grass

Elizabeth had chosen the lane because it was quiet.

Jane had been subdued at breakfast, though she insisted she was perfectly well, and Mrs. Bennet had spent twenty minutes railing against the Bingley party for abandoning Netherfield without so much as a farewell dinner. Lydia and Kitty had begun an argument over which officers might attend an assembly the following week. Mary had attempted to improve the moment by reading aloud a sentence concerning the dangers of worldly attachment. Elizabeth had put on her boots. She knew Jane was hurt. That was the worst of it. Jane’s pain was so gentle that careless people might mistake it for the absence of pain altogether.

Elizabeth wanted air, distance, and enough solitude to think wicked things about Charles Bingley’s sisters without saying them in front of her mother. She did not expect to find Mr. Darcy sprawled in the lane. At first she thought he was dead. Her stomach dropped so violently she felt it in her knees. “Mr. Darcy?”

His eyes opened. They were unfocused. “Miss Elizabeth.”

She reached him and immediately saw the leg. “Oh, Lord.”

A tear in his breeches below the knee was dark with blood. Worse, the shape beneath the cloth was wrong. Darcy attempted to raise himself on one elbow.

“No.” Elizabeth put a hand against his shoulder. “Do not move.”

He stared at her hand as if it were an object of profound interest. “You came.”

“Yes. Entirely by accident, I assure you.”

“I knew you would.”

“That is flattering confidence, but at present I need you to lie still.”

His skin was cold beneath her fingers, yet there was already an unnatural heat in his face. His lips had lost colour. Elizabeth leaned close, trying to judge his breathing. Darcy looked directly into her eyes. “I love you.”

She froze. The wind moved dry leaves along the edge of the lane. “What?”

“I love you,” he repeated, very distinctly for a man who looked half-dead. “You must know it.”

“I most certainly did not.”

“I have been very poor at it.”

“At loving me?”

“At everything.” His brow drew together. “You laugh at me.”

“Frequently.”

“I like it.”

Elizabeth stared at him. This, she decided, was what severe injury did to a man’s brain. “You are injured, sir.”

“Yes.”

“Very badly.”

“Yes.”

“And therefore you must stop attempting conversation.”

“Marry me.” Elizabeth sat back on her heels. Darcy caught at her wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong.

“Mr. Darcy.”

“Marry me.”