Chapter 22
E lizabeth’s hands trembled slightly as she stood at the window, looking out into darkness. The room was quiet save for the crackle of the fire, the glow casting soft, flickering shadows on the walls. The small clock above the fire told her there were only two minutes left until the hour Darcy had given her would be over.
The adjoining door opened softly, and Darcy stepped inside. She turned from the window to look at him; he had removed his coat and waistcoat, his cravat slightly loosened. He paused, his gaze sweeping over her with a mixture of warmth and uncertainty. “Elizabeth,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady.
She gave him a small, nervous smile, her fingers twisting the sash of her robe. “Mr. Darcy.”
He arched a brow at her formality, then stepped closer, his expression softening. “Surely, as my wife, you may call me Fitzwilliam.”
“Fitzwilliam,” she repeated, the name unfamiliar on her tongue. It felt strange yet oddly intimate, and the sound of it seemed to draw them closer together.
His eyes softened at the hesitation in her voice. “I would never hurt you, Elizabeth,” he said, taking a cautious step closer. “You must know that.”
“I do,” she said quickly. “It’s just that… I don’t know…. That is, Mama tried to explain…”
She shrugged feebly, abandoning the effort to put words to her anxiety. “She was more confusing than helpful. I’m afraid I—” She hesitated, her cheeks flushing. “I don’t know what I should do,” she finished miserably, looking down.
Darcy’s expression was tender as he reached out to take her hands in his. “Elizabeth, there is no shame in innocence. I will guide you, and if you have any questions, you may ask them. There is nothing we cannot speak of.”
She nodded, her throat tight with emotion. “Thank you,” she whispered. “That is a comfort.”
He led her to the settee near the fire, gently drawing her down to sit next to him, their hands still joined. She closed her eyes and leaned in, pursing her lips expectantly.
“I think we should talk first,” he said gently.
Her eyes flew open and she drew back, embarrassed. “Talk?”
“About us. About this marriage.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, studying him. “What do you mean?”
“You are not alone in your uncertainty,” he said quietly. “I confess, I am just as nervous as you.”
Elizabeth blinked, startled. “You? But… surely you’ve…you were married!” She trailed off, her cheeks burning as the implications of her words struck her.
Darcy’s lips twitched into a faint, almost wistful smile. “I am not entirely inexperienced,” he said awkwardly. “But, my marriage to Anne was…unconventional.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, curiosity mingling with confusion. “I don’t understand.”
His gaze dropped to their joined hands and to her surprise she detected a faint flush on his cheeks. Was it just the firelight? He stood up and leaned against the mantle, looking into the fire as if for the right words. “Anne was a kind woman. We shared a bond of friendship, affection even,” he paused, “but our marriage was not what most would expect.”
Elizabeth frowned, her brow furrowing at the implication of his words. “But Andrew…” She stopped, feeling intrusive but unable to stop the question from forming. “You have a son.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and he grabbed the poker, jabbing it into the fire. Sparks jumped and he continued. “Yes,” he said after a long pause. “But that is a more complicated matter—He is my son now, in every way that matters, but it didn’t start that way. Anne, my cousin, needed a father for her child, and I couldn’t abandon her.”
Waves of relief and unease washed over her in equal measure. “I see,” she murmured, not entirely sure that she did. He sat down once more and again took her hand in his. “Then we are both treading on unfamiliar ground.”
Now it was his turn to flush. “Well, not entirely. My relationship with Anne may have been different than the typical marriage, but my formative years as a youth and young man were not.”
“Oh.”
He shook his head. “I don’t say this to demean you, Elizabeth, but rather to assure you that, as with Anne, I will never demand anything from you that you are not ready to give.”
“Then…” she stared at his hands rather than meet his eyes, “what happens tonight?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
His thumb moved in slow circles on the back of her hand, sending shivers of electricity up her arm. “That is up to you. I won’t lie—consummation is necessary to ensure there is no chance of annulment. But I will not proceed unless you are willing. I would never force you into anything you are not ready for. We can take our time, and I promise to be as gentle as I can.”
