Page 99 of A November to Remember

She stopped two paces from him. “I believe I now understand what you meant when you said you were not a good man. You were telling me the truth, and you wanted me to despise you for it.”

The viscount was bereft of vocabulary.

“I am not happy about your past, my lord,” Jane continued, keeping her chin raised and her gaze unwavering. “I will not pretend otherwise.”

His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, a flinch masked as a nod. He gripped the boot tighter, bracing himself for the dismissal.

“But,” Jane continued, letting the word hang in the air just long enough to arrest his despair, “I would very much like to know better the man who could summon five seconds at a moment’s notice, myself included, and settle the affair without a single pistol shot. You may court me, Lord Keathley. If you wish.”

The boot slipped from his grasp, hitting the gravel with a dull thud.

“Miss Bennet—” he choked out, as though he had just been handed the moon on a silver platter.

“A simple ‘yes’ will suffice,” Jane interrupted, relishing the rare opportunity to dictate the pace of the conversation. “You are usually far too verbose.”

The viscount let out a disbelieving laugh. “Yes.”

“Excellent,” Jane said, warmth spreading inside her.

He stared at her, utterly undone. He opened his mouth, perhaps to deploy one of his famous compliments, or perhaps simply to remember how to breathe.

He was denied the chance. Nature abhors a vacuum, and the Fitzwilliam cousins abhorred a missed opportunity. Seeing the matriarchs temporarily incapacitated and the patriarch adequately fortified with port, the colonel and Mr Darcy found the opportunity to speak with Mr Bennet.

“Excuse me,” the colonel boomed. “If we are issuing declarations of a personal nature, I have one to contribute before my feet freeze to the ground.”

He stood in front of Mr Bennet. Beside him, Mary held her beaded reticule tightly.

“Mr Bennet,” the colonel began. “I have the honour of informing you that your daughter Mary has consented to become my wife. We reached an understanding. She is a woman of unparalleled culinary foresight and moral fortitude. There were tarts.”

Mary nodded solemnly. “He requires steady meals, Papa. I have agreed to ensure he never goes hungry.”

Mr Bennet blinked, taking a sip of his port. “You are marrying him. Over pastries.”

“They were very good pastries, sir,” the colonel confirmed.

Before Mr Bennet could accept the loss of his middle daughter to a hungry man, Mr Darcy stepped forward, exalted and resolute. He took Elizabeth’s hand, lacing his fingers through hers. On Elizabeth’s left hand, the faint moonlight caught the glimmer of a sapphire set in gold.

“Mr Bennet,” Mr Darcy said. “I must also claim a moment of your time. Miss Elizabeth has done me the supreme honour of accepting my hand. We became engaged on the terrace. She promised to keep my horse supplied with apples for the rest of its natural life.”

Elizabeth beamed, leaning against his coat.

Mr Bennet lowered his glass, surveying every single one of them.

“I came outside,” he murmured to the night sky, his voice marvelling at the absurdity of his own existence, “and shortly after I offered to participate in an illegal exchange of pistol shots. And instead, I am losing half my household to the Fitzwilliam family in the space of three minutes. Is there anyone else? Mr Boodles, do you perhaps wish to propose to the housekeeper? I am sure Hill is available if you ask nicely.”

Mrs Bennet, who had been transfixed by the shock of the near-duel, inhaled a breath that sounded like a bellows drawing in air.

Her brain, historically a marvel of rapid calculations, did the arithmetic. A viscount. An earl’s second son. And Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, with ten thousand a year. The sum total of wealth standing in front of her was enough to buy the entire county. Mrs Bennet’s lower lip trembled. “Hetty. Hetty. They will have carriages. They will all have carriages. None of my girls will ever ride in a gig pulled by a three-legged horse.”

Mrs Philips nodded frantically, her turban completing its long journey to forty-five degrees.

“Two weddings to plan,” Mrs Bennet cried, “oh, the silk—and a courtship to manage—I must write to my brother Gardiner—I must order the lace—the church will need extra pews—I must—I—”

Her eyes rolled back in her head. “Oh, my heavens,” she squeaked, and finally swooned, for the second time that week.

“Franny!” Mrs Philips shrieked, lunging forward to catch her sister. “Someone fetch the salts! And a chair! She has conquered the ton! And I need to know the price of hothouse roses before she wakes up, because she will ask!”

Jane looked at her mother, then back to the viscount who was grinning at her.