20. The Door Unlocked #2
“My apologies.” Elizabeth studied her salad as if searching for imaginary snails. “I merely offer my support as your wife. I am not inquiring out of idle curiosity, but whatever affects this family, including Little Tom, also affects me.”
“I do not mean—” He stopped and tugged at his collar. “ Only there are things that require time to explain properly. And I am not… I do not yet have…”
Elizabeth’s expression softened. “You carry everything alone, as though sharing the burden would diminish you.”
She saw him swallow, his face drawn as though the weight of the world had settled there, and she knew she was not mistaken. He had carried burdens alone for so long, trusting no one to share them.
Darcy’s expression softened. “You have every right to ask. Thomas is your concern now as much as mine. Your questions are not troubles—they are evidence that you care.”
“I care a great deal.” She met his eyes. “About Thomas and this family we are building. And about you.”
His expression shifted—a vulnerability she had seldom seen.
“My apologies.” Elizabeth studied her salad as if searching for imaginary snails. “I merely offer my support as your wife. I am not inquiring out of idle curiosity, but whatever affects this family, including Little Tom, also affects me.”
“Trust me, Elizabeth. I am well aware of your care for him, and am heartened by your concern.” His voice brightened. “Tell me of Thomas’s progress with Harley. I confess I missed the demonstration of sitting on command.”
Elizabeth laughed, grateful for the change in subject.
“The demonstration was singular, I assure you. Harley sat with perfect dignity for approximately three seconds before attempting to consume Thomas’s shoe.
Thomas was delighted.” She took another spoonful of soup, finding her appetite had returned now that the conversation had eased.
“We have also discovered that Sidney the snail has produced a family of some twelve offspring, and that Thomas intends to name each of them.”
“Heaven preserve us.”
“I believe he has already settled on Juju for Junior, Two for the second one, and—rather inexplicably—Mags.”
Darcy’s mouth twitched. “Mags?”
“Hannah’s influence, I suspect. She names everything. The spiders in the nursery corridor have been christened Sir Reginald and Lady Prudence, and there is apparently a particularly fat beetle called Archbishop Canter. There may also be a Paxton, a millipede of note.”
The twitch became an actual smile—that rare, unguarded expression that transformed his severe features with boyish delight.
“Hannah is a treasure,” Darcy admitted. “Georgiana claims she is the only servant who can make Thomas laugh without trying.”
“She talks to him as though he were a reasonable person rather than a child. He finds this enormously flattering.”
“As would anyone.” Darcy’s thumb traced a small circle on the back of her hand, the gesture unconscious, as though he had forgotten he was touching her. “And Clarice? Does she suit you?”
Elizabeth thought of Clarice’s advice earlier that evening—trust him, let yourself feel—and felt warmth return to her cheeks. “She suits me very well. She is direct, a quality I appreciate.”
“She was recommended to me by London friends. She knew no one at Pemberley prior to her arrival, and she was known for her discretion.”
“Then she has not only seen a great deal but is wise enough to keep her own counsel. A rare quality indeed.”
The soup course was cleared, replaced by a selection of cold meats and cheeses that required little ceremony.
They spoke of the estate—the tenants Elizabeth had met, the improvements Darcy was planning, and the harvest that promised abundance in the coming autumn.
Safe subjects, comfortable topics, the ordinary business of two people learning to share a life.
Yet beneath the comfortable conversation, Elizabeth was keenly aware of his touch, the candlelight playing across his features, the intimacy of this small table in his private chamber. Each brush of his fingers sent warmth spiraling through her; each smile felt like a secret bestowed.
When the syllabub appeared—rose-scented and crowned with crystallized petals that caught the light—Elizabeth felt her breath catch.
“You remembered.” Her eyes widened. “I didn’t believe you noticed.”
“How could I not?” Darcy lifted the serving spoon, his eyes never leaving hers. “I remember everything about you.”
He filled a small dish and held it toward her. She reached for the spoon, but he drew it back slightly, a question in his expression.
“Allow me.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. She should take the dish herself. It would be proper, dignified, and appropriate to her station. Instead, she leaned forward, parting her lips, as he placed the spoon to her mouth.
The syllabub was perfect—light and sweet, the rose water delicate. But she barely tasted it as she was too aware of his eyes on her mouth, of the way his breath had shortened, and the electric tension that had gathered between them like a storm waiting to break.
“Elizabeth.” Her name emerged rough, almost reverent. “You are—”
“Yes?”
He shook his head slightly, as though words had abandoned him. Instead, he offered another spoonful, and she accepted it with the same deliberate slowness, holding his gaze throughout.
The fire crackled, candles flickered, and the distance between them shrank with every stretched breath.
“Come.” Darcy rose, extending his hand. “Let us sit somewhere more comfortable. I thought we might read together.”
The settee was arranged before the fire, draped with a deep green wool blanket. A book lay on the side table—Shakespeare’s sonnets. Darcy settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, and lifted the volume.
“Shall I read to you?”
Elizabeth tucked her feet beneath her, settling into the cushions with a boldness that would have scandalized her mother. “Please.”
His voice was lower than usual. “Sonnet 29,” flowing with an intimacy that transformed familiar words into something new.
She found herself watching his mouth rather than listening to the verses—the shape of his lips, the way they moved around syllables, and the catch in his breath when he glanced up and found her staring.
The fire had burned low, casting shadows that made the room feel smaller, more secret. He stopped reading.
“You are not attending,” he observed.
“I am attending very closely.” Her voice was low and intimate. “Merely not to the words themselves.”
Color rose along his cheekbones, and he set aside the book. “Elizabeth—”
His breath was uneven now, no longer steady, and the way he stared at her… heated and yet restrained, waiting. For her.
And so, she kissed him.
It seemed the natural thing to do—the only thing to do—when he was sitting so close and looking at her with such undisguised wanting. Her hands found his shoulders, then his hair, and his arms came around her with a hunger that stole her breath.
His hands traced paths along the small of her back, making her arch toward him while a tingling awareness danced around her waist. His lips kissed a line from her earlobe down the column of her neck to the place where her pulse beat wildly beneath her skin.
She gasped—small mewing sounds escaping her that were entirely improper and entirely beyond her control.
And she felt him smile against her neck.
“Elizabeth.” His voice was ragged. “If we continue—”
“I know.” She pulled back enough to meet his eyes, though it cost her something to create even that small distance. “I know what comes next.”
“Do you want?”
“Yes.” The word emerged without hesitation. “Yes, Fitzwilliam. I want. You.”
He closed his eyes briefly, and she watched him struggle, perhaps calming his ardor for her comfort. When he opened them again, they were dark with desire but shadowed with a tension she had never felt from him.
“I love you,” he said. “I need you to know that. Whatever else—I love you.”
“I know.” She touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw. “I know you do.”
She loved him, too. The words pressed against her lips—three of them, simple and terrifying—but her throat would not release them.
She was too overwhelmed, too aware of what was about to happen, too consumed by anticipation and nervousness and a hunger she had not known she possessed.
She would tell him later, when she truly became his wife.
Her heart was unsteady, and her limbs even more so as she rose from the settee. “I should go prepare. For bed?”
The look he gave her was odd as he lowered his eyes. His hand lingered on her arm, a slight tremor, but his jaw tightened.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Go. And Elizabeth, I want you. I always have. Even if—”
He did not finish the sentence. Elizabeth waited, one hand on the door frame. “What is it, Fitzwilliam?”
But whatever shadow crossed his features did not find its voice; it seemed to haunt him, and so she nodded, pausing at the connecting door.
“I will leave it unlocked, and I will be waiting.”