Caroline Bingley was sulking, and that was never a good omen.

Darcy had taken up a defensive posture at the writing desk. His declared purpose was to pen a missive to his sister, Georgiana, which he was, in fact, doing. However, his real intent was to avoid being forced to talk to the other people in the room. One of them was Miss Bingley.

Another was Elizabeth Bennet.

Ever since Caroline Bingley’s failure at drawing her brother away from Hertfordshire after the ball at Netherfield, the woman had become insufferable. It seemed that her whole being was focused on proving Jane Bennet’s unsuitability as the future Mrs. Bingley. From subtle means by which she could make Miss Bennet look backward and simple, to blunt insults assaulting her looks and character, nothing had worked yet. Every ploy, every tactic had only brought the lady in question more into their circle of intimates. And with her came her sister.

This afternoon, Bingley had invited the entire Bennet family, father and mother included, to take rides in his new sleigh. However, as the day had dawned warm and wet, that scheme was impossible. The family came anyway, and now they were passing an unbearable afternoon in the drawing-room.

Mr. Bennet, Darcy could tolerate. He had a way of secreting himself in the corner and only dropping sardonic quips when a member of his family said or did something ridiculous. Which was, unfortunately, rather frequent.

Caroline Bingley had begun to pace, but this time, she had thought better of inviting Elizabeth Bennet to join her. She prowled instead behind Darcy’s chair, a weather eye on the second-eldest Bennet sister as she guarded her claim… him.

“I declare, Mr. Darcy, you do write so often to our dear Miss Darcy. She must be the happiest girl in the world, with such a thoughtful and eloquent brother to send her long letters each day.”

“You mistake me, Miss Bingley,” he replied evenly, never looking up. “My letters may be long, but I do not send more than two each week. I await her reply between.”

“Then they must be exquisite, so much time do you expend composing them. Oh! If only Charles were so considerate. Imagine, if you will, receiving a letter of only a page and a half long, barely legible, and that only twice each month! I declare—” here, she turned a serene gaze about the room, but her words were directed toward Miss Bennet. “Charles is careless, I daresay, and not half so generous to his sisters as Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy flicked an annoyed glance at Miss Bingley and wished that her brother would set her in her place for once. Bingley was blushing, stammering some laughing excuse about how his thoughts tumbled altogether too fast and his tasks were too many to permit the sort of long letters his sister claimed to desire.

Well. Charles Bingley had never been the man to confront his sister, and even less so now with Jane Bennet in attendance. And Darcy was certainly not going to do it. He turned back to his letter.

“Generosity is a fine thing, and not to be mocked in whatever form it may take.”

Darcy blinked, and his spine went rigid. That was Elizabeth Bennet, and no mistake. He would know her sweet tones in… well, in his dreams, for they had started to wander there well over a month ago. He swallowed and kept writing, but his attention was all on what she would say next.

“Why, naturally!” Miss Bingley scoffed lightly. “My dear Eliza, whoever said anything about mocking anyone?”

“Perhaps I misunderstood. You said, I believe, that Mr. Darcy is everything generous and thoughtful in his care for his sister.”

Darcy’s ears grew hot, but he did not dare to look up.

“But of course. Our Mr. Darcy takes the most prodigious care of dear Georgiana. What more proof do you need than his constant attention to his letters for her?”

Darcy’s hand tightened on his pen, and he risked a glance at the chaise, where Elizabeth Bennet was sitting with a neglected cup of tea. She barely took any notice of him, but her eyes did touch his once. Just long enough to inform him that she knew he was listening, and she did not care.

“Truly, Miss Bingley, I cannot deny what you say. It shows a profound generosity of spirit to face a wall all evening and labor with a bit of quill and paper, merely to express devotion to one person who is far distant at the expense of others who are near.”

Caroline Bingley was a second or two in replying. “Why—do you mean to claim that Mr. Darcy is, in fact, rude in company? Miss Eliza, I hardly know what to say to such a preposterous notion! The very idea that anyone could think our Mr. Darcy ungentlemanly—”

“What Miss Elizabeth means,” Darcy interrupted, for he was unable to restrain himself longer, “is that there are other, and perhaps better means of expressing this generosity you so enthusiastically ascribe to me alone.”

Elizabeth Bennet tipped her head and permitted a saucy smile—the kind of smile that always preceded some verbal trap. “That is precisely what I meant. Now, you would praise Mr. Darcy for his fine penmanship and declare it evidence of an equally fine character. I cannot deny your assertions, but I do usually find that more often it is those of open cheer and goodwill—such as Mr. Bingley exhibits—who are truly generous. One gives a few moments of his time and effort, while the other gives his whole self.”

Darcy was momentarily as stung as Miss Bingley. He, however, was quicker with his retort. “Do you presume to pass judgment on a person on so little evidence as their activities in a drawing-room?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “I can only speak as I find. I am hardly able to sketch your character anywhere other than a drawing-room… or a ballroom,” she added with a significant widening of that cheeky smile.

As it happened, Darcy would rather not recall his time with her in a ballroom, for it reflected rather poorly on him. “Then perhaps you would do better not to pronounce your judgment, as you have so little frame of reference—”

“Oh, but I have just had the most charming idea!” Miss Bingley interrupted. She moved between them, her hands waving as if trying to separate armed combatants. “Why do we not put Mr. Darcy’s true generosity on display?”

A sinking feeling came over his stomach. Was she going to force him to host a party? Dance with every Bennet sister in the county? He would not do it, not even to save face.

“Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth Bennet laughed, “I was not aware that Mr. Darcy’s generosity was in question. You have already declared him to be a paragon, and so he must be, even if not all can appreciate his form of generosity. I only claimed that your own brother is equally gracious in his way. We need not make it a competition.”

“Competition?” piped up a younger voice. It was Lydia Bennet, the hoyden of the clan, and she was already flouncing out of her seat and overturning a saucer to hear better. “Oh, do Lizzy, let us have a competition! What is it to be? Archery? Cards? You know I am famous at Rummy—”

To Elizabeth Bennet’s credit, she never failed to blush on account of her relations. She was red to her brow now, glancing at her father on the far side of the room as if in entreaty. She would get no help there; Mr. Bennet was lost in a book and ignorant of the rest of the room.

“Lydia, we spoke of no such thing,” she answered at last. “I had only said that there is no need to compare which person is the most generous.”

The girl pouted at her sister, then frowned between Darcy and Miss Bingley. “Why ever not? I say the person who gives the best gifts should have the distinction of the most generous person.”

Darcy scoffed and turned his eyes back to his letter. Trust Lydia Bennet to conceive of something so childish.

Elizabeth, to his relief, agreed. “Lydia!” she gasped. “You entirely miss my point! There is no need—”

“Oh, but there is, Miss Eliza,” Caroline Bingley interrupted. “Why, you persist in misunderstanding a noble man like Mr. Darcy. Why shall we not undertake to correct your assumptions?”

Darcy turned, trying to hide his horror. “I am quite capable of defending my own reputation, madam.”

“But of course you are! And that is why you cannot fail to appreciate my plan. I think we ought to have an exchange of gifts among our party.”

“Gifts, Miss Bingley?” Miss Elizabeth echoed. Her eyes narrowed in distress, then flitted briefly to Darcy. “I am sure that is unnecessary.”

“Oh!” Miss Bingley cried. “I had quite forgot! Perhaps the purchasing of gifts would be too much of a burden on some among us.”

Darcy’s gaze wandered to Elizabeth Bennet again, though he remained bent over his letter. It had become an object of fascination for him, watching her courage rise whenever Miss Bingley tried to torment her. How would she respond to this latest affront?

She bristled, and her cheeks flushed handsomely. “I assure you, Miss Bingley, it is no ‘burden,’ as you say. I merely feel it a gratuitous display, vain and irrelevant, as your only point is to prove a thing which I have not denied.”

