Chapter 12 #2
“That is not what I want either,” she whispered. “I want… I want to go with you, wherever this magic takes you. I just want to be with you.”
Please.
The words hung there between them—barely breathed, yet weighty as a vow.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. Hers flicked to his.
They were close. So close. The heat between them felt tangible, a pull that thrummed in the air and settled in her skin. His breath mingled with hers, warm and uneven. Her lips parted. She could feel his tension, the hesitation in his stillness.
She waited.
Would he kiss her?
Would I let him?
The question barely had time to form before she knew the answer. She wanted it. Ached for it. And yet—beneath the yearning, a sliver of fear curled in her stomach.
She had seen what passion had cost Jane—and that was in a house with chaperons and her sister in the next room. One wrong choice, one moment of weakness, and a woman’s life could be altered forever.
Could she truly trust her own judgment in this private, intimate room?
Her pulse pounded as he leaned in, his face close enough now that his nose nearly brushed hers.
She held her breath.
Then—slowly, gently—his lips touched her forehead.
Not her mouth, but somehow that did not matter.
The kiss was soft. Gentle. Reverent.
He lingered there for a moment, his breath stirring her hair, and then he pulled back just enough to whisper:
“Good night.”
She closed her eyes, her heart aching with something fierce and unfamiliar.
“Good night,” she murmured in reply.
And though no more words passed between them, though the space between their bodies remained chaste, she could not remember the last time she had felt so seen.
So safe.
So wanted.
Sleep did not come easily.
But when it did, it was with the ghost of his kiss still pressed to her skin.
∞∞∞
Darcy lay on his back, utterly still, as if any movement might shatter the moment, causing to him to awaken from the most beautiful dream. His heart was hammering in his chest with such force, he feared Elizabeth might hear it.
Eventually, though, her breathing changed—it was slow and deep, and he knew she had drifted off to sleep.
But he was still awake.
His lips still tingled from where they had met her skin—just above her brow, where a few damp strands of hair curled from the heat of her head on the pillow. The taste of her lingered, though it had not been a kiss of passion.
It had been adoration. Restraint. A vow unspoken.
But oh, how he had wanted more.
When she had turned to him and said she did not wish to stay—when she had chosen him—him—his chest had felt too small for the swell of emotion that surged within it.
For a brief, breathless moment, the ache and fear and longing of the past three days had vanished, replaced by a single, radiant truth:
She wanted to stay with him.
Her softness next to him, the catch in her breath, the shift of the pillow as she turned her face towards him—everything told him she wanted him, wanted the kiss as much as he did.
And he had nearly done it.
But he had not.
He could not.
To do so would have been to cross a boundary he was not willing to break. Not with her. Not when he valued her so deeply. Not when her trust in him was something he had earned—slowly, painfully—and might shatter with a single moment of weakness.
She was not his. Not truly. Not yet.
And more than that, he could not allow the ache in his chest—or the pull of her nearness—to cloud what mattered most. Her dignity. Her safety. Her future.
He thought of Jane Bennet. Of Bingley’s abandonment. Of a kind, gentle girl burdened with a shame that should never have been hers.
No, he told himself again. Not like that. Never like that.
But if he kissed her now—truly kissed her—he would not stop at one taste. Not when they were alone. Not when the bed was already shared. Not when the barriers between them had fallen so completely.
And she deserved more than that. They both did.
He would kiss her—properly, fully, joyfully—when they were no longer suspended in uncertainty. When he could lay his whole heart before her and know it was wanted. When he could love her without restraint or fear of shame.
It could wait until she bore his name—truly, not in pretense. When they had a place to call home. When the uncertainty of the future was gone. When the world, whichever world they found themselves in, recognized them as one.
And what world was this?
His joy was tempered, as it always was, by the strangeness of their reality.
They still did not know how long the magic would last—if it was even magic at all.
What if they married in this life only for the spell to break?
What if only one of them returned? What if children came, and they were ripped apart.
What if this world was the true one now?
The questions circled his mind, too numerous, too heavy.
But even with all the uncertainties, one truth remained steadfast and clear: he loved her.
And when they were together for the first time—truly together—he wanted it to be without fear or shame or regret. No secrets, no hesitation. No borrowed names or altered realities.
He wanted to give her everything.
Our first kiss—our first proper kiss—should not be stolen in the dark, in a borrowed bed, as guests in a stranger’s inn.
It should be in a time and place of their control. Undeniable. Unforgettable.
Because she was not just some fever dream born of magic and longing.
She was Elizabeth.
And she was becoming his whole world.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his body to remain still as he listened to her breathing soften beside him. Sleep, for him, was a long time coming.
But for the first time in years, it was not fear or loneliness that kept him awake.
It was hope. And love.