CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT #2
She leaned forward, treading now onto more sacred, more painful ground.
“And Georgiana. She told me her healing faltered, became a mere trickle, after she left Pemberley. She believed it was her own shame that blocked the flow, a punishment for her choices. But what if it was not just her shame? What if it was you? A bond of blood, of a shared magical heritage, is a powerful thing. Is it not possible that in your pain, you were unconsciously clamping down upon her magic? Suppressing it from afar without ever realising it, because the thought of her with Captain Wickham was a wound you could not bear? Think of when her gift began to mend, William. Think of what had just changed between you.”
He recoiled, an involuntary movement. The thought clearly unsettled him.
“The ritual between us was a means to force a connection where none existed. The bonds you share with them were forged in childhood; they are a matter of blood and of history.” She paused, her gaze softening.
“And you do not fully comprehend the nature of your own power. It is a force of will that commands the atmosphere of a room. Is it so very difficult to believe that such a power could shape the magic of those closest to you in ways even the scholars have not yet fathomed?”
Darcy looked past her for a moment, his thoughts clearly turning inward, re-examining years of memory. Eventually he rose and paced the small room.
When he finally turned back to face her, his expression still bore the harsh lines of scepticism. “I confess it is difficult to believe. What you propose stands in direct opposition to centuries of established arcane doctrine.”
Elizabeth drew a breath, though what she might say next, she hardly knew. She had exhausted every rational appeal. Her only remaining argument was a deep, insistent feeling, and she was acutely aware that such a sentiment would carry little weight with Darcy.
Yet before she could speak, Darcy continued, “And yet it is also bold. Unconventional. And perhaps just certifiably ludicrous enough to actually work.”
He walked back towards her then, stopping just before her, kneeling so they were eye-to-eye. His nearness, his warmth, his unique and heady scent once more filled her senses, making her pulse quicken and her breath catch in her throat.
“I do not trust Wickham. But I trust you, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice rough, husky with an emotion that made her tremble.
“I trust your instincts. I trust your heart. If your intuition tells you this is a path we must attempt, then I shall set aside all my own reservations and let your conviction be my guide.”
He paused, and an affectionate light filled his eyes as he added, “Even when it leads us down paths that are perilous and almost certainly destined to incur the full wrath of the Arcane Office.”
Elizabeth was deeply affected by the quiet nature of his trust. A laugh, light and full of unreserved joy, escaped her, filling the room with a warmth that rivalled the fire.
“To think I have made an imprudent man of you, Mr Darcy. You place a great deal of faith in a heart that has been so wrong about you in the past,” she teased gently.
Darcy’s smile broadened into that beautiful, full smile that still had the power to steal her breath away. “If this is imprudence,” he said, pressing his lips to the delicate skin of her hand, “then I do not wish to live any other way.”
“I believe the Mr Darcy I met in Meryton would be utterly appalled at your present course.”
He gave a low chuckle. “He was a man I scarcely recognise,” he said, “and have no desire to meet again.”
“You are too severe on him,” she said, with an answering smile, “He was a constant source of vexation, yet in essentials, he was very much the man I see before me now.”
The fondness in her own voice lingered in the air between them. To look at him in that moment was to feel her heart turn over in her chest, then surge with a glowing adoration. Darcy went still, his smile fading into a look of quiet fervour.
He rose, and with a gentle hand to hers, drew her to her feet before him. She came willingly, and he gently brushed a stray curl from her temple, his fingers lingering for a moment against her skin.
Beneath his touch, the air between them began to pulse, the thrum of their bond intensifying into a living heat.
The atmosphere grew thick and warm under the burn of Darcy’s gaze, his breath quickening as his hand slid down the curve of her body.
It was not the uncertain, questioning touch of their first kisses.
It was a touch of reverence, and it sent a rush of delicious and wonderfully unexpected shivers through her, from the crown of her head to the very tips of her toes.
The world faded to nothing but the closing distance between them. In the dim light of the fading fire, he looked at her, his eyes shining with an emotion so raw, so vulnerable, so full of unwavering love, that it threatened to undo her completely.
“You are beautiful, Elizabeth.”
“I love you,” she breathed. The words were a truth that had been building within her until it could no longer be contained.
A tremor ran through his frame, as if a great weight had finally been lifted from his soul. “You love me?” he asked, hoarsely.
“I love you,” Elizabeth repeated, more steadily now with the certainty of it. “I love you with all my heart, William.”
A wondering sound escaped him, before he kissed her with a possessive tenderness that left her breathless. When the kiss ended, he did not pull away, but brushed a thumb across her tingling lips, his own words emerging as a heartfelt whisper. “I love you. Now, and for all my days.”
“Then…” she said, the word trