Chapter Eight
The first thing Elizabeth awoke to was the pressure around her middle.
This must be what being trapped under a log was like.
She tried to move but could not. For a moment, her thoughts were occupied with why she was not in her own bed where the morning sun shone bright.
Then she became aware that she was in her new bed and the sun was never going to greet her upon waking again.
Behind her, Darcy stirred when she shifted, and his breath caressed her neck like a warm, soft breeze.
His skin was cool to the touch, which surprised her, though she was not sure why.
The sensation of his bare skin against hers had not been anticipated, and it was not entirely unpleasant.
She let her mind drift to the events of the previous evening.
Her body had forced her to acknowledge what she had denied for months.
Lord Darcy was a beautiful man physically and Elizabeth, while na?ve about many things, was sensible enough to accept that she was attracted to her husband.
It certainly did not mean that she loved him.
She was not even sure if she liked him, but she had wanted him, in particular, now that she had had a taste of him.
“I suppose you want me to release you?”
“If ye could let me move.” She rolled onto her back when his grip went lax upon her suggestion.
“How do you feel?”
“I am a little sore, but otherwise fine.” Her voice was soft.
He brushed a kiss over her cheek. “Are you still angry with me?”
“I shall probably be eternally angry with ye, my lord, but at present I can live with my ire and with ye.” Some of her teasing tone had returned.
His fingers traced delicate paths along her belly and her body stirred.
Right now, with his long dark hair mussed and his midnight-coloured eyes relatively unguarded, Elizabeth asked herself what it would be like if they had married for love?
He now appeared so like her painting. Her understanding had blossomed and allowed her the awareness that the likeness was the way she had wished him to be: a more genteel version of who he was, a Darcy who was not stingy with smiles or battle-hardened to the point of seeming like brittle ice.
“What time do ye think it is?”
He drew her close. “Early still. Not yet five.”
“And we have other people to receive today.” She muttered the words as she burrowed under the blanket and, inadvertently, against her husband, who was more than happy to oblige her.
“Not as many as yesterday, I should think, but royal weddings are always tedious events. When Richard and Jude married, their celebration lasted for days. Poor Jude's hands were as calloused as a smith.”
“So, I suppose I shall not have a moment to go into the atrium today then.”
Darcy stiffened for a moment.
“You may if you rise now,” he said in an odd tone, causing her to cast a questioning glance at him. “Why do you look at me so?”
“Thy voice sounds sad. Have ye regrets about marrying me?”
“Not yet,” he muttered dryly. “I just wish you would stop work on the painting of George.”
She sat up and stared down at him, struggling not to lose her temper.
This was ridiculous. They lived in a state of constant irritation, but for now, she vowed to refrain from growing angry as much as possible.
She simply did not have the energy to face every day in such a manner.
Of course, in all logic, he would have no reason to suspect what she had painted in truth.
Why would he? Without speaking, she left their bed and found her reception gown.
Aware that he watched her every move, she took her time pulling the layers of silk over her head and twisting them into place.
When she was dressed, Elizabeth gave her husband a steady gaze.
“Are ye coming?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are ye going to accompany me to the atrium?”
“Why?”
She stared at him until he got out of bed. He pulled on his breeches and linen shirt but neglected to acquire his stockings.
“Thy feet are going freeze.”
“Do not fret about my feet,” he replied, pushing at the small of her back to get her going.
They descended the staircase side by side, and Elizabeth grabbed his hand at the first landing and held tight all the way to the atrium door. It was dry and warm and enveloped hers completely.
She led him into the atrium and set him in a chair while she readied the surprise.
Elizabeth unlocked the cabinet then scrutinized the painting.
She had not put it away—Jane must have had it taken care of.
The paint was still somewhat tacky, as oils tended to be, so she took extra care as she removed it.
Gingerly, she placed the portrait on the easel, gave it a quick perusal, silently comparing it to her subject, and went to stand before her husband.
“Close thy eyes.”
He sighed in frustration.
“Close thy damn eyes, my lord.”
He chuckled and did as he was bidden. She took his hand and gave it a brief squeeze before dropping it then turned the easel as carefully as she could, and stepped away.
“Ye may look now.”
* * *
Dreading what was to come, he shied away until his gaze fell upon his own likeness.
He stared at his face. How in the world she had done it, how she had matched him exactly without the benefit of his sitting for her?
He stood and held out his hand to her. She stared up at him and her mouth twisted a little, as if trying to gauge his response.
He was shocked, obviously, but his disregarded emotions were now kicking up dust in the recesses of his soul.
“When did you begin this?” His heart felt heavy, as though made of cloth and soaked in oil. He had been so wrong about her gift, and the irony that she was wrong about his was not lost on him.
“The night ye gave me the paint set.”
“When you kissed me,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Why paint me?”
“The canvas called out for ye. I simply obliged.”
It seemed she had never even thought of painting George, and his joy was close to overwhelming.
Trying to remain steady, he held fast to her hand in hope that she could feel every bit of the immense gratitude, elation, and wonder that he was undergoing himself.
“You have an incredible talent, Elizabeth. I am honoured to have been the first subject you painted in the North.”
“This is thy wedding gift.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This is my gift to ye.”
“I cannot accept this! My gift is not nearly as good.”
“I was not aware that we were engaging in competition, my lord. I shall make a note of it, but, until then, this is thy wedding gift, and I shall be most offended if ye do not accept with the grace befitting a prince.”
He squeezed her hand and chuckled. “I must say I figured a portrait of me by you would have been in a different light. The sort of light, I suppose, that gives me horns and three eyes.”
“I did consider a third eye upon thy abrupt departure the other day, but I could not bring myself to mar thy countenance. It is a lovely face.”
“Did you just pay me a compliment?”
“I did,” she replied, turning to him. She placed her hand on his cheek, her fingers dancing over his cheekbones, eyes, and lips.
“See, ye have the most incredible angles here and here and the way thy mouth curls when ye smile, which is all too rarely, is superb. Ye are devastatingly handsome when ye are not acting ugly.”
Overcome, Darcy pulled her into a hug and held her for a long time, staring at his visage over the top of her head, still incredulous that she had captured him in such an easy manner and that she had chosen to paint him at all.
Finally, he pulled away, dragging her behind him.
They were at the door to the courtyard, and he was on the verge of going out of doors without footwear when Elizabeth dug her heels in and refused to budge.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“Ye have no shoes, and it looks very much to me as though ye are making thy way outside.”
He stared down at his feet as though seeing them for the first time.
“This obsession with covering my feet is a bit disturbing.”
“I shall not have ye catch thy death and make me a widow so soon.”
“Just think of the advantages to becoming such a young widow,” he replied in a mocking tone.
“I have never wished death on another person and will not start now. Ye are still a human or, at least, ye show characteristics of my species.”
He laughed outright and pulled on a pair of boots that he kept in the rear vestibule.
Quickly, he lifted the hem of her gown. Her satin slippers would be destroyed in the stables.
He looked around and found another set of leather boots.
Sitting her down on a nearby bench, he slid them over her slippers.
“Do they fit properly?”
“They fit fine, but they do not go with my dress.”
Darcy laughed again and held his hand out to her.
He led her through the courtyard and down the short lane to the stables.
The stable boy was already mucking stalls and dispersing fresh hay, grain, and water.
He made a note to reward the boy as soon as possible.
He cast a glance at Elizabeth, who seemed uncertain and a little nervous.
This will be fine. My gift is perfect.
* * *
They stopped in front of a stall, and he beamed down at her, pride obvious in his eyes, like a child who has done a special deed for a parent. She could not help but be moved.
“Why are we here?” She was quiet, afraid of disturbing the caged beasts.
“I know you do not ride, but I think it is because you have never had a good horse. I searched all over and found the perfect mare for you. She is why I was gone. I wanted to bring her home personally for you.”