Chapter 19 #2
“At last, I discovered them and was able to meet privately with your sister. I begged her to return to her friends at once, but she would not be persuaded. Neither would Wickham agree to make her his wife. He told me he intended to make his fortune by marrying an heiress and laughed at the prospect of tying himself to your sister, who was practically penniless.”
Darcy shook his head as he recalled the utter futility he had felt when faced with Wickham’s disregard for Lydia, and Lydia’s staunch determination to continue living with him.
“Your sister would not listen to reason. She insisted they were to marry, and it did not signify when. Despite her stubbornness, despite her foolhardiness, I could not abide abandoning her to reap what she had sown. I negotiated with Wickham. I met with your uncle. They were married the following month.”
“You paid him,” Elizabeth said on a breath, tightening her grip upon his hand.
“You, and not my uncle, paid Wickham to marry Lydia. Thoughtless, selfish Lydia, who never spared one thought, one concern for what her recklessness would cost any of us! Your generosity to her, your unexampled kindness, was more than she deserved.”
Darcy’s mouth twisted as he stared at their joined hands.
“It was not kindness or even empathy towards Mrs Wickham that prompted my interference. I did not bring about their marriage for her sake. You called her selfish, but I, too, am a selfish being. Elizabeth,” he said, raising his head so he could look into her eyes, “I thought only of you.”
“And I, sir,” she replied in earnest, “am exceedingly grateful. On behalf of all my family, please allow me to thank you for what you have done.”
As though her words had burned him, Darcy retracted his hand from hers.
“Your family owes me nothing, nor do I require your thanks. I do not want it.” He ran his hand over his mouth in agitation and silently cursed himself for being curt and disagreeable when he ought to have been gracious.
“Forgive me. This is precisely the reason I did not tell you about my involvement. This is precisely the reason I never wanted you to know what I have done. I do not want your gratitude, Elizabeth. I do not want the foundation of our life together to be formed from gratitude.”
“Our life together will always owe something to gratitude, sir. Whether you like it or not, I will always be grateful to you, not only for finding Lydia, but for finding me—for loving me enough to humble yourself not once, but twice. You put aside my injudicious treatment of you, my unjust accusations. You confided in me, opened your heart to me, and allowed me to know you as you truly are in every facet of your conduct—an honourable man, a doting brother, and a devoted friend. Your generous nature and your forgiving heart taught me humility.”
She reached for Darcy’s hand and squeezed it, tightening her hold when he attempted to withdraw from her once more.
“I agreed to become your wife—to bind myself to you for as long as I live—not because I am grateful to you, Fitzwilliam. Not because you are handsome, or because you have ten thousand a year, or because Pemberley has the most beautiful park I have ever seen, but because I love you and cannot bear the thought of living my life without you.”
“You love me?”
Elizabeth nodded. “I do, with all my heart. I thought I confessed as much two nights ago when we were alone at Netherfield. I thought you understood as much when you asked to speak to my father.”
Darcy reached for her, and she came willingly into the circle of his arms. “It was implied, but not spoken. Your esteem, your affection was enough. I was hopeful your love would follow in time.”
“When?” she asked as she laid her chin upon the lapel of his coat and tilted her face to his. Her eyes were deceptively deep, framed by long, thick lashes the colour of ink. “If I did not already love you now, when would I begin, do you think?”
Darcy raised one hand and gently traced a line from her temple along the curve of her cheek with his fingertip.
He was inordinately pleased when her eyelids fluttered closed.
“When we were married and settled at Pemberley, perhaps in the summer or the following winter. You once told me you have never seen a house more happily situated than Pemberley. If there was any chance of making you love me, I was convinced it would happen there.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes, but rather than the teasing look he had expected from her, Darcy was surprised to see a distinct flicker of sadness.
She raised one hand to his cheek, then the other, and cradled his face in her palms. “Pemberley is lovely,” she told him with uncharacteristic seriousness.
“There is much of you in the house, in the grounds, and in all aspects of its history and prosperity. But you are so much more than Pemberley, Fitzwilliam.” She drew his head towards hers and without warning, pressed a tender, enduring kiss to his mouth.
The moment their lips touched Darcy could barely think.
He had not expected Elizabeth to initiate any such intimacy so soon—most assuredly not in her uncle’s house.
That she had done so thrilled him beyond measure and sparked a desire he dared not consider.
She ended the kiss slowly—reluctantly, Darcy thought—with a barely audible gasp that did nothing to restore his equanimity.
Elizabeth stared at him from beneath her lashes. Her lips were parted, and a heated blush coloured her cheeks. She appeared astonished, as though she had shocked herself with her own daring.
Darcy could not be more pleased. “Promise me you will kiss me often when we are married,” he said to her. “Promise me you will never stop.” He caught her hands and brought them to his lips, kissing first one, then the other before positioning both over his heart.
Elizabeth shook her head at him and coloured more deeply, but the corners of her mouth were upturned, and the hint of a bashful smile played upon her lips. “I promise to make sure you know how much you mean to me, whatever that might entail.”
