Chapter 13
Thirteen
August
THE ROSE GARDEN PROMISE had stalked Darcy through breakfast, estate correspondence, and the afternoon’s tenant rounds.
Now, as Fletcher tied his cravat for the evening’s dinner party, he caught himself counting hours until the last carriage departed and he could lead Elizabeth to the fountain where white blooms glowed palest in moonlight.
“Will that be satisfactory, sir?” Fletcher stepped back.
Darcy adjusted his coat. “Has Mrs. Reynolds confirmed the final arrangements?”
“Yes, sir. She reports that Mrs. Darcy has everything well in hand.” Approval colored the valet’s typically neutral tone. “The staff is most impressed with the mistress’s attention to detail.”
Pride surged through Darcy’s chest. In the months since their arrival at Pemberley, Elizabeth had established herself not as nominal mistress but as genuine force within the household—earning respect rather than demanding it, bringing warmth and purpose to rooms that had felt empty since his mother’s death.
“Mrs. Darcy is most capable.”
Fletcher permitted himself the slightest smile as he gathered discarded clothing. “The household has noted how well you complement one another, sir.”
The simple observation suggested how visible the evolution of their marriage had become to those who served them daily.
What had begun as necessity, entered with reluctance on both sides, had developed into something far more significant—something Darcy could no longer pretend was convenient partnership or physical attraction alone.
Love. The word he had hesitated to apply even in private thoughts for fear of vulnerability now seemed the only adequate description. Tonight, in the rose garden after their guests departed, he intended to speak it aloud at last.
The thought terrified and exhilarated him in equal measure.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, thank you. That will be all.”
Left alone, Darcy moved to the window overlooking the east lawn, where servants were already setting up chairs beneath the ancient oak trees.
The summer weather promised to be perfect—warm enough that guests might stroll the gardens after dinner but not so hot as to create discomfort in the dining room.
His gaze shifted toward the rose garden adjoining the east terrace, its carefully tended blooms at their peak of summer glory.
Elizabeth had chosen the location deliberately for their meeting later that night.
They had walked there often in recent weeks, stopping to admire particular specimens or discuss potential additions to the collection.
It was a place where they had built memories untainted by the awkwardness of their beginning.
A soft knock at the connecting door drew his attention. “Come in.”
Elizabeth herself appeared, already dressed for the morning in a simple gown of sprigged muslin that emphasized her slender figure.
“Good morning.” A hint of color rose to her cheeks at finding him in such private surroundings.
Though they had shared intimacies far greater than conversation in a dressing room, her appearance here—uninvited but clearly welcome—maintained the delightful tension between formality and familiarity.
“Elizabeth.” Pleasure warmed his voice. “You look well this morning.”
“As do you.” Her gaze traveled briefly over his immaculate attire before returning to his face.
“Mrs. Reynolds has asked me to consult you regarding the wines for dinner. She says there is a particular Bordeaux you might wish to serve with the venison, but she cannot recall which vintage you preferred.”
“The 1787.” Though his attention was far more engaged by the way morning light caught the golden flecks in Elizabeth’s dark eyes than by such practical matters. “But you needn’t have troubled yourself to come in person. A message would have sufficed.”
A smile curved her lips, holding a hint of the mischievous spirit he had come to treasure. “Perhaps I wished for a moment of quiet consultation with my husband before the day’s bustle separates us until dinner.”
“Then I count myself fortunate.” He moved closer until only an arm’s length separated them. “Though I confess domestic consultations were not foremost in my mind when you appeared.”
“No?” Elizabeth’s eyebrow arched, invitation and challenge mingling in her expression. “What thoughts did my arrival interrupt, then?”
“I was contemplating the rose garden and our planned meeting there tonight.”
Her gaze softened. “The white roses near the fountain are especially fine this year.”
“They are. I look forward to viewing them by moonlight.”
“As do I.” Elizabeth hesitated. “Though I confess some anxiety about the hours before then. This dinner represents my first significant entertainment as mistress of Pemberley, and I resent that Caroline Bingley’s last-minute acceptance has necessitated rearranging the seating plan.”
