In the months we’ve spent together, across the many (many) surfaces of Pemberley, we haven’t said this to one another yet. It’s not as though the sentiment’s been missing; I feel it from him every day, in that staggering look of wonder, the sleepy smile I get each morning, and every moment we share in between. And yet, now that I have heard him say it, I don’t know how I’ve gone so long without it.

I flutter my eyes open. “I love you, too, Darcy.” My words are thick with the threat of tears. “All of you.”

Wonder and lust battle it out behind his eyes. “Your cousin is going to kill me if you cry.”

I laugh. “She really will.” I let go of him to fan my face. “Can you say something sexy? Quick: propose a new desk fantasy.”

He chuckles. “I actually think we’re doing fine in that department.” He flicks his attention up and down my form, dark eyes promising trouble. “But if you think I’m not planning how to peel you out of that thing, you don’t know me at all.”

The words send a current through my nervous system. “Ah! That did it. Equal parts horny and emotional.”

He groans. “Now I’m distracted. I’m imagining you in only that necklace.” Darcy brings his face closer to mine. “You’re going to have to act as my restraint again.”

“I think we’ve established that I am not the woman for that job.” I pull him to me for a kiss. It’s slow and sweet, but I consider the desk’s proximity anyway. His thumb kneads my jaw, the hand at my waist sliding up to press between my shoulder blades, and my fingers curl reflexively. Holy hell, this man . . .

As we kiss, I’m buoyed by a rush of adrenaline and confidence. It’s like the high I get onstage, the intensity topping even the moment I watched Wickham realize his scheme was over. Pemberley actualized. Stability for my favorite people. The fact that there’s no way Charles is going to make it through the show without proposing to Jane.

And I know what to call that feeling I haven’t been able to place tonight. It’s obvious now, but Darcy’s the one to give it a name. It’s love. Love for this place, these people, this work, this man, this desk . . .

I slowly run the tip of my tongue along his upper lip. I smile. It stretches across my face until I can no longer kiss him properly, and he smiles, too, then laughs.

“What?” he asks, the question brushing my lips.

“You love me.”

“I do.”

My wrist buzzes with a text, and I remember that we have a very big evening ahead of us. I pull him in for another kiss, heart bursting. “See you after the show.”

He grins. “Pop a pastie.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS