Chapter 4
Four
FITZWILLIAM DARCY STOOD IN THE DRAWING ROOM of his London house, watching as his butler directed footmen to bring in the last of their luggage.
The familiar surroundings felt strangely altered by the knowledge that he no longer occupied them alone.
Elizabeth, his wife of mere hours, had been shown to her chambers to refresh herself after their journey, escorted by the housekeeper he had hastily summoned from Pemberley to London three days prior.
“Is everything prepared as I instructed, Mrs. Wilson?” he asked as the housekeeper returned to the drawing room.
“Yes, sir. The mistress’s chambers have been arranged with fresh linens and flowers.
I have assigned Sarah, the lady’s maid you hired, to attend to her.
” Mrs. Wilson, who had served the Darcy family since Fitzwilliam’s childhood at the townhouse just as Mrs. Reynolds did at Pemberley, hesitated before adding with careful neutrality, “Mrs. Darcy seems a composed young woman.”
“Indeed.” Darcy recognized the question beneath the statement.
His hasty marriage to an unknown gentleman’s daughter from Hertfordshire had undoubtedly caused ripples of speculation below stairs as well as within society.
“Mrs. Darcy will make an excellent mistress of this house and Pemberley. I trust the staff will accommodate themselves accordingly.”
“Of course, sir.” Mrs. Wilson curtseyed. “Will you dine at seven as usual?”
“Yes. Please inform Mrs. Darcy when she has rested.” He paused, then added, “And perhaps some tea sent up to her now? The journey was long.”
“Very thoughtful, sir.” Was there a hint of approval in the housekeeper’s tone? Darcy could not be certain, but he felt oddly vindicated as she departed to carry out his instructions.
Left alone, he moved to the window overlooking the street, oblivious of the familiar London vista.
The events of the past week unfurled in his mind like a fever dream: the storm, the cottage, the discovery at dawn, the hastily acquired special license, and finally, this morning’s ceremony binding him to Elizabeth Bennet forever.
Elizabeth Darcy now, he reminded himself. The thought brought a peculiar satisfaction despite the circumstances.
He recalled her appearance as she walked toward him in the church, chin raised defiantly, eyes wary but resolute.
The simple cream dress had suited her far better than an elaborate confection might have done, highlighting her natural elegance and the fine structure of her face.
When he had slipped the ring onto her finger, he had felt the slight tremor she tried to conceal, revealing that her composure was not as complete as she wished the world to believe.
And when he brushed his lips against hers, sealing their union with the briefest of kisses, he had experienced an unexpected jolt of desire that required all his self-control to master. Even now, hours later, the memory of that fleeting contact heated his blood in a most inconvenient manner.
“Control yourself,” he muttered under his breath. “She trusts you little enough already.”
The sound of footsteps in the hall made him turn. Elizabeth entered, having changed from her wedding dress into a simpler afternoon gown of deep blue that brought out the richness of her dark hair and eyes. She hesitated at the threshold, clearly uncertain of her rights within this new domain.
“Mrs. Darcy,” he said, inclining his head. “I trust you found your chambers satisfactory?”
“They are more than satisfactory,” she replied. “They are excessively grand. The sitting room alone is larger than the parlor at Longbourn.”
Something in her tone made him study her more closely. “Do you find them not to your taste?”
“It is not that.” Elizabeth moved into the room, her natural grace asserting itself despite her discomfort. “They are beautiful rooms. I merely feel rather... diminished by such surroundings. As though I must expand to fill a space designed for someone far more substantial.”
The honesty of her response, devoid of the flattery or excessive gratitude another woman might have offered, pleased him. “You need not concern yourself with fitting anyone else’s measure, Elizabeth. The rooms are yours to make your own.”
She looked at him directly, the wariness in her expression softening slightly. “Thank you.” A pause. “Your housekeeper sent tea. It was most welcome after the journey.”
“I had asked her to do so.” He gestured to a chair. “Please, sit. You must be fatigued.”
Elizabeth settled herself, her posture straight but her hands betraying her nervousness as they smoothed invisible wrinkles from her skirts. “It seems an age since we left Hertfordshire, though it has been but a few hours.”
“The distance is not merely measured in miles,” Darcy observed, taking the chair opposite her. “You have crossed from one life into another entirely.”