Her chest tightened at the sincerity in his tone. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the restraint in his posture, and it moved her deeply. “Thank you,” she said softly. “But… I think we must. There has been too much risk already, too much gossip. I do not want to leave room for further scandal.”
Darcy’s eyes searched hers, and he nodded slowly. “Then we will proceed—on your terms, Elizabeth. I will be as slow and patient as you need.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, her pulse racing with an unfamiliar longing. He was asking her. She closed her eyes and leaned forward again, not really certain what to expect, but certain that he was the only man she wanted to share it with. His honesty and tenderness were a balm to her frayed nerves, but the unknown still loomed before her like an insurmountable wall. She met his gaze, her voice trembling as she said, “I’m nervous, Fitzwilliam. But I trust you.”
His hand tightened around hers, his eyes filled with a quiet intensity. “I will do everything in my power to make this a night of tenderness and care, Elizabeth. You are my wife now, but more than that, you are my partner. Your comfort is my highest priority.”
Her heart swelled at his words, and she managed a small smile. “Then I trust you to guide me.”
He leaned down then, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both tentative and full of unspoken promises. It was a kiss that spoke of patience, respect, and a burgeoning affection that neither of them dared name yet. When he pulled back, his eyes searched hers, silently asking for her permission to take the next step.
Elizabeth nodded, her trust in him outweighing her lingering nerves. Darcy rose from the seat, extending a hand to her. She took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. He led her to the bed, his movements unhurried, his touch light as he helped her settle against the pillows. He leaned down, his lips brushing hers in a gentle, lingering kiss that sent a warmth through her chest.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed, but she felt a flicker of courage spark within her. “And you, Fitzwilliam, are very kind.”
He smiled faintly, his eyes never leaving hers. Then, with deliberate care, he extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into soft shadows. Their conversation faded as tenderness took over, the night unfolding not in haste but in mutual trust and quiet discovery. Darcy’s voice was the last sound she heard before everything else faded away.
“You are safe with me, Elizabeth. Always.”
∞∞∞
The room was quiet save for the soft crackle of the fire and the gentle rhythm of Elizabeth’s breathing. Darcy lay on his side beside Elizabeth, his head propped up on one hand, his gaze fixed on her as he watched her sleep. The blankets rose and fell with the cadence of her breath, her chestnut curls spilling across the pillow like a halo. She looked serene, the faintest hint of a smile gracing her lips, and he marveled at how truly beautiful she was.
Beautiful . The word barely seemed adequate, but it was far superior to calling her tolerable all those weeks ago. You were such a fool.
He had always thought her fine eyes were her most striking feature, but now, with the golden glow of the firelight dancing over her features, he realized there was so much more. The delicate curve of her jaw, the slight upturn of her nose, the way her brows relaxed in sleep—all of it captivated him. He had seen beauty in portraits and admired it in passing acquaintances, but this was something altogether different. This was intimate, vulnerable, and achingly real.
And she was his wife.
The thought sent a rush of emotions through him—wonder, disbelief, and something perilously close to joy. How had they come to this? Only weeks ago, he had resigned himself to a life of solitude, haunted by his past and his duty to Andrew. Yet now, here he was, sharing a bed with the woman who had challenged him, humbled him, and, unwittingly, claimed his heart.
The night had been… beautiful. For you, that is. But what about for her? A flicker of doubt crept into his mind. Did she feel the same? She had been surprisingly enthusiastic, once she’d gotten over her nervousness. He had done everything in his power to be gentle, to ensure her comfort, but he couldn’t help wondering if she had truly wanted it—or if she had simply felt obligated. The hesitation he had seen in her eyes at the church nagged at his mind, and he felt a pang of guilt.
Is this enough for her? Am I enough for her?
He rolled over onto his back, careful not to disturb her, and studied the canopy. The memory of the evening played over in his mind, vivid and yet intangible, like a dream he wasn’t sure he fully understood.
