It was near midnight before he finished the stack of correspondence on his desk. Placing the last carefully penned reply atop a neat pile of letters ready for the morrow's post, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. It had been a long day, full of necessary duties and the dull routine that made up his life. Tomorrow promised more of the same. Day upon day of duty and regret.

He should retire to his bedchamber and at least pretend to sleep: his sister would worry if she heard that he had spent another night entire in his study, and he had run out of glib excuses for his behaviour. He could not tell her the truth – that he had met a wonderful woman, treated her shabbily, proposed insultingly, and been roundly rejected, leaving his heart bleeding and his conscience bruised. He would give anything to have his time over again, but instead had to reconcile himself to eternal regret.

Sleep evaded him. If, through sheer exhaustion, he managed to doze, he would wake, sweating, from vivid dreams. In some, she upbraided him again and again, her eyes fiery and distressed, for his ungentlemanly conduct. In others, which were infinitely worse, she welcomed his suit and pressed her body to his in a loving embrace. The shame he felt was acute, to wake in a state of full arousal only to realise that his beloved was merely a figment of his lascivious imagination.

He spent the hours between midnight and dawn pacing restlessly in his room. As soon as the first light of dawn crept through his heavy drapes, he dressed quickly and made his way to the stables. A gallop would clear his head enough to be able to face his sister at the breakfast table and pretend, for one more day, that nothing was wrong. While his mount was saddled, he leaned wearily against a post and closed his eyes. How many more days could he endure before this pain passed?

An hour later, he took pity on his horse and turned back toward the house. He had ridden hard and fast through the home farm and into the woods beyond. The paths were well tended, and he had been able to cover considerable distance before he realised his mount was tiring. He slowed to a walk, letting the beast recover while they wended their way home. He came to a small promontory that overlooked his estate: from horizon to horizon, well-tended farms and stands of wood shone green in the morning sun. It was a sight that usually warmed his heart, but today it chilled him. He was destined to spend his life as master of all this, yet without a wife and family to share it with. His sister would marry and leave home, and he would be left all alone, for he could not imagine marrying anyone but her, and she would not have him.

Unable to face the prospect of breakfast with his sister, he turned instead towards the lake. Perhaps a swim would shake him out of his mood. At the least it would refresh him enough to pretend to Georgiana that he had slept last night. He shed his riding coat, boots and gloves, and waded into the murky water. He had often swum here as a lad: he, Richard and George would race across the lake and back, with the added challenge of seeing who could stay underwater longest coming back. His dignity as master of the estate meant he had seldom indulged since his father's death, six years before. Still, he found all his old skill returning as he struck out with strong strokes toward the other shore. On the return journey, almost without thought, he ducked under the surface and swam several yards before returning to the air.

He did feel better for the swim – it had washed away a few cobwebs of self-pity. He donned his boots, took up the horse's reins, and, carrying his coat neatly folded across his arm, began to walk briskly back to the house. He handed the horse off to a stable hand and strode through the gardens towards the kitchen door. It would hardly do to track water through the main foyer!

As he came around a corner of the house, he nearly walked directly into her. She was here! She was strolling in his garden! He stopped in his tracks and gaped like a fool. It took several moments before he realised this was not a waking dream but – however inexplicably – real. Her name burst from his lips in surprise, and belatedly he essayed a bow.

Her surprise was equal to his own. She hurried to explain that she was touring with her relatives and they had been assured the family was from home. She tried to apologise for intruding. She tried to avert her eyes, although despite her best efforts those eyes, those beautiful eyes, kept coming back to look at him.

He tried to reassure her. She was most welcome at his home. (He could not begin to describe how welcome she truly was! He dared not. He might scare her away.) What could it mean that she was here? What did her glances at his person import? That she was embarrassed was clear. But why? Did she still hate him? Had his letter perhaps made her think a little better of him? His mind busy with trying to make sense of her presence, and work out how to prevent her from leaving, his mouth performed its usual trick when in her company, and spewed forth nonsense. He was sure he had asked after the health of her family at least twice! She must think him a complete idiot.

At length he recovered his composure enough to realise he was standing in front of the only woman he had ever loved, dripping like a fish and not properly dressed. If he had not already coloured brightly on first seeing her, he would have blushed now. As it was, he remained a becoming pink, while his eyes widened with the realisation of how he must be embarrassing her. He excused himself abruptly and rushed into the house. Commandeering his valet and two footmen, he was dried, dressed and shaved in record time. It was barely ten minutes before he burst from the door again, searching for the party of visitors.