“How poetic, sir.” A hint of her natural spirit flashed in her eyes. “I had not credited you with such sentimentality.”
“There is much you have not credited me with, I think,” he replied, unsure why he felt compelled to challenge her.
Elizabeth glanced away. “That is fair. We are strangers who find ourselves most intimately connected by circumstance.”
“By law and vows,” he corrected, more sharply than intended. “Not merely circumstance.”
“Of course.” Her voice cooled. “I meant no disrespect to the sanctity of our... arrangement.”
The word stung more than it should have. Darcy stood, moving to pour himself a small glass of brandy from the decanter on the side table. “Would you care to see more of the house before dinner? We have time enough.”
Elizabeth accepted the change of subject with visible relief. “I would like that very much.”
As Darcy led his new wife through the elegant rooms of his London residence, he found himself seeing the familiar surroundings through her eyes: the formal dining room with its mahogany table that could seat twenty, the music room with the pianoforte Georgiana practiced on during her London visits, the extensive library that drew a genuine exclamation of delight from Elizabeth.
“This is magnificent,” she said, running her fingers lightly over the leather-bound volumes that lined the walls. “Do you actually read these, or are they merely for show, as in so many fashionable houses?”
“I assure you, they are well-used,” Darcy replied, pleased by her appreciation. “Though I confess some were acquired by my father and grandfather. The family has always valued learning.”
Elizabeth selected a volume of poetry, opening it to find annotations in the margins. “So I see,” she murmured, studying the handwritten notes. “Are these your observations?”
He glanced over her shoulder, close enough to catch the subtle scent of lavender that clung to her hair. “My father’s, actually. He was particularly fond of Donne.”
“’No man is an island, entire of itself,’” Elizabeth quoted softly.
“’Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main,’” Darcy continued, the familiar lines resonating with unexpected significance in that moment.
Their eyes met briefly, something unspoken passing between them before Elizabeth carefully replaced the book on its shelf. “Your father must have been a thoughtful man.”
“He was.” Darcy stepped back, restoring a proper distance between them. “You would have liked him, I think. And he would have appreciated your quick mind.”
The compliment brought a fleeting smile to her lips before she composed her features once more. “Shall we continue the tour?”
By the time they returned to the drawing room, Darcy sensed Elizabeth’s increasing fatigue despite her efforts to conceal it. “Perhaps you would like to rest before dinner,” he suggested. “It has been a demanding day.”
“Thank you.” The relief in her voice was evident. “I find myself unaccountably tired.”
“Tension is more exhausting than activity,” Darcy observed quietly. “And you have had ample cause for both today.”
Elizabeth glanced up at him, her expression softening slightly. “We both have, I think.”
It was a small concession, an acknowledgment that he too might be experiencing the strain of their situation rather than merely imposing it upon her. Darcy inclined his head in appreciation.
“Dinner will be at seven. Mrs. Wilson will send Sarah to assist you when it is time.”
As Elizabeth departed, Darcy found himself watching the graceful way she moved, the proud set of her shoulders despite her admitted fatigue. She carried herself as though born to grander circumstances than those into which she had been raised—a natural dignity that owed nothing to wealth or status.
He turned away, unsettled by the direction of his thoughts.
This marriage might have been forced by circumstance, but he could not deny that part of him welcomed the outcome, however it had been achieved.
The realization brought a fresh wave of guilt.
Had Elizabeth been right to question his motives?
Not in the calculated way she had suggested, but in some deeper, unacknowledged sense?
Darcy retreated to his study to attend to correspondence that had accumulated during his absence, but his mind repeatedly strayed from business matters to thoughts of the woman now installed as mistress of his house.
By the time he dressed for dinner, his usual calm had been replaced by an uncharacteristic nervousness.
When he entered the dining room promptly at seven, Elizabeth was already seated, wearing a gown of deep green silk that must have been hastily finished in the days before the wedding.
The color brought a warm glow to her complexion, and her dark curls had been arranged in an elegant style that exposed the graceful curve of her neck.
“You look lovely,” he said, the words escaping before he could consider their propriety.
A flush colored her cheeks. “Thank you. Though I fear my wardrobe is woefully inadequate for my new position. This is one of only two silk gowns I possess.”