Miss Bingley smiled sweetly. “Then, it is settled. We shall limit it to one gift per person, in consideration of… everyone.” This, she said with a faint look of disdain, at which Elizabeth Bennet’s eyes darkened. “Let us draw names, shall we? That way, no one can be accused of choosing favorites. Mr. Darcy, may I trouble you for a pen and some paper?”

By this time, the rest of the room had ceased their conversations to listen. Bingley praised the scheme, while Mrs. Hurst shot her sister a glare that plainly denounced the idea. Mr. Bennet’s expression was something between disgruntled and amused. Mrs. Bennet, however, exulted so loudly that even her daughters’ voices were drowned out.

“There,” Miss Bingley announced. She came forward with a handful of papers, all folded. “I will place these in a basket. Each person’s name is written once, and everyone shall draw one piece of paper. Do not reveal whose name you draw! We shall exchange the gifts in one week, and you must not let on to whom you have given the gift.”

“On Christmas Eve!” cried Lydia Bennet.

Miss Bingley’s lip curled, no doubt because she realized only too late that her idea of a gift exchange meant another evening in company with the Bennet family. “Ahem. I suppose. Now, I shall mix the names up and come around.”

Darcy watched the woman, for he knew her manner well enough to know that she had some hidden design. She peered carefully into the basket, daintily rearranged one or two pieces of paper, then smilingly started for Darcy’s chair.

That was when Lydia Bennet charged. “Oh, let me!” she cried. “Everyone knows that I am generous, I will draw first!”

Before Caroline Bingley could react, Lydia plunged her hand into the basket, stirred it roughly around two or three times, and grabbed a paper. “Hah! I got… oh, I am not supposed to tell. What fun! Oh, I have such a jolly gift in mind!”

The girl waltzed away, the prized name clutched to the lace of her fichu. Miss Bingley was white with anger. Her mouth dropped open as she stared down at the wreckage of what had once been basket full of name slips arranged to her liking. Darcy was only marginally less disturbed—by Lydia Bennet’s reaction, he suspected that his was the name she had drawn.

There was nothing else for it. Trapped now, and with her plan in shambles, Miss Bingley came around to each person in the room with a trembling hand. Mr. Bennet, Bingley, Miss Bennet, Hurst, Miss Elizabeth… who glanced quickly at her paper then buried it in her lap.

Darcy was next to last. His trepidation great, he chose a paper and left the last name for Caroline. He heard her understated groan as she read her assigned person, and that left only him to discover his fate. Slowly, he unfolded the paper and read the name.

Elizabeth Bennet.

***

 
Elizabeth Bennet. The one woman in all the world who would look upon any effort of his with skepticism, and it was up to him to prove to her that he was… 

That he was what? A gentleman? That much was indisputable. Amiable? Making himself amiable to Elizabeth Bennet was dangerous. Able to procure a lavish gift to make her the envy of all others? Indeed, none had greater ability, but it was not his wealth in question. He had to prove himself to be generous.

Generous! How did one define such a word? Traditionally, his understanding had been that the giver must be put to some inconvenience, or that their thoughtfulness must be of extravagance, or long duration, or both. None of these would do, for such a display would instigate gossip. And that would be… inconvenient.

It must be simpler than that. She was not a woman who demanded finery or lavish expenditures, yet surely she had some notion of what constituted a good gift. For two days, Darcy fretted and debated, rejecting every idea to come to mind. He thought of a gold pin for her bonnet, but such vanity would be little appreciated by such a woman. And it was likely to be stolen by her younger sister. 

Then he thought of how she enjoyed reading. That was it! A book of poetry… No, she had told him once that poetry was the surest means of driving away love.

Not that he meant to tell her he loved her! Why, that was… that was ridiculous! He… well, he admired her, certainly. And what was so wrong with that? He had admired at least two other women in his life. His mother and… Surely there were more. A pity he could not think of them all.

Very well, poetry was not the proper thing, but what of a novel? She had read—unknowingly—one of his own books last October when she stayed at Netherfield. Perhaps that meant they had similar taste. So reasoning, Darcy set himself an errand at the Meryton book shop for the following afternoon.

The shop was almost empty when he arrived—so much the better, for he could wander the shelves more freely without others speculating what he was purchasing, and for whom. Historical books… no, far too dry. His gift to her must strike just the right tone. 

Though he was prohibited by the rules to reveal who had given the gift, Elizabeth Bennet was no fool. She would discover him, and he had to convey… what, precisely? That he wished to know her better? That he admired the clever turn of her mind, the way she teased so lightly and yet never failed to hit her mark? That he dreamed of her each night, but was mortified that she might learn of it?

What sort of a book did a man give to a woman who made him ache in ways he had never ached before?

Science… no, that would not do. Philosophy… he paused. Perhaps—if he wished for a debate partner. Fetching as that notion was, it did not feel quite right. He moved to another aisle.

Ah, there was the newest from Byron. Darcy pulled it from the shelf and thumbed it open. The heated lines caused the sweat to bead his brow at once. Another stanza and his eyes were popping out, and he felt warm in ways that made him yearn for her. His heart standing in his throat and his breath coming fast, he read a little more.

And this, the stuff that Elizabeth Bennet declared would kill love stone dead? Far from it! But what was that she had said? “A slight, thin sort of inclination” would shy away, but “a fine, stout, healthy love” could withstand it—perhaps even be nourished by it. Yes, that was the sort of passion required between lovers before he could gift a book like this.  Not feeling half so daring, he took a cleansing breath and pushed Byron back onto the shelf.

That left only one more aisle in the small bookstore. Feeling less hopeful than desperate, Darcy turned the corner and stumbled directly into Mr. Bennet.

“Ah, Mr. Darcy,” the gentleman greeted him.

“Fancy meeting you here. I understand you appreciate a good book, sir.”

“I do,” he answered, a bit more stiffly than was warranted.

Mr. Bennet wetted his finger and turned a page in the green-bound book he held, his eyes scarcely straying from it. “Well, then, very good. I would let you examine this book, but I believe I shall be purchasing it myself. Are you seeking something in particular? I may be able to help you find it.”

“Thank you, sir, but I am as yet uncertain what I seek.” Darcy turned to the shelves and scanned them in silence. Nothing caught his eye—or that which did was promptly rejected as being too silly or too dull. Hope was beginning to fade as he turned to look at the opposite row.

“May I ask, sir,” Mr. Bennet spoke after a long silence, “whether you seek a book for yourself or another?”

Darcy was slow to answer. “Another,” he said reluctantly.

“Perhaps you would like to see the gothic novels. There are a few just there. I believe many of the young ladies enjoy them.”

Darcy shot Mr. Bennet a curious glare. The older gentleman’s mouth was twitching, but he blinked innocently and looked back at his book.

Oh, hang it all. Even if he thought a gothic read would be just right for Elizabeth, he could not very well select such a book with her father watching him. For one thing, he wanted to savor the choosing of it, enjoying a few lines himself to make sure he could hear her voice in his ear, reading that same book aloud. And for another, he could not bear for Mr. Bennet to know his secret.

“I thank you for your help,” he said at last. “But I believe I will have to look elsewhere.”

Mr. Bennet looked up with a grand smile and nodded. “Suit yourself, Mr. Darcy. Oh, I understand there has been a new shipment of ribbons and French lace next door at the milliner’s. I believe some of my daughters were eager to examine the selections.”

That sealed it. Darcy was on his horse less than a minute later, his proverbial tail between his legs.

And he still had no idea what to give Elizabeth.

***

The trouble of a fitting gift for Elizabeth Bennet so dominated his thoughts that her face was constantly in his mind. Pleasant, yes, but also exceedingly tortuous. And there was a particular dissonance when he walked about the house, thinking of Elizabeth, while Caroline Bingley persisted in following him. So, he went for an afternoon ride. It was refreshing, galloping over the rise, breathing in the crisp air, overlooking the view…

And stumbling upon the very object of his musings.

