Chapter 6
Six
THE SOFT GLOW OF CANDLELIGHT caressed the contours of the room as Elizabeth surrendered to the sensations coursing through her body. Darcy’s hands moved with gentle confidence, his lips trailing across her skin with a tenderness that belied his usual reserve.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured against her throat, the sound of her name in his deep voice sending tremors through her.
She allowed her fingers to tangle in his dark hair, marveling at the contradiction between the man who stood so rigid in drawing rooms and this passionate creature who touched her with such reverent desire.
For these moments at least, she could set aside her doubts about his character and simply feel.
When he claimed her mouth again, she responded, meeting his intensity with her own burgeoning passion.
“You are extraordinary,” he whispered as he moved above her.
Elizabeth arched toward him, her body seeking closer contact, her mind silencing the questions that plagued her during daylight hours.
Here in this bed, with her husband’s strong arms around her, she could believe in the possibility of happiness beyond the circumstances that had forced their marriage.
Their breath mingled as pleasure built between them. When release finally came, Elizabeth cried out, clutching Darcy’s shoulders as waves of sensation washed through her body. His own completion followed a minute later, his face buried against her neck as a shudder ran through his frame.
As their breathing slowly returned to normal, Darcy gathered her against his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her cheek. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her bare shoulder, neither speaking for long minutes.
“Thank you,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Darcy’s hand stilled. “For what?”
Elizabeth considered her answer carefully. “For defending me tonight. Against Miss Bingley’s insinuations.”
He resumed his gentle caress. “It was nothing less than you deserved as my wife.”
“Is that all?” The question slipped out before she could reconsider it.
In the dim light, she felt rather than saw his slight frown. “What do you mean?”
“Did you defend me because I am your wife, or because you believed the attack was unjust?” Elizabeth clarified, sensing she was venturing into dangerous territory but unable to stop herself.
Darcy shifted to look down at her, his expression serious. “Both,” he said after a moment. “Your position as Mrs. Darcy demands respect, but Caroline’s implications were unfounded and malicious. I would not have tolerated them against any innocent party.”
She settled more comfortably against him, allowing the warmth of their shared intimacy to lull her toward sleep.
“Your cousin seems a good man,” she murmured drowsily.
“Fitzwilliam is the best of men,” Darcy agreed, his voice softening with genuine affection. “He has been my most trusted confidant since childhood.”
“He makes you smile,” Elizabeth observed. “Few seem capable of that feat.”
Darcy’s chest rose and fell with a silent laugh. “Perhaps I have had little reason to smile in recent years.”
Elizabeth wondered briefly what sorrows might have shaped his solemn nature but was too close to sleep to pursue the question.
She felt Darcy press a gentle kiss to her forehead, his arms securing her against him as though she were something precious.
Here, she acknowledged it: she was beginning to care for this complex, contradictory man who was her husband.
Not love, certainly, but something more than the resentful obligation she had first felt.
Elizabeth also knew everything was still fragile.
His trust, should she offend him enough to damage it in some unforeseen manner, might never return.
She did not need to care. He was clearly not the sort of man who would set her aside or send her away if she displeased him.
Yet she did care. Living in a cold and loveless marriage was a horror to be avoided at all costs.
There was a chance, in spite of the forced union they found themselves in, that they could love each other.
Was he as strongly attached to the outcome of their relationship? Did he want happiness as badly as she did?
“The blue parlor would be most appropriate for receiving morning callers, ma’am,” Mrs. Wilson advised as she accompanied Elizabeth through the house the following day. “The light is particularly favorable there, and it has a more intimate atmosphere than the formal drawing room.”
Elizabeth nodded, noting this as she familiarized herself with her new domain. After a week in London, she had begun to establish routines and assert her position as mistress, guided by Mrs. Wilson’s tactful suggestions.
“I believe we should refresh the arrangements in the entrance hall,” Elizabeth decided, pausing to study the massive vase of hothouse flowers that greeted visitors. “Perhaps something simpler? These seem rather... overwhelming.”
Mrs. Wilson’s expression revealed a flicker of surprise followed by approval. “As you wish, ma’am. The conservatory has some lovely spring blooms that might suit your taste better.”
