Chapter Twenty-One #2
"But how, when did you—" she struggled to form coherent words, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of it all. "We only spoke of this a day ago."
"I have discovered that being master of Pemberley has certain advantages. And Mrs Reynolds is remarkably efficient when properly motivated."
She turned to him, emotions swelling in her chest until she could scarcely breathe. Here was another reason why he was such a good match for her. He listened to her words, understood what she valued and took immediate action to provide it. All because he wanted to make her happy.
"I don't know what to say," she finally managed. "This is perfect."
"You don't need to say anything. You look beautiful," he said.
"Thank you." Elizabeth took the seat he held for her. "And thank you for arranging all of this."
The meal that followed exceeded her expectations.
Course after course emerged from the kitchen, each one prepared to perfection—dishes she had mentioned enjoying in passing conversations, flavours she preferred, nothing she disliked.
Mrs Cardogan had clearly received detailed instructions and had risen to the challenge magnificently.
They talked throughout the meal, any ounce of self-consciousness departing as the minutes flew by Fitzwilliam made her laugh with a dry observation about his aunt's old letters, and Elizabeth countered with an equally amusing story about Lydia's theatrical declarations of eternal love for some officer or other.
When the final course was cleared away, he offered her his hand. "Shall we?"
He led her to the music room, where candles had been arranged around the perimeter, their light casting dancing shadows on the walls.
A gentleman sat at the pianoforte—Mr Ephraim from the village, Elizabeth recognised, known for his exceptional skill.
He nodded respectfully at their entrance and began to play without needing instruction.
The melody was beautiful—something classical but unfamiliar, with a romantic lilt that seemed designed for dancing. He drew her into his arms, one hand at her waist, the other clasping hers, and they began to move in time to the music.
"Is this what you imagined?" he asked softly, his breath warm against her ear.
"Better," she admitted. "I had not imagined how it would feel to dance with you specifically. Now I'm glad about that because nothing compares to reality.”
They moved together in silence for a while, their steps perfectly matched, their bodies aligned with the natural ease of compatibility. She rested her head against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—soap and something distinctly masculine, utterly appealing.
"I sometimes feel I am living two lives," he divulged quietly, his voice barely audible above the music.
"One remembered in fragments and shadows, pieced together from what others tell me.
And one unfolding clearly before me, with you at the centre.
The first feels like a story about someone else.
The second feels real in a way I cannot quite articulate. "
She lifted her head to look at him. "Which would you choose, if you could?”
"I would choose this. Every time." His arms tightened around her.
"Whatever I was before, whoever I was—that man is gone.
Or perhaps he is still here, somewhere beneath these incomplete memories.
But the man I am now, the one who exists with you—that is who I wish to be.
I hope to never forget this. Us. What we are building together. "
"You are most yourself now, I believe. And this side of you, the one I see every day, the one who rescues me from storms and arranges private dances and feeds me strawberries in bed—" She smiled, her throat suddenly tight with emotion. "That is the man I fell in love with."
The words emerged before she fully registered what she was saying, but once spoken, Elizabeth realised they were true. Somewhere in the past weeks, amid the confusion and uncertainty and gradual building of trust, she had fallen in love with her husband.
Fitzwilliam stopped moving, standing still in the centre of the room despite the continued music. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones, his eyes searching hers as though looking for confirmation of what she had just said.
"You love me?" His voice was rough with emotion.
"I do." Elizabeth's heart hammered against her ribs. "I know this may not be planned—"
He kissed her, cutting off whatever she had been about to say.
This kiss was different from the one that morning, but equally as tantalising.
It was slower and infused with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, and their breaths mingled in the tiny space between them.
"I love you too," he whispered. "I think I have been falling in love with you since that day in the library when you argued with me about Milton and made me laugh. Perhaps even before that.”
He kissed her again, and the music continued to play, though neither of them was dancing anymore.
They stood wrapped in each other's arms in a room lit by candlelight, and Elizabeth felt as though something fundamental had shifted.
They had been building towards this moment for weeks—every conversation and shared glance, every bit of intimacy had been leading here.
They resumed dancing, moving slowly to the music.
Elizabeth tucked her head against Fitzwilliam's shoulder and closed her eyes.
She should tell him about the letters. She knew that.
This moment of perfect happiness, this declaration of love—it was built partially on a foundation of deception, and that deception would eventually need to be addressed.
But not tonight. Tonight was for joy and celebration, for allowing themselves to simply be two people who cared deeply for each other, dancing in candlelight, with no shadows from the past to darken their present happiness.
Tomorrow would be the moment for truth and whatever consequences that might follow.
Tonight, she would simply dance with the man she loved, and let that be enough.