Darcy suppressed a grimace. “Her attendance is unfortunate but manageable. And the pleasure of having your sister and Bingley with us outweighs the inconvenience.”
“Just so.” Elizabeth’s expression brightened at the mention of Jane.
“Though I have seated Miss Bingley as far from us as table etiquette allows, with Sir William Holbrook on one side and Mr. Grey on the other. Both gentlemen are amiable enough to neutralize her barbs while being sufficiently established in society that she will not risk offending them with obvious incivility.”
“A most elegant solution. And one that ensures our evening will not be spoiled by her presence.”
“That was my intent.” A hint of her usual sparkle returned. “Nothing must interfere with our plans for after the guests depart.”
The distant sound of the breakfast gong reached them. “I should go.” Reluctance evident in her tone. “Georgiana will be waiting, and there are countless details to review before this evening.”
“Of course.” Though he found himself equally reluctant to end this private moment. “Until dinner, then.”
Elizabeth turned to go, her hand already on the door handle, when she paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said softly, using his given name with the rare intimacy that always affected him, “I want you to know these past months at Pemberley have made me happier than I ever thought possible when accepting your proposal.”
Before he could formulate a reply, Elizabeth had slipped through the door, leaving him with the lingering warmth of her words.
The great dining room at Pemberley glowed with the soft light of countless candles, their flames reflected in polished silver and sparkling crystal as footmen moved with practiced efficiency among the sixteen guests seated at the mahogany table.
From his position at the head, Mr. Darcy could observe the entire gathering, but his attention returned repeatedly to Elizabeth at the opposite end.
Dressed in a gown of deep green silk that complemented her dark coloring, her hair arranged in an elegant style that framed her expressive features, she appeared every inch the mistress of Pemberley.
He watched her deftly manage conversation among their neighbors and friends: the genuine warmth she exhibited, the attentiveness to each guest’s comfort, the quick wit that enlivened discussion without dominating it.
“Mrs. Darcy has brought remarkable life back to Pemberley.” Lady Ashton, seated to Darcy’s right as befitted her position as the highest-ranking woman present, leaned toward him. “I cannot recall when I last saw these rooms so welcoming.”
“She has transformed the house. Her natural understanding of what creates true hospitality has benefited Pemberley.”
“And its master as well, I think.” Lady Ashton’s privileged directness came from old family friendship. “You look more at ease than I have seen you since your dear mother’s passing, Fitzwilliam.”
He inclined his head. “Mrs. Darcy has had a most salutary influence on many aspects of life at Pemberley.”
“A fortunate match.” Lady Ashton’s evident satisfaction showed in her tone. “Though I understand it came about rather suddenly.”
“Fortune favors the prepared, they say. I consider myself fortunate beyond measure, regardless of the path that led us to marriage.”
This philosophical response pleased Lady Ashton, who nodded approvingly. “Well said, Fitzwilliam. The best marriages often arise from circumstances one might not have chosen initially.”
As the conversation turned to more general topics, Darcy found his attention drawn to Charles Bingley, seated between Georgiana and Mrs. Grey.
The amiable gentleman was relating some anecdote that had both ladies smiling, his natural charm and genuine good nature making him a welcome addition to any gathering.
Jane Bingley, now recently married to Charles, sat further down the table near Elizabeth, her serene beauty and gentle manner providing a complement to her sister’s more vivacious personality.
It was difficult to recall that he had once attempted to separate Jane from Bingley, so convinced had he been of the unsuitable nature of the connection. How thoroughly Elizabeth had corrected his understanding—through demonstrating how character rather than connection determined true worth.
Caroline’s voice rose from her position near the middle of the table. “I must say, Eliza, this dinner represents a most creditable attempt at proper entertainment, particularly given your limited experience with such gatherings before marriage.”
The condescension in the compliment was unmistakable, drawing a momentary silence from those nearby.
Elizabeth, however, smiled with perfect composure.
“How kind of you to notice, Miss Bingley. I have found that genuine hospitality requires thoughtfulness rather than elaborate display, a principle I observed in the most welcoming homes in Hertfordshire regardless of their size.”