A Wife for Mr. Darcy

London, and you can judge for yourself as to whether or not I am successful as a writer of billet doux .”
    “I look forward to it, Mr. Darcy,” Lizzy said with a smile, knowing that she had won.

The day after Charlotte’s wedding, Mr. Bingley sent his carriage for Jane and Lizzy so that they might come to Netherfield Park. As expected, as soon as the carriage pulled up, Charles was out the door, while Mr. Darcy waited inside. This was the perfect sketch of the two men’s characters: One wore his heart on his sleeve, while the other kept it tucked away in his coat pocket.
    “Everyone is outside,” Charles explained. “Apparently, Mrs. Konig loves the cold weather. She bundled up Amelia, Sophia, and His Lordship, and Mr. Campbell did the same with Darius and Athena. Even little Minerva is out there. She has so many layers of clothes on that she can barely walk, but Georgiana is assisting her.”
    “Are you enjoying your guests, Mr. Bingley?” Lizzy asked.
    “Mrs. Konig is a delight. I only wish her English was a little better because it is a bit of a challenge to converse with her. As for Lord Fitzwilliam, he could liven up a funeral.”
    “I do not think Mrs. Konig has been in the country very long, and her English is better than my French. But that is my own fault because I would not give myself the trouble of practicing.”
    After the two couples chatted briefly, Jane and Bingley went to one end of the drawing room, while Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy walked to the other.
    “Well, Mr. Darcy, it seems that we are alone again—at least for a while,” and they sat down next to each other on the sofa. Lizzy, who had been expecting a quick kiss, was disappointed when Mr. Darcy did nothing. “Why do you not kiss me, Mr. Darcy? Or is that something you do only in secret in darkened rooms?”
    “You want me to kiss you? After saying that you did not want to be alone with me because of my kisses, now you are asking for one? Well, I am not going to kiss you. I want you to know how it feels to want something that you cannot have.” This remark was clearly in retaliation for her demand that they have a courtship.
    “I am well acquainted with the feeling of not having what one wants, but it is your choice,” she said, straightening her dress, embarrassed that she had asked a man for a kiss and had been denied, and so she brought up a topic she knew would make him equally uncomfortable—love letters.
    “I have not forgotten, but instead of a correspondence, I was going to suggest that you visit your aunt and uncle, and since we will be together in town, letters will be unnecessary.”
    “A correspondence? You do not correspond with the woman you love. You write her love letters. Well, actually, others do; you don’t. Oh how you do wiggle out of things you do not want to do,” Lizzy said, pretending to pout.
    “All right then, I shall promise to write you letters so passionate that the paper will burn your fingers. However, you must do something as well. You must work on improving your French to the point where you can converse with Mrs. Konig.”
    “But I have not studied French in years.”
    “And I have written only one love letter.”
    “Very well,” Lizzy said, but this time she really was pouting. “You do not have to write me letters.”
    Darcy burst out laughing. “If your French really is that bad, Georgie can tutor you.”
    “ Non, merci. Je suis content de vivre ma vie sans parler d’avoir à parler français .”
    “Oh, dear. I see the problem.”
    “That was unkind. Accurate. But unkind,” she said, and she gently pushed her shoulder into his. “In all seriousness, it is not just my poor French. We come from such vastly different backgrounds, and you move in a society that is a world apart from my own.”
    Darcy went quiet for several minutes. This reminded him of the time he had come to Longbourn to apologize for his unfortunate remarks made at the assembly. It had taken him a long time to find the right words because he was doing something new: apologizing to someone not of his rank.
    “Actually, I have given the matter a lot of thought. Falling in love with you has made me rethink everything. All my concerns regarding my Norman heritage or being the grandson of an earl, once scrutinized, seemed unimportant. You asked if the marriage of a Devereaux to a Fitzwilliam caused a hullabaloo. It did. But they married anyway, and the earth continued to spin on its axis.
    “I did not