Chapter Seventeen
Elizabeth
Elizabeth found Fitzwilliam in the small study Lord Matlock had designated for his use during their stay.
It was a comfortable room lined with books, dominated by a substantial desk covered with papers.
He stood behind that desk, one hand resting on its polished surface, his attention fixed on whatever document lay before him.
She paused in the doorway, suddenly uncertain.
The impulse that had carried her through corridors and down staircases now faltered in the face of actually interrupting him.
What would she say? How could she articulate the complicated tangle of feelings that had propelled her search without sounding foolish or presumptuous?
But then he looked up, and the mixture of surprise and pleasure in his gaze steadied her wavering courage.
“Elizabeth. Is everything well?”
“Quite well.” She stepped into the room properly. “I hope I am not disturbing your work?”
Concern flickered across his face. “Not at all. I was merely reviewing some correspondence that required attention. Do you need something?”
Yes, she thought. I needed to see you. But she could not say any of that. Not when her own feelings remained so newly acknowledged.
“My family has been debating their departure from Matlock,” she said instead, choosing the practical topic as an entry into extended conversation. “Mama wishes to remain another week. Papa insists on leaving in two days. They have been discussing it with considerable vigour, as you might imagine.”
A guarded, wary look shifted in his expression. “I see. And when would you prefer to leave?”
“I am not leaving.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am not leaving with my family.” She repeated. “They may settle their dispute however they choose and depart whenever they determine. But I intend to remain here at Matlock. With you.”
“You wish to remain?” His voice had dropped lower, more intimate.
“I do.” She moved closer to thedesk. “I should like to stay here until you depart for Pemberley. And when you go, I shall come with you. I am looking forward to our married life together and whatever our future holds. I wanted you to know that.”
Fitzwilliam circled the desk and stopped an arm’s length away, close enough that she could see the pulse beating at his throat. “What changed?”
“Changed?”
“Your mind. During the journey from Ireland, you were so distant. So stoic in your manner towards me. I believed…” He stopped, seeming to wrestle with the admission.
“I believed you regretted our marriage. That you had come to see it as the trap it must have seemed when you first made that impulsive declaration.”
“I never regretted the marriage itself,” she said, needing him to understand this fundamental truth.
“Then what? What did I do to make you withdraw?”
She had not expected this conversation, nor anticipated his vulnerability and evident confusion over her behaviour. The truth balanced on her tongue, tasting of risk and exposure.
“It was not regret. It was fear.”
“Fear of what?”
“Of losing myself. When you invited my family to Matlock without consulting me or asking my preference, I felt like my life had ceased to belong to me. As if marriage meant surrendering all choice in my own existence.”
Fitzwilliam’s face paled. “Elizabeth…”
“I was raised with considerable independence,” she continued, needing to complete the explanation before his response could distract her.
“Papa allowed me to read what I chose and speak my mind freely. I never imagined marriage as absorption into another person’s life without consultation or consideration.
But when you announced we would travel to Matlock and made that decision alone—”
“I made you feel powerless,” he finished, the words emerging flat with comprehension.
“Yes.” Relief at being understood warred with guilt at causing him such evident distress.
“I feared that pattern would continue. That every decision from that moment forward would be yours to make, mine only to accept. And I would spend the rest of my life following where you led without question or input.”
Fitzwilliam turned away sharply, one hand rising to press against his forehead. When he spoke, his tone carried the weight of self-recrimination.
“How could I have been so blind? So thoughtless?” The words seemed directed more to himself than to her.
“I spent weeks believing you regretted our union, mourning the distance between us, when all along the fault lay with me. With my assumption that my decisions naturally encompassed both of us without requiring your consent.”
“You could not have known it would upset me so.”
“I should have known. You told me about the gentleman who treated your intelligence as a defect rather than a virtue. And then I proceeded to demonstrate that I valued your opinions no more than he did by making major decisions without even the courtesy of consultation.”
“That was not your intent.”
“Intent matters less than impact. I hurt you through carelessness.”
Elizabeth watched emotions cascade across his features. She had expected a mild apology. What crossed his face instead — the depth of it, the genuine self-reproach — caught her unprepared.
“I am profoundly sorry,” he murmured. “Your opinion matters to me. I gave no sign of that today, and I am sorry for it.”
The earnestness in his tone loosened any underlying objections she might have had. “I believe you.”
“You should not accept my word so readily. I have given you cause to doubt it. You are allowed to question whether my promises hold any weight beyond the moment they are spoken.”
She moved closer, drawn by the urge to shorten any distance between them.
She was touched by the way he seemed genuinely devastated at having hurt her even unintentionally.
“And now you have given me cause to trust it. You listened and understood. You did not make any excuses. That matters considerably.”
“What can I do to prove I mean what I say? To demonstrate that I truly wish for partnership instead of command?”
“You could begin,” she said, allowing a slight smile, “by including me in discussions of our future plans.”
