Darcy, bless his heart, is perfect in many ways, but when it comes to subtlety in his romantic gestures, well—he has yet to master that. Not that Lizzie is complaining, but it does make certain things really obvious.
Such as when he's about to propose.
To be fair, they're already at dinner and halfway through appetizers when Lizzie realizes it's about to happen. This is the anniversary of their first—actually, she isn't sure, but it's something in his calendar. There's soft violin music, champagne she's afraid to ask the price of, a table with view of the marina, and the last, golden rays of sunset. And then there's the fact that he keeps putting his hand into his pocket and drawing it back out.
Yeah, this is definitely about to happen. And if Lizzie's honest with herself, she's known what her answer would be for almost the entirety of their relationship.
He clears his throat several times and reaches into his pocket again. "Lizzie—"
"Will you marry me?"
He looks utterly nonplussed. Like she's sprouted horns or the kitchen behind her has gone up in flames, or possibly it's that she just stepped on what was about to be the most perfect proposal in the history of proposals.
(Because damn it all if her boyfriend doesn't have a knack for making incredible, swoon-worthy declarations of love.)
Lizzie claps her hands to her mouth. She's certain her face is the same color as her hair and she has a wild, inappropriate desire to laugh out of sheer mortification. Or cry. Maybe both at the same time.
"Oh my God. I—I don't know why I thought that would be funny. I'm so sorry." A beat. He hasn't moved. "Will?"
Darcy shakes his head the way people do when they come out of a swimming pool and they're trying to get water out of their ears. "I suppose my answer to that depends," he pulls out a velvety ring box and opens it, "On whether or not you will marry me."
It's an admirable recovery. Lizzie tries to convince herself that she's still horrified for almost ruining his careful plans and that's why tears have sprung into her eyes. Not because she is so suddenly, overwhelmingly happy she feels sick to her stomach. Not because it took dating William Darcy to realize that she might want the very things her mother has been hounding her about for the last twenty years.
"Yes," Lizzie says. Oh screw it, she thinks, and lives up to every bit of her mother inside her and cries freely when he slips the ring on her finger.
"Then, yes." Darcy leans across the table and covers her mouth with his.