A gardener pointed him to the stream, where they had set out for a stroll towards the little bridge. He hurried down the opposite bank, meaning to intercept them on their return journey. Before long, he spied her companions walking slowly away from him, but she was nowhere in sight. With a feeling of dread, he worried that she had fled the property as soon as he had left her. Had she retired to their coach, waiting for her relatives to complete the circuit of his garden? Had she set off for Lambton by foot? (He would not put it past her – it was only five miles.) Oh, please God, let him not have missed her.

But then it was her turn to almost run into him. She had outpaced her companions, striding out quickly to give herself time and space to recover from the surprise of encountering him. She had reached the bridge, crossed and walked briskly back toward the house, all before they had walked half the distance. The path took a small turn around a stand of holly bushes, and then suddenly she was face to face with him again. He had made himself presentable, and she felt a small twinge of regret at no longer being able to see him in deshabille, for he certainly had been an interesting sight.

Recovering her equilibrium sufficiently to offer a polite curtsey, she greeted him and waited for him to speak. She had already tendered apologies for her presence. There was little else she could, in all politeness, say. Oh, if things were different she could tell him how much her opinion of him had changed. She would apologise for the things that stood unmentioned between them – her cruel rejection of his proposal, her foolish misjudgement of his character, her gullible acceptance of slander against him. But such subjects were impossible, so she was silent.

He bowed in response to her curtsey, and then was silent, his eyes drinking in the sight of her. She was more beautiful than he had imagined: her healthy complexion heightened by her brisk walk and, dared he hope, by her pleasure in seeing him? Shaking off such wishful whimsy, he exerted himself to demonstrate that he had taken her reprimands to heart and was trying to be a better man. He offered her his arm and was delighted when she shyly took it. Together, they set off back toward the house at a gentle stroll.

After a few minutes discussing her travels and the sights of Derbyshire, he could bear it no longer. He needed to apologise for his past conduct. It had burned a hole in his heart to know that he might never see her again, and now, here she was, on his arm. If he did not seize the opportunity, it might never come again. For his own sanity, he must speak. He stopped, and gently turned her to look at him.

"Miss Bennet," he said, "I beg you to forgive me for my abominable conduct in Hertfordshire, and for the foolish and arrogant things I said in Kent. I cannot bear to know that I hurt you, and I cannot bear to think that you think so ill of me as you did then. Please, Miss Bennet, give me a chance to apologise – to show that I have changed – that you have changed me."

She looked at him all amazement. She coloured. She began to speak but paused. And then, as she saw the anxiety in which he stood, she spoke: "Mr Darcy, I will accept your apology if you will accept mine. I have long been most heartily ashamed of the things I said to you. When I read your letter, I soon realised how mistaken I had been, and could not think on how harshly I had spoken, how prejudiced and foolish to believe what was said against you by a comparative stranger, without the deepest regret. Please, sir, allow me to apologise."

"Elizabeth," he breathed out, almost as a caress, before recalling his manners and correcting himself. "Miss Bennet, your conduct was quite understandable in light of my rudeness. As soon as my temper cooled I saw how wrong I had been to behave as I did. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been for many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproofs may indeed have been hard to bear at the time, but they have done me good. They have shown me how ill qualified I was to please a woman worthy of being pleased. If you will apologise, then I can only humbly accept your apology. Indeed, you were forgiven long ago."

He looked at her with such a tender gaze, pressed her hand so gently to his arm, and looked all in all as though he was struggling to hold himself back at a proper distance: Elizabeth saw with sudden clarity that the gentleman was very far from resenting her for her treatment of him. She herself had long since abandoned all remnants of her stubborn dislike of him, and was quite ready for the happy realisation of mutual affection to enter into her heart.

He watched the softening of her features as the tension with which she had held herself relaxed. The late morning sun fell across her face and he felt he had never seen anything quite so beautiful. She was here. She had forgiven him, and she regretted that her words had hurt him. Did he dare to hope for more? Could he bear to part from her not knowing?

Determined not to let this most surprising, unexpected, wonderful opportunity pass, he looked at her earnestly and said, "Miss Elizabeth Bennet, you must allow me to tell you again how ardently I admire and love you. I shall never cease doing so. Will you give me another chance to win your love? Will you agree to enter into a courtship?"

Elizabeth looked long at the gentleman before her. He was not the man she had once thought him to be. In fact he was one of the most honourable men of her acquaintance. He was intelligent, considerate, respected by his household staff, and caring of his sister. His affection for her had withstood the harshest of reverses. And he certainly was not a punishment to look at. She raised her eyes to meet his and said in a confident voice, "Mr Darcy, I would be pleased to enter a courtship with you."

When her aunt and uncle emerged from the path behind them a few moments later, they found Elizabeth and the master of the estate looking at each other with foolish smiles upon their faces, quite lost to the world around them.