She was facing away from him, wrapped in a thick woolen cloak and standing alone by a tree. Her arms were folded before her, and her head tipped back as if she were drinking in the day. She turned when she heard him.

Darcy lifted his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Darcy. All alone today, I see?”

“The better to clear my head. Do you not find a bit of solitude refreshing now and again?”

A hint of laughter warmed her face. “Mr. Darcy, I have four sisters. What do you think?”

“Far be it from me to declare the company of your sisters undesirable. I believe it would be safer, rather, for me to observe that you are walking alone, and surely had some reason for it.”

She bobbed her head graciously. “Just so.”

He searched for something else to say, and foundered. Just as he did every time he looked at her, he became lost. It was something in those remarkable eyes, some light of life that never failed to lure his senses until his tongue was a wreck and his mind a jumble. He wished he could simply stay there, worshipping her presence as his heart beat ever thicker in his chest and his vision blurred to all but her.

But that would never do. He blinked until the fog lifted from his head, and tugged at his rein. “Well, as you claimed to be seeking solitude, I shall not impose—”

“I never claimed any such thing.”

He stilled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Solitude. I never said I came expressly for that reason. The assumption was yours, sir.”

Darcy dropped his hand and studied her. “Very well. What reason did you have for coming out alone today, if not specifically to be alone?”

A joyous smile livened her face, and she spread her arms. “Why, all of this. Look about you! Do you not see?”

He squinted against the silvery winter sunlight, and his eyes scanned the horizon. “I see gentle hills, old oak trees, fields which presently lie fallow, dry irrigation beds, a handful of promising coveys…”

“Precisely!” she cried. “The world lies before you, Mr. Darcy—or, at least, a modest corner of it.”

He leaned forward in the saddle. “And that is why you walk out? To enjoy the view?”

She shrugged. “To admire nature in all its bounty, no matter the season. To feel a part of the world, rather than a hapless passenger as it turns about. To clear my head of the clutter and busyness of daily life and to think through the things I do not have time to consider anywhere else. Yes, that is why I walk out.”

“And you do not need to be alone for such an outing?”

She tilted her head, pursing her lips and regarding him carefully. “Sometimes. But what a gift would it be, to pass such a time in the company of a kindred spirit? Nay, sir, that would be far better than walking alone, if a look or a gesture could serve to connect like minds and draw their feelings along similar paths. What could be a pleasanter way to pass an afternoon than in the company of one who possesses the rare gift of understanding?”

“Miss Elizabeth,” he agreed huskily, “that would, indeed, be something, to find someone with whom one could be so utterly at home. But, as you say, it is rare. I take it you have not such a person in your own household?”

“Jane occasionally, but less of late. Charlotte Lucas, although I have lost her to wedding plans, and shall lose her to Kent in a few more days.” She sighed, and a sadness shadowed her expression for a moment—a look Darcy felt deep in his bones, for it seemed the very essence of how he felt much of the time.

Darcy said nothing. He only watched her fall into a brief reverie—watched the tender play of feeling over her lips and cheeks, the way her lashes fluttered, just before she banished that flash of melancholy and put on a smile once more.

“Yes, Mr. Darcy,” she finished, “you find me walking by myself today because, in the absence of a true friend of the spirit, I still wish to go out. Even if I must be alone.”

Must be lonely, you mean… but he did not say that.

He shifted his riding crop, bunched the rein in his left hand, and was preparing to dismount and walk with her, but she straightened. “I should be going, Mr. Darcy. My mother is expecting me. I will wish you a good day, sir.” She curtseyed and turned to walk away before he could speak another word.

Darcy remained there a long while, just watching Elizabeth Bennet making her way down the slope, her hips sashaying intoxicatingly and her figure looking very small and alone.

And suddenly, he knew just what to give her for Christmas.

