Chapter 12
Darcy paced his bedchamber after his valet had quietly cleared away the shaving things, assisted him into his robe, and left the room.
Darcy had been slightly embarrassed that he had followed the man to the door and locked it, never having felt the need to ensure privacy before.
And while he knew the mechanics of the act awaiting him — he vividly remembered the embarrassment and discomfiture when, at the age of fifteen his father took him to a — place — where he was initiated into manhood.
He shuddered. Never again. Not until he loved, and prayed that he would be loved in return.
His heart hammered painfully as he anticipated the next few hours, and he imagined Elizabeth in the mistress’s chambers.
Her maid would be brushing out her hair — how long is it?
and swallowed. When the candlelight was at the right angle, her hair showed chestnut highlights in what otherwise looked like a very deep mahogany colour, almost as dark as his.
His hand twitched as he imagined threading his fingers through her unbound tresses, it would be smooth and shiny.
How long would she take to be ready to receive him?
He did not wish her to feel hurried, nor did he wish to keep her waiting too long; their rapprochement was too new for that.
He shook his head and crossed to the window, lifting a corner of the curtain to see the darkened grounds of Pemberley.
The wind had ceased to howl and merely whispered now through the nearest trees.
A slight shaft of faint moonlight showed that it had stopped snowing, and the white blanketed grounds awaited the night in peace.
His thoughts of the evening overcame his memory of the pain of the last few months and days. Hope stirred within him.
Elizabeth had been gentle and kind earlier. She had forgiven his coldness; his ineptitude with words and she had said she held him in warm regard.
He was the most fortunate of men.
He allowed the curtain to fall and turned to the door leading to the shared sitting room that lay between their chambers; the room neither of them had entered since their marriage.
Crossing it, he stood before the door to her own room and hesitated. A moment later, he stepped back as the handle turned. It seemed she would not wait.
His wife — his wife — stood in the doorway. She was wearing only a nightshift and a thick cream-coloured shawl was over her shoulders. Her feet were bare and the sight of them twisted his heart.
Her hair tumbled in great waves and curls over her shoulders and halfway down her — her bosom, and Darcy fought to prevent his hand extending to pick a strand, perhaps even touch …
Her gaze was steady, although he thought he could detect some disquiet behind it. He straightened, he would not wish to be the cause of any apprehension to her.
She stretched out her hand to him. “Come.” She drew him into her chamber.
Crossing the threshold seemed momentous somehow and he tightened his grasp on her hand.
It was almost dark, and in the intimacy of the shadows, he could see the great bed, with the covers turned down.
Soon … very soon, he would lie beside her …
The air was redolent with the scent of lavender, a scent that would always remind him of her, and the faintest hint of rosewater.
He reached out and took her other hand and held them both, raising them to his lips and then drawing her closer.
He could see the fluttering of the pulse at her throat. “Please do not be anxious, Elizabeth. I will be very gentle.”
She smiled slightly. “It seems you are as uneasy as I am, William.” She drew a shaky breath. “I pray I do not fail to please you.”
He drew her closer, and dropped a kiss on her forehead. Somehow the right words came. “You could never disappoint me, dearest Elizabeth. I love you, that you are my wife, and I know that I am the most fortunate of men.” He felt her shiver, and dropped another kiss on her head.
“Come, I do not want you to get cold.” He was still too unsure of himself to lift her, to carry her to her bed, so he led her there, gently removed her shawl, and watched her eyes darken as he stripped off his robe.
Placing it on the chair along with the shawl, he turned back to her, and lifted her into the bed, seeing her bare feet and ankles as he drew the covers up. Her eyes were huge as she watched him, and he caressed the side of her face, his heart erratically announcing his rising passion.
As he climbed in beside her, he almost wished that her thin silken nightshift and his more serviceable linen nightshirt were no barrier to their touch, but that was for another occasion.
Then he was with her. Their faces close; sharing the very air they breathed, and the intimacy of it stealing his heartbeat. He drew her closer. “I love you, Elizabeth.” He watched her closely for any sign of discomfort, any reluctance, and was reassured that he saw none.
Then she lifted her face closer to his, her lips within a whisper of his and closed her eyes. He pressed his mouth against hers, sinking into her presence as a balm to his soul.
She murmured in apparent pleasure and he slowly deepened the kiss. He allowed his hand to drift down her shoulder, her arm and her body, the feel of her soft and warm. He exulted in her sigh of pleasure, the whisper of her breath on his skin, and the feel of her pressing her body closer.
He sensed her excitement and passion rising as his own, and soon all coherent thought left him as they shared the joy of their union.
Much later they lay, limbs entwined, murmuring little snatches of words as they enjoyed the closeness of two hearts in perfect harmony.
“I love you, William, and I am proud to be your wife.” Her quiet words threatened an overspill of emotion and he tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling her closer for another kiss.
“I am so thankful you are in my life, dearest, and, if the manner of our marriage was unfortunate, I am so glad that it brought you, my perfect wife, to Pemberley.”
“Mmm,” her murmur was barely there. “I wonder if we would have found each other without Lydia and Mama’s actions.”
He lifted a hand and cupped her cheek. “I would like to think so; but with my pride on full display and that horrible insult — for which I cannot apologise enough — I think it unlikely.” He drew her closer, catching her unexpected yawn.
“Now, my love, you must sleep. If you will permit me to remain here to watch over you, then I will be perfectly happy.”
She smiled sleepily in the almost-darkness, the banked fire merely glowing. “I would very much like you to remain.”
Her eyes flew open at the sound of a distant chime. “What is that?”
“Midnight,” Darcy said. “It is the church at Kympton. We cannot usually hear the bell, but the snow has muffled all else.”
He leaned over again and traced his finger along the side of her jaw. “Christmas. Happy Christmas, my dearest love.” And he watched her eyes close again as she drifted into sleep. He could feast his eyes on her perfection for as long as he could wish.
But he had certainly not looked his fill before he felt sleep stealing upon him also, and he drew her body closer to him, her warmth flooding through him.
He was perfectly and completely happy.