11. A Wife’s Response #2
“That is a terrible name for a cat of such obvious dignity.” Elizabeth scratched behind the tabby’s ears, and the purring intensified. “She is clearly a Cleopatra. Or perhaps a Boadicea.”
Darcy’s mouth curved. “You wish to name my barn cat after a warrior queen?”
“Look at her. She clearly believes she rules this barn with an iron paw. One should acknowledge reality.” Elizabeth glanced up at him and found him watching her with an expression that made her heart flutter unexpectedly. “What?”
“Nothing.” But his voice had softened. “Only that you are remarkably gentle with small creatures.”
“I have had considerable practice of late. Thomas, Sidney the snail, Captain the one-eared horse. My expertise with small, difficult things grows daily.”
“I had noticed.”
She rose, and he offered his hand to help her, and she took it without thinking, feeling the warmth of his palm against hers and the steadiness of his grip. He did not release her immediately, and she did not pull away but stepped forward, lifting her face to his.
“You may kiss me, if that is what you wish.”
But it was not merely if he wished. Her heart hammered, her fingers tightening, and she wondered how he would taste and feel, and whether he would be gentle or like the man in the Cheapside alley, pushing her against the wall and…
“Do you truly wish it?” Darcy asked, his voice low and almost hoarse, not moving to claim her.
Did she? She looked at his face, the strong jaw, the dark eyes, and the way water still clung to his temples.
“I am—” she started, but could not finish.
“I would not take liberties you do not wish me to take.” His gaze was intense on her, lowering to her lips before rising to take in her eyes. “I would court you, dear Elizabeth, and it will be because you choose it… choose me.”
A warmth unfurled within her, from some secret place she had not known. That this proud, impossible man would not claim a kiss unless she wished it—could she wish it?
“If you are going to court me,” she said evenly, “it must be sincere.”
“It shall be.”
“No playacting for Georgiana’s benefit, nor to satisfy the county’s appetite for romance. Not guilt performed as attentiveness, nor duty dressed up in flowers and poetry.”
“Elizabeth…”
“I have had enough of fiction.” The word came out harder than she intended, carrying weight he could not possibly understand. “If you mean to do this, I need it to be real. I need to know that you see me, the woman I am, not the idea you constructed from a few assemblies and a convenient proposal.”
The rain dwindled to a whisper overhead, and the light beyond the stable door faded from sullen grey to a tentative, uncertain gold.
Darcy regarded her with those dark, inscrutable eyes.
“You wish for honesty. Then I shall give it, though I warn you, I have little practice in being agreeable and less in being candid about matters of the heart. I am not good at this, Elizabeth. My sister would tell you as much, if you asked her, though she is too loyal to volunteer it.”
Despite herself, Elizabeth felt the corner of her mouth twitch.
“You are not recommending yourself, Mr. Darcy, so let me assist you. Will you walk out with me in the morning, despite the boggy mud? Will you pretend not to notice when I speak my mind with too much freedom? Will you endure my mother’s company without wincing at every utterance? ”
A faint smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained serious.
“I would endeavor a great deal to be in your company,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Your high spirits, your facility with creatures, small and large, and yes, your sharp mind and sharper tongue.”
“Not to mention an even sharper quill,” she teased, thinking about the locked journal. “But I am not so easily won, sir. My opinion of you has undergone significant alterations since Hertfordshire, but it has not yet returned to that of unblemished perfection.”
“Nor should it,” he agreed readily. “I deserve no such judgment from you.”
“Indeed not,” she said, her voice softening. “But perhaps a man who can admit his mistakes and attempt to amend them deserves a second chance. Or at least, an opportunity to prove his sincerity.”
“I would be grateful,” he said, taking a small step closer. “More than I can express.”
“Very well, Mr. Darcy,” she said, swallowing the butterflies that seemed to dance in her chest. “You may begin your courtship. But be warned: I have been known to test the patience of saints far more angelic than yourself.”
“I am aware of your formidable qualities, and I find them refreshing.”
“Refreshing?” She raised an eyebrow. “Is that your term for it? I believe most would call it trying.”
“They do not know what they are missing,” he countered, his left eye seeming to twinkle.
“Flattery will not get you everywhere, sir, though it is a start.”
“Then I shall be honest about my flattery. How would you suggest we begin our courtship?” He bowed with mock formality. “Mrs. Darcy.”
She could not help but laugh as she offered a deep, playful curtsy. “Mr. Darcy, we are quite a formal pair, are we not?”
The mare nickered in amusement, and Darcy leaned in as if to kiss her hand, but a mouse squeaked, the cat pounced, and Elizabeth gasped.
In the sudden motion, the distance vanished.
His breath was warm on her cheek, her name a soft whisper on his lips, and then his mouth was on hers, a touch so devastatingly gentle, questioning rather than demanding, his hands hovering at her waist, not grabbing or pressing but waiting.
She closed her eyes, letting her lips taste his, leaning into the contact.
Her fingers found the lapels of his coat, and she felt him exhale against her mouth as though he had been holding his breath for an eternity.
His hands settled at her waist, finally, and with such reverence that she felt like something precious, something that might shatter if he moved too quickly.
He values me, she realized, the thought as startling as the kiss itself. He treats me as if I were fine china.
When they finally parted, she opened her eyes to find him watching her with an expression that filled her with something between giddiness and wonder, that a man so reserved, so formidable, so accustomed to deference, should look at her as though she were the one with ten thousand a year.
“You see,” she managed, her voice not entirely steady. “That was not so terrible.”
“Rather wonderful, actually.”
“Then perhaps this courtship of yours has promise after all.” She stepped back, though her hand lingered on his waistcoat. “But we should return before the household assumes we have drowned.”
“A pity.” His mouth curved, and his tone was dry, although mischief danced in his eyes. “I find I am in no hurry to share you with the household.”
His words were light, yet they settled somewhere unlooked-for. To be shared, as if she were a prize he would rather keep to himself, as if the kiss had spanned the distance between contract and the fragile romance neither had dared to name.
She turned toward Penny, steadying herself against the mare’s neck. “I shall have to devise a scoring system for this courtship. Marks for creativity, deductions for excessive brooding.”
“Then I shall endeavor to brood only when you are not looking.”
“That rather defeats the purpose, Mr. Darcy. Tortured silences lose their effect entirely without an audience.”
“Then I shall brood transparently, and you may critique my technique.”
She laughed despite herself, and the sound seemed to ease something in his posture, some tension she had not consciously registered until it released. He moved to help her mount, his hands steady at her waist, and for a moment they stood closer than necessary, his breath warm against her temple.
“Elizabeth.” His voice was rough and warm. “Thank you for permitting me to try.”
She did not trust herself to answer. She nodded once, allowed him to lift her onto the sidesaddle, and fixed her eyes on the path ahead.
They rode through fields rinsed clean by rain, the great house emerging in the amber light. Elizabeth sensed his gaze but kept her eyes fixed forward; her thoughts were a tangle of tenderness and uncertainty, all too new to be trusted.
Why would a man who could command her compliance care whether she gave it willingly? He had purchased her, and the law permitted him everything. And yet he had stood in that barn and asked, as though her wanting mattered more than his right.
And she had kissed him, closed the distance, and felt her heart flutter like an awakening of something she had not known.
She had chosen the feeling, but was it Darcy himself, or merely the courtship she had been denied, the romance she had surrendered when she signed her name to a contract?
She could not say, because men of his station did not ask.
They claimed and commanded, and they took what the world had already set before them.
But not Darcy.