***

The appointed day arrived, and the Bennet family came to dine on Christmas Eve in a bevy of feminine lace and chatter. Mr. Bennet brought up the tail of his brood, a satisfied look on his face. Not even his wife’s exuberance could rattle his calm, and Darcy, for one, envied such equanimity.

It was arranged that the gifts would be stacked anonymously in the drawing-room while they adjourned to dinner. Naturally, Miss Bingley was in charge of the seating, and Darcy had an uncomfortable hour to face as she tried to monopolize his attention. However, he was not alone, for at the opposite end of the table, he caught an occasional glimpse of Elizabeth, her cheeks burning in humiliation for whatever came out of her younger sisters’ mouths.

At long last, the meal was over. Bingley offered Miss Bennet his arm in an informal display that made even Hurst grunt in surprise. Blushing and smiling, Jane Bennet accepted his escort, and they led the procession into the drawing-room.
Or, they started to, until Lydia Bennet raced ahead. “I cannot wait to see what I—that is, what everyone got!” she cried. “Oh, I do hope it is a good surprise. Kitty, do you think anyone will guess which gift I gave?”

Darcy hung back and noted that Elizabeth was doing the same. She looked around in dismay as if hoping his attention might have been elsewhere for Lydia Bennet’s latest impropriety, and then colored when he caught her eye. She cleared her throat and glanced away, but Darcy came to her side.

“May I escort you, Miss Elizabeth?”

Her eyes narrowed faintly, but she drew a breath and let her hand rest on his arm. “It is very exciting,” she observed in a strained voice. “The exchange, I mean. It ought to be fun trying to guess.”

He nodded gravely. “I expect it will. I hope everyone receives something to their liking.”

Deep, sparkling eyes turned up to him. “I hope so.”

When they arrived in the room, Lydia and Kitty Bennet were already looking at name tags and passing out gifts. However, as the last parcels were distributed, it became obvious that they were one short. Everyone looked around, and it was Jane Bennet who stood without a gift.

Pink embarrassment rose on her fair cheeks, and she took a step back. “Oh, it is no matter,” she claimed. “Some mistake or other. Truly—I do not mind. Please, go ahead without me.”

Caroline Bingley looked… Darcy could not quite decide. Angry, perhaps. Thunderous and threatening seemed to fit. Whatever it was, there was no time to decipher it, for Charles Bingley stepped forward.

“There was no mistake. Miss Bennet, I drew your name, but the gift I wished to give you, I could not wrap. I hope you will do me the honor of accepting it.” And then, he went down on one knee before her.

The room erupted. Jane Bennet could no sooner nod her tearful “Yes,” than her mother embraced her, her sisters chorused their glee, and Bingley’ sister’s dropped, dumbfounded, into opposite chairs. Hurst, who was already snoring on the settee, awoke with a disgruntled, “Ho, there! Silly way to spend an evening.”

Darcy was still standing beside Elizabeth, admiring the way her eyes swam with unshed happiness and her dainty fingers covered her mouth. He leaned close and whispered, “Are you pleased, Miss Elizabeth?”

She sniffed and swallowed. “Oh! Who could not be? Dear Jane—I know she makes little fuss about her feelings, but she is violently in love with him, and I know she will be exceedingly happy.”

“But I did not ask about her. What about you? You will be losing another of your walking companions for good.”

She blinked up at him and offered a watery smile. “Then I shall have to look for another.”

At length, the room quieted. Bingley secured a seat beside his beloved, and the tearing and shredding of wrapping ensued. Miss Bingley held up an uneven bonnet with a wan expression, and Darcy heard Elizabeth gasp.

“What is it?” he asked.

“That used to be my bonnet! I wondered where it went. And what has she done to it?”

“What has who done to it?”

“Lydia, of course. Who else? She is forever stealing my bonnets, and I suppose she thought… oh, I should not laugh at poor Miss Bingley, but it is terribly funny, after all!”

