Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
The last of the rice pelted against the carriage windows as they rolled away from Longbourn, the cheers of her family fading into the distance. Elizabeth barely had time to wave through the glass before Darcy's hands found her waist, lifting her bodily from her seat and settling her across his lap.
"Finally alone." His voice scraped rough against her ear as his fingers started working at the pins in her hair.
Elizabeth laughed, catching his wrists. "We have hours yet before London."
"I know." He pulled one pin free despite her grip, sending a curl tumbling down her shoulder. "Torture."
His mouth found hers before she could respond, hot and demanding, nothing like the chaste kiss they'd shared at the altar.
This was possession, pure and simple—his tongue sliding against hers, teeth catching her lower lip, drawing sounds from her throat that would have mortified her in any other circumstance.
The carriage jolted over a rut, breaking them apart. Elizabeth pressed her palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart race beneath the fine wool of his coat.
"The coachman—"
"Has been paid extra to hear nothing and stop for nothing." Darcy's fingers traced the line of her throat, pausing where her pulse fluttered wildly. "Though I'll endeavor to keep you quiet."
"How considerate." She shifted on his lap, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. "And if I don't wish to be quiet?"
His eyes went dark, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of brown remained. "Then the coachman will earn his extra pay."
He kissed her again, slower this time but no less intense, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other explored the curve of her waist through layers of silk and stays.
Elizabeth melted into him, her fingers tangling in his cravat, pulling it loose until she could press her lips to the hollow of his throat.
Darcy groaned, his head falling back against the cushions. "Elizabeth—"
"Mrs. Darcy," she corrected, nipping at his jaw.
His hands tightened on her. "Mrs. Darcy. My wife." Each word came out wondering, as if he still couldn't quite believe it. "Say it."
"Your wife." She pulled back to look at him properly, smoothing her thumbs across his cheekbones. "Your omega. Yours."
The sound he made wasn't quite human—something between a growl and a purr that vibrated through his chest and into hers. He buried his face in her neck, breathing deep, and she felt him shudder.
"You still smell like Longbourn." His lips moved against her skin with each word. "Tomorrow you'll smell like me. Only me."
Heat pooled low in her belly at the promise. "And you'll smell like me?"
"Of course." He pulled back, eyes blazing with satisfaction. "How I hated when I had to wash you off. It drove me half-mad every day."
Elizabeth traced the line of his jaw, feeling the muscle jump beneath her touch.
Outside, the countryside rolled past unnoticed, the afternoon sun slanting through the windows to paint golden stripes across the leather seats.
They had hours yet—hours of anticipation, of stolen kisses and wandering hands that never quite satisfied the building need between them.
"How much longer?" she asked.
Darcy's gaze never left her face. "Too long."
He kissed her again, and Elizabeth forgot to care about the time.
* * *
The London townhouse rose four stories above Grosvenor Square, its white stone facade gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
Elizabeth pressed her nose to the carriage window, counting windows—twelve across each floor, all perfectly symmetrical, with iron balconies that curved like black lace against the pale stone.
"Welcome home," Darcy murmured against her ear.
Home. The word settled strange and warm in her chest.
The front door opened before they'd reached the steps, servants spilling out in neat lines.
The butler, ancient and dignified, bowed low while the housekeeper curtsied, but Elizabeth caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth when Darcy helped her from the carriage with both hands, lingering far longer than necessary.
"Mrs. Darcy," the housekeeper—Mrs. Carroll—said warmly. "We've prepared everything for you according to Mr. Darcy's instructions."
Somewhere behind them, housemaids collapsed into delighted whispers as Darcy's fingers came to rest at the curve of Elizabeth's spine, ushering her forward when she knew the way perfectly well.
Through the fine silk, his thumb sketched endless circles, and Elizabeth found herself rewriting history—all those months of supposed indifference, when really he'd been holding himself back with iron control.
Now, permission granted, he watched her move through his house like a man studying light through stained glass.
"This is the morning room," he told her softly, though servants trailed them like a bridal train.
"The sun comes through these windows first thing—wonderful for reading.