Was she content? Had he done enough to ease her fears? He had seen the courage in her eyes, the determination that had carried her through a day fraught with emotion, but he had also sensed her hesitation, her uncertainty. It had been beautiful—more than he dared hope for—but he couldn’t shake the worry that she had accepted him out of duty rather than desire.
What if she regrets this? The question gnawed at him, a dark thread woven into the tapestry of his thoughts. He wanted to believe that the tenderness they had shared had meant something to her, as it had to him, but he feared asking her outright. For now, he could only hope that her gentle smile as she drifted to sleep was a sign of happiness, not resignation.
The fire crackled softly, casting shifting shadows across the room. Darcy’s hand lightly brushed against hers where it rested on the blanket. The urge to take it, to hold it in his own, was almost overwhelming. For all the years he had spent keeping others at a distance, there was a closeness here, a warmth he had never felt—not with Anne, and certainly not with the fleeting companionships he’d sought in his youth.
No, this was different. This was real .
He debated whether he should return to his own room. It would be the proper thing to do, he reasoned. To give her space, to allow her the privacy she might need after such an intimate evening. Yet the thought of leaving her side filled him with an inexplicable sense of loss. This small, quiet moment—the warmth of her presence, the steady cadence of her breath—was unlike anything he had ever experienced. He wasn’t ready to let it go.
Darcy relaxed against the soft mattress. The tension that had gripped him earlier began to ebb away, replaced by a quiet contentment. The room felt warmer now, not just from the fire but from the knowledge that she was here, beside him, bound to him in a way that was both daunting and exhilarating.
The steady rhythm of her breathing soothed him, each exhale a gentle reminder that she was truly in bed, truly his. The worries and uncertainties that had plagued him the last several days began to fade, and his eyes grew heavy.
As his eyes grew heavy, Darcy allowed himself one last glance at Elizabeth. He reached out, his hand brushing hers lightly beneath the covers. Her fingers curled slightly in response, even in sleep, and a small smile touched his lips.
“I’ll do my best,” he murmured, his voice barely audible in the stillness. “For you.”
For the first time in what felt like years, Darcy drifted into sleep with a sense of hope.
∞∞∞
The first pale light of dawn seeped softly through the curtains, bathing the room in a gentle glow. Elizabeth stirred, a small smile gracing her lips as she slowly came to consciousness. The warmth of the bed, the faint scent of lavender lingering on the sheets, and the soothing crackle of the dying fire—all combined to make her feel uncharacteristically cozy, reluctant to leave the safety of her blankets.
She shifted slightly, stretching her limbs beneath the covers, when movement beside her caught her attention. Elizabeth turned over, expecting to see one of her younger sisters who might have climbed into her bed for warmth as they often had when they were children. But instead of a familiar girlish figure, her gaze landed on broad shoulders and dark, slightly mussed hair.
Darcy.
She blinked, taking in the sight of him still asleep beside her, his features softened in slumber. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his mouth curled up slightly in his sleep. He lay on his back, one arm resting lightly across his chest, his breathing steady and calm. Elizabeth’s heart gave an involuntary flutter, and then… a jolt.
The memories of the previous night crashed into her, vivid and startling. Heat rose to her cheeks as she recalled the way he had looked at her, touched her, and spoken to her; an impossible combination of intensity and tenderness. Her body shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the recollection, a slight soreness reminding her of the undeniable reality of what had transpired.
Oh, my goodness. We… I…
Her face burned scarlet. She clutched the blanket to her chest, her mind racing. They had been… intimate. Not only that, but it had been nothing like the vague warnings and whispered hints she had overheard from married women. It had been… something she had never imagined.
It had been unlike anything she could have ever imagined, filled with a surprising depth of connection. It had felt as though she were cherished, wholly and utterly. His caresses had been gentle, his words considerate. Every moment had seemed crafted to reassure her, to make her feel respected, valued, even loved.
Loved.
The word echoed in her mind, sending a fresh wave of heat to her cheeks. Could it be true? Could he truly feel that way for her? She bit her lip, her thoughts spinning in circles as she tried to make sense of it all. She had felt so safe in his arms, so completely cared for. For a fleeting moment, warmth spread through her chest, and she found herself smiling.
Surely that must mean something—mustn’t it?
And yet…
A wave of guilt swept over her. A memory surfaced unbidden; a conversation with her aunt Gardiner. Elizabeth had been but fifteen years of age and was about to make her come out in Meryton. Aunt Gardiner, ever wise and practical, had cautioned her: “Elizabeth, you must be careful in your dealings with members of the other sex. Some men, my dear, will offer a woman tenderness and devotion in the hope of receiving certain favors. And some women, in turn, may offer such favors in the hope of securing affection, believing the emotion must inevitably follow the act. Be wary of confusing one with the other. True affection is proved through time, through actions—not merely through words or fleeting moments.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, the weight of those words settling over her like a cloud. What if last night had been just that—a moment? Had she mistaken kindness for something more? Did last night mean anything beyond the physical act? Had he given her kindness to fulfill a husband’s duty, or worse, to take what he desired? What if Darcy’s tenderness had been born not of love, but of… of obligation or selfishness?
The idea sent a chill through her, and she drew the blankets closer, as if they could shield her from the weight of her thoughts. The thought that he might not feel as deeply as she did, that this connection might be her end alone…
She shuddered. The thought was a heavy one, and she turned her gaze away, suddenly unsure of how to feel…
Sighing, her gaze fell to her hands. She’d awoken with such joy, such certainty. That was gone now, and all that was left was a terrible loneliness—a sense of being adrift, uncertain of where she truly stood with her husband. Darcy had been everything she could have hoped for last night, but the deeper question of his heart remained unanswered.
And what of my own heart?
She stole another glance at him, her gaze lingering on the relaxed lines of his face. He looked so peaceful, so utterly at ease. It was a far cry from the composed, almost severe man she had first met at the Meryton assembly. And it wasn’t just last night. He had shown kindness in so many ways—his care for his sister, his devotion to Andrew, even the small, thoughtful gestures he had extended to her since their betrothal.
Still, she reminded herself firmly, those acts of kindness did not necessarily equate to love. Just as shared intimacy, however meaningful, did not guarantee affection. Her aunt’s warning echoed again, tempering the emotions that had risen so strongly within her. She could not afford to confuse the two, no matter how much she might wish otherwise.
Unrequited love is the worst kind of love.
The realization that she cared for him—that she might even love him—had crept upon her gradually, and now it loomed large and undeniable. But how could she give voice to it when she was unsure of his feelings? How could she risk laying herself bare when she didn’t know if he would catch her or let her fall?
The thought left her hollow. She pressed her fingers to her temple, willing away the heaviness that had settled there. It was absurd to feel this way—she was married, after all. She had made her choice. Still, she resolved to guard her heart. She could not let herself fall into the trap of equating physical closeness with emotional connection. Not yet. Not until she was certain.
The loneliness deepened, mingling with the memory of his touch, his voice, his warmth. She closed her eyes, willing herself to push aside the confusion, the longing, the ache. For now, she would take one step at a time. She would be kind, be patient, and hope that time would bring clarity.
The faintest sound of Darcy’s breathing filled the space between them, steady and reassuring. Elizabeth sighed softly, brushing her hair back from her face. Perhaps, in time, she would learn to reconcile her heart and her mind. For now, she would focus on the present, on the man who had given her more respect and kindness than she could have hoped for.
Darcy stirred then, his lashes fluttering slightly. Elizabeth froze, unsure of what to say, as her own heart betrayed her by skipping a beat.
“Good morning, Mrs. Darcy,” he murmured. His voice was low and warm and sent a thrill through her. He opened his eyes and the softness there made her heart ache. It was going to be harder to guard her heart than she’d imagined.
“Good morning,” she managed, her voice catching. Her cheeks warmed again, but this time she didn’t look away.
Whatever the future held, she would face it with the same courage that had carried her through so many challenges before. And for now, she would take solace in the warmth beside her, even if it was tinged with uncertainty.