“Of course.” He straightened, some of the tension leaving his frame. “We should speak of when to depart Matlock. I had thought perhaps next week, which would give us time to…” He stopped abruptly. “That is, would next week suit your preferences?”
The correction and visible effort to consult instead of decree, touched her more than flowery assurances could have. “Next week sounds reasonable.”
“And the route to Pemberley. The most direct path to Pemberley requires several days of travel with overnight stops at coaching inns, but if we take the northern route through, it is more comfortable and visually pleasing. Which route would you prefer?”
“Perhaps we might discuss the merits of each option together and decide jointly?”
“Yes. Jointly.” Relief transformed his features into a more improved state of hopeful.
This was what she had needed, not merely permission to voice opinions, but true inclusion in the shaping of their shared existence.
They stood close now, his attention focused on her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. It made her conscious of the small space separating them, of how easily she could close that distance if she chose.
“I want you to be happy,” Fitzwilliam said softly. “Not merely content or resigned to circumstances you did not choose, but truly happy in our marriage. If that means making decisions together compared to unilaterally, then that is how we shall proceed. Always.”
“Always is a rather long time.”
“Then I shall have ample opportunity to prove my sincerity.” A hint of a smile played around his lips, the first hint of levity she had seen since entering the room. “You may hold me to account at every turn and question every decision. Demand consultation on matters both significant and trivial.”
“You may come to regret extending such invitation.”
“I doubt that very much.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then away quickly. “Elizabeth…”
She recognised the shift in his tone, the way the air between them seemed to thicken with unspoken awareness. Her own breathing had grown shallow, her skin heated despite the study’s moderate temperature.
“Yes?”
“I am glad you came to find me and that you spoke honestly about what troubled you. I am glad you wish to remain with me.”
He swallowed visibly as he leaned forward, his intent in the closing distance between them. Elizabeth lifted her face, just as his mouth met hers in a kiss that started light but deepened quickly as she responded.
His hand came up to cup her jaw with exquisite gentleness, thumb brushing across her cheek whilst his other arm circled her waist.
Her fingers found his lapels, gripping the fabric as the kiss shifted from sweet to something that left her scattered all over like autumn leaves in the wind.
He tasted intoxicating, some flavour that was uniquely him and it made her want to explore this new dimension of their relationship with abandon.
The solid presence of him against her and the slight tremor in his breathing suggested he was as affected as she was.
All of it combined to create sensations she had never experienced.
This was desire, she realised dimly. This urgency pulling her toward him, this need to be closer despite already being pressed against him.
She pressed nearer still, threading into his hair at the nape where it was slightly longer than fashion dictated. Fitzwilliam made a low sound of pleasure, drawing her further against him as the kiss grew more passionate, edges of restraint beginning to fray.
“Pardon me, sir, I have brought your tea—oh!”
They sprang apart as though burned. Elizabeth’s hands flew to her hair, smoothing strands that had come loose during their embrace. Fitzwilliam took several steps backwards, putting respectable distance between them.
The maid stood frozen in the doorway, tray trembling in her hands, her expression caught between mortification at having interrupted and poorly suppressed delight at having witnessed such a scene.
“Leave it on the table. Thank you.”
“Of course. Right away, sir.” The maid deposited the tray and bobbed a curtsey that encompassed them both.
She murmured something unintelligible that might have been apology or congratulation, and fled with suspicious speed that suggested she would be sharing this tale with every other servant in the house before the hour concluded.
Elizabeth raised her fingers to her mouth, torn between embarrassment and inappropriate laughter that threatened to bubble up despite the mortifying circumstances. Her entire body hummed with the memory of his arms around her.
Fitzwilliam’s hair was slightly mussed where her fingers had tangled in it, and his cravat had shifted askew during their embrace.
“I should…” she gestured vaguely towards the door, her voice emerging breathless and unsteady. “That is, I ought to…”
“Yes. Of course.” But disappointment shadowed his features even as propriety reasserted itself. “We shall continue this conversation later. About our plans and other matters.”
“Later,” she agreed.
She slipped from the study, aware of his gaze following her into the corridor. The door closed quietly behind her, and she leant against the wall for a moment, pressing her hand to her racing heart.
He had listened and apologised with true remorse. He’d kissed her as if she were a precious stone, necessary to his happiness.
And she had kissed him back with an enthusiasm that left no doubt about her own feelings in the matter.
She drew a steadying breath, then another, willing the flush she knew had risen on her cheeks to dissipate before she had to face her family and their inevitable questions about where she had been and what had kept her so long.
The drawing room awaited, full of chatter and debate and her mother’s schemes for extending their stay. But she stood in the corridor a moment longer, savouring the lingering sensation of his mouth on hers, the promise of conversations yet to come.
Her heart had raced earnestly for him today. And if his kiss was any indication, he too had felt the same way.