“There is something you might do now, and I would be indebted to you.” Mr Gardiner’s words from that morning had resurfaced in the back of his mind, urging Darcy to give voice to his desire.
“I will do whatever you wish, so long as it is within my power.”
Darcy kissed her fingertips, then each blushing cheek, and finally her mouth—a featherlight press of lips that, despite being gentle, made both their hearts quicken.
“Mrs Bingley is married. She and Bingley are on their honeymoon, and you will reside with them in Park Street for some time. Elizabeth,” he whispered, closing his eyes as he slowly dragged his lips along the column of her neck, where he placed a lingering kiss.
Her breath caught and Darcy inhaled the heady fragrance of her skin: summer and roses—Elizabeth.
He found the pulse just beneath her ear and sucked lightly, taking care not to leave a mark.
He grazed her skin with the tip of his tongue.
“I want to tell Georgiana you will be her sister,” he murmured.
“I want Colonel Fitzwilliam to know you have accepted me. I want to inform Bingley, and your sisters, and all our relations without delay. I want to call upon you each day and be free to spoil you every minute we are in London.”
He returned his attention to her neck, where he laid a trail of sensual, open-mouthed kisses from her ear to her shoulder.
“I want to marry as soon as we may,” he said against her skin as his voice grew unsteady.
“I want to take you to Pemberley for Christmas. I want to marry you in the chapel there and make you mine in body as soon as you say ‘I do’ to the minister.”
“I am sure the minister is delightful,” Elizabeth said breathlessly as her fingertips brushed the edge of his cravat, then his collar, “but I would prefer to say ‘I do’ to you.” She grazed his jaw, then the hidden flesh of his throat and Darcy was lost.
Whether her touch had been innocent or purposeful he could not discern; he felt only the insistent rush of desire.
Before he could check himself, he claimed Elizabeth’s lips in an ardent kiss and wrapped her tightly in his arms. “Please,” he said hoarsely.
“Say yes. Say you will marry me at Pemberley.”
“At Christmas?”
“At Christmas,” he told her, peppering her face with kisses. “Or before, but not a day later. Georgiana would be so pleased. The Gardiners will join us. I will send for your family—your parents and sisters. You will want your father to give you away.”
Elizabeth, who Darcy was certain had been smiling a moment before, suddenly stiffened in his arms.
Fearing he had gone too far—that he had demanded too much of her too soon—he ceased his ministrations at once.
“Forgive me,” he said as he released her and increased the distance between them.
“Forgive me. I should not have taken such liberties. I should not have pressed you so urgently.” Agitated and embarrassed, he silently cursed himself for his zealousness.
“Of course, you would rather wait. You must think me a barbarian.”
Elizabeth smoothed her gown and trained her eyes upon the floor. “I do not. Do you think me wanton?”
Darcy could hardly believe she had asked such a thing.
Surely, of the two of them, she was the respectable party.
“Never. Your conduct is far from wanton. As surely as I prayed you would eventually come to love me, so did I also pray our union would be one of mutual ardency. We are to be married. You are receptive to my touch and responsive to my kisses. I consider myself most fortunate. I am only sorry the fervency of my attentions has upset you.”
“It has not,” she insisted, blushing furiously.
“You mentioned my family and I immediately thought of…My parents are not affectionate people. My father does not hold my mother in esteem. He desires neither conversation nor companionship from her. He spends his days in avoidance while she passes her time with gossip and matchmaking. Forgive me, but she spoke to Jane of duty on the eve of her wedding—not affection, not love, not…ardency. We were told, in no uncertain terms, that a husband would not welcome any such response from his wife.”
Darcy reached for her hands. “And what sort of response,” he quietly enquired, “is a husband supposed to desire from his wife?”
Elizabeth placed her hands in his. She would not, however, meet his eyes.
“A husband neither expects, nor requires, a response from his wife in their marriage bed. According to my mother, I am impudent, stubborn, unfeeling, and selfish. If she knew how I have behaved with you, sir, she would add lustful to my list of accomplishments and refuse to acknowledge me altogether.”
Darcy frowned as he imagined Mrs Bennet berating her daughter for desiring him. In his opinion, Elizabeth had nothing to repine, except perhaps the misfortune of having a mother who lacked discernment and a father prone to neglecting his wife.
“I have said as much before but will gladly say so again—you are very different from your mother. In fact, you are very different from every lady I know. You are intelligent and insightful, kind-hearted, and spirited. You are curious and passionate. I would not trade a life with you for anything in the world, especially a life with an insipid girl who professes opinions that are not her own.”
He was startled to hear her laugh.
“Is that not what you once accused me of doing, Mr Darcy? Professing opinions that are not my own?”
Darcy recalled not only his words to her, but the arch look that appeared in her eyes as he had pronounced them, and grinned. “That was only when I first knew you, Miss Bennet. I have long accepted the opinions you profess are entirely your own.”
Her smile warmed him, and Darcy drew closer to her. Rather than claim her lips, he placed a tender kiss upon her temple and another on her brow. “Come,” he told her, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. “Let us find the Gardiners before they come in search of us.”