Miss Bingley apparently did not think it very funny. Nor did she appear amused when Mrs. Bennet unwrapped a white bit of porcelain and did not seem to know what to do with it.

“Why, it is such a plain, tiny thing,” the woman huffed. “Nothing decorative about it.”

“It is a thimble from the finest bone china available on Bond Street!” Miss Bingley cried. “How can you possibly not know what it is? What, did you expect some garish flowers painted on it?”

“Well,” Elizabeth muttered, “I suppose that mystery is solved.”

Darcy chuckled and looked at the others. Hurst was holding up a copy of Fordyce’s Sermons and scratching his head. Mrs. Hurst unwrapped a new deck of cards, glared at her husband, and set them aside. Bingley was loudly admiring a new handkerchief with crisp blue embroidery worked into the corner.

“Jane,” Elizabeth whispered to him, as if noting where his gaze had landed.

“That was fortuitous,” he observed.

She nodded, then looked at her father. He was nearly hidden in a corner, grinning broadly and beginning to tap out his pipe. Across his lap lay a new book with green binding.

“Papa!” she hissed under her breath.

“Did he draw his own name?” Darcy asked.

Elizabeth’s lips were thinned, and she shook her head in mock disapproval

Mr. Bennet must have heard them, for he looked up with a sly twinkle in his eye, then returned to his book.

“I suppose that leaves only us, Mr. Darcy. After you?”

“I cannot. Please, Miss Elizabeth, ladies first.”

She offered a conspiratorial grin. “On the count of three, then.” They counted and ripped into their gifts together. And both fell silent.

“Ah. We both have gloves,” she said, her voice faltering. “Fancy that.”

Darcy blinked, glancing back and forth at their respective gifts. Her gift, he could account for. In fact, he had thought it clever and original, until…

“Mr. Darcy,” she coughed, “I wonder how we could have received the same thing. I know for a certainty that the same person did not give both gifts.”

“As do I, and moreover, I can ascertain that no one could have known to spill the secret.”

Her gaze settled over him, those wondrous eyes speaking more than words. “Are you saying what I think you are saying, sir?”

“That depends. Are you?”

She tilted her head, a glimmer of mischief returning to her smile. “I might be.”

“Then, perhaps you should try them on,” he urged.

She picked up the right glove and slipped her slender fingers inside, then stopped. “There is something in there.”

Darcy tipped his chin close to her ear. “That is because the gloves are not actually the gift.”

Her brow arched, and she tugged the object free. “A man’s pocket watch?”

Darcy shook his head. “Time. You said that the most generous person gives of themselves. Whoever gave you this appears to wish to give you his time.”

Elizabeth’s eyes filled once more, and she clasped the watch to her heart. “I shall treasure it—every minute of it. But you have not tried on your gloves.”

Trying on gloves was the last thing he cared to do. He would greatly prefer to stare down into her face, pouring all his pent-up longing and hope into that one single gaze, but he broke the look and obeyed.

As he slid his hand inside, his fingers crunched into the sharp edge of a piece of paper. Elizabeth’s mouth was puckering now, but she was trying to look nonchalant as he drew the paper out and read it.

“Tomorrow morning, Oakham Mount.
You will need these gloves, as it will be a long walk.”

Darcy tucked the note into his breast pocket, patting down his own hammering heart and trying not to shout to the heavens. She had chosen him as her companion and soul-mate, and that was more priceless to him than gold or diamonds.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he asked in a voice all too eager and trembling, “how do you feel about poetry?”

“I had always considered poetry to be the food of love,” she answered promptly. “Specifically, the words of Byron.”

“Then, tomorrow, I shall read some for you.” And kiss you, and hold you to my heart, and whisper in your ear, and beg you to be mine.

“It sounds like a very long walk, Mr. Darcy.”

“I hope it shall last forever, Miss Elizabeth.”

She glanced down at their hands, then her gloved fingers slipped into his. “That would be the most generous gift of all.”



More to Read

Wishing you and yours a peaceful Christmas, and love for the new year.

Nicole