“Excellent. Please instruct the gardener accordingly.” Elizabeth continued toward the morning room where she intended to review correspondence. “And Mrs. Wilson, I have been considering the menus for next week. I note we serve French dishes almost exclusively.”
“Mr. Darcy prefers continental cuisine,” the housekeeper explained. “The previous Mrs. Darcy established the tradition.”
“I see.” Elizabeth considered this information about her mother-in-law. “However, I believe English cooking can be equally sophisticated when properly prepared. Perhaps we might integrate some traditional dishes? Mr. Darcy mentioned enjoying roast beef particularly.”
Again, that slight widening of eyes that suggested Elizabeth had surprised the housekeeper. “I will speak with Monsieur Laurent, ma’am. Though I should warn you he can be rather... temperamental about his menus.”
“Then I shall speak with him myself,” Elizabeth said. “This afternoon, if he is available.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Wilson curtseyed, her estimation of the new Mrs. Darcy visibly adjusting upward. “Will there be anything else?”
“Not at present, thank you.”
As the housekeeper departed, Elizabeth settled at her desk, reflecting on the subtle battle for authority that characterized these daily interactions.
The staff, while unfailingly polite, clearly measured her against some invisible standard—presumably established by generations of Darcy women before her.
She had begun to write a letter to Jane when the butler appeared at the door. “Mr. Bingley has called, ma’am. The master is not at home, but Mr. Bingley asked specifically if you might receive him.”
Elizabeth set aside her pen. “Please show him to the blue parlor. I will join him shortly.”
After checking her appearance in the mirror and pinching color into her cheeks, she made her way to the parlor where Bingley waited, his amiable face lighting with genuine pleasure at her entrance.
“Mrs. Darcy! How kind of you to receive me when Darcy is away on business.” He bowed over her hand with his characteristic enthusiasm.
“Mr. Bingley, you are always welcome,” Elizabeth replied warmly, gesturing for him to be seated. “I trust you are well? Your sister has recovered from our dinner party, I hope?”
A shadow crossed his normally cheerful countenance. “Caroline is as well as can be expected. I must apologize for her behavior the other evening. It was inexcusable.”
“Please, think nothing of it,” Elizabeth said, though she appreciated his acknowledgment. “Your sister and I have never been particularly close.”
Bingley smiled ruefully. “You are too generous. But I did not call to discuss Caroline. In fact...” He hesitated, seeming to gather his courage. “I wished to inquire about your sister, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth’s interest sharpened immediately. “Jane? She is well, according to her last letter. Still in Hertfordshire with our parents.”
“She has not married?” The question burst from him with such eagerness that Elizabeth could not doubt his continued attachment.
“No, she remains single.” Elizabeth observed his reaction closely.
Relief washed visibly across Bingley’s features. “I am glad to hear it. That is—I mean to say...” He fumbled for words in a manner Elizabeth might once have found merely endearing but now recognized as the genuine distress of a man in love.
“Mr. Bingley,” she said gently, “may I speak plainly?”
“Please do,” he replied, looking grateful for her directness.
“My sister held you in the highest regard during your stay in Hertfordshire. Your abrupt departure caused her considerable pain, though she would never say so.”
Bingley’s face fell. “I feared as much. But you must understand, I had reason to believe her indifferent to me.”
Elizabeth could not hide her surprise. “Indifferent? Jane? Impossible. She spoke of you constantly.”
“But I was informed that she received my attentions with the same pleasant equanimity she showed to all gentlemen,” Bingley insisted. “That her heart was not engaged.”
A suspicion formed in Elizabeth’s mind, chilling her despite the warm spring day. “May I ask who provided this assessment of my sister’s feelings?”
Bingley shifted uncomfortably. “Several people expressed similar views. My sisters, certainly. And Mr. Darcy, who is an excellent judge of character and has my complete trust.”
The confirmation was like a physical blow. Elizabeth struggled to maintain her composure as pieces fell into place: Fitzwilliam’s careful avoidance of discussing Jane, his dismissive reference to Mr. Bingley forming attachments easily, the deliberate separation that had left her sister heartbroken.
“I see,” she managed to say, her voice steady. “And did these well-meaning advisors suggest you leave Netherfield immediately?”