And the library adjoins—" He threw open the doors onto a cathedral of books, shelves stretching up the walls.
"Any titles you desire, any authors—I'll have them brought from the shops tomorrow. "
The house revealed itself as a love letter written in objects: the pianoforte's voice perfectly pitched, flowers chosen for their perfume, fires that had been burning long enough to warm the stones. He kept his world with the same fierce attention he now turned on her.
"Georgiana will be thrilled," he continued, leading her up the main staircase. "Two more months at her finishing school, then we'll bring her home to Pemberley for good."
The third floor held only bedchambers. Darcy paused before an open door, gesturing her inside. "Your rooms."
Someone had decorated this room for a ghost—a theoretical Mrs. Darcy who might appreciate French blue silk and Wedgwood cream, who would sit prettily at this unblemished vanity and arrange herself like another ornament.
The furniture spoke money fluently but had forgotten how to speak desire.
Even the air was perfumed with something expensive and forgettable.
Elizabeth touched the vanity's looking glass, her reflection wavering in its spotless surface. Not a fingerprint, not a memory embedded in this space. A stage set waiting for its actress.
"Did you even enter this room before today?" she asked the mirror, watching his reflection materialize behind her own.
"Once. To ensure the maids had cleaned it properly.
" He'd moved close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, feel each exhale against the exposed skin of her neck.
His presence filled all the empty spaces the room had left, warm and solid and overwhelmingly real.
"My mother's chambers connected to my father's through that door.
" His hand appeared in her peripheral vision, gesturing toward the far wall.
"They never spent a night apart in three decades. I suppose I hoped—expected—the same."
Elizabeth turned in the circle of his arms, tilting her head back to study him properly.
This close, she could see the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the way his cravat had been loosened by her hand then re-tied with less than his usual precision—small imperfections that made him infinitely more dear.
"Thirty years," she repeated, fingers finding the edge of his waistcoat, tracing the line of buttons. "And you expected—hoped—for the same?"
Pink crept up from his collar. The great Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, pink.
"Elizabeth—"
She rose onto her toes, lips barely grazing his jaw. "Were you planning to whisk me from bed every night?"
His hands found her waist, fingers spanning the silk. "You're mocking me."
"I'm adoring you." The confession slipped out before she could catch it. She watched it land, watched his pupils dilate, his grip tighten. "I adore you."
Now that she had said such a ridiculous thing of the proud, stern Mr. Darcy, she wanted to say it again. Elizabeth traced the sharp line of his jaw, feeling muscle jump beneath her fingertips.
"I adore you." She pressed closer, silk whispering against wool. "I adore your steadfastness. I adore your fierce loyalty to those you love. I adore that you loved me even when I was blind and cruel to you."
"You were not cruel," he murmured. His forehead dropped to rest against hers, eyes squeezed shut, his breathing gone shallow and quick against her lips. "Never cruel."
Darcy captured her lips then, swallowing whatever foolish confession would have followed.
This kiss held none of the carriage's playful exploration—this was sensual, wanting, his tongue sweeping past her lips while his hands dragged her flush against him.
Elizabeth met him with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his hair, ruining whatever remained of his careful grooming.
When they broke apart, both gasping, Darcy's eyes had gone nearly black.
"Do you wish to see my chambers now?"
"Need you ask?"
He didn't wait, simply swept her through the connecting door into a room that smelled entirely of him—dark chocolate and autumn leaves soaked into every surface.
Unlike her pristine quarters, this space bore evidence of living: books scattered across surfaces, a newspaper still folded on the bedside table, the warm scent of him in the air.
The bed dominated the room—carved mahogany posts thick as tree trunks, burgundy curtains that would block out the world. Elizabeth's fingers found the counterpane, testing its softness while Darcy watched from the doorway like a man calculating angles of approach.
She sat on the edge, sinking into goose down.
"This feels familiar."
"But better, I hope." He crossed to her in three strides, kneeling between her parted knees. His hands found her ankles, sliding up beneath her skirts to grip her calves. "Here, you can nest to your heart's content."