It had been a different sort of smile from the arch one she had worn so many times before. No, this had been a genuine—dare he say affectionate?—smile, something Darcy had despaired of ever seeing. It was only four months since Elizabeth had emphatically rejected his proposal of marriage. She had done more than just reject him, by Jove; she had said he was the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed upon to marry! She had accused him of ungentlemanlike behavior, of cheating a childhood friend, of destroying the happiness of her own sister. Her hands had been clenched, her fine eyes had sparkled with fury. And yesterday she had smiled at him. He had not seen her between that horrible evening four long, excruciating months ago and two days previously, when he had returned to Pemberley unexpectedly and found her touring the grounds with her aunt and uncle. Once his shock wore off, he realized that providence was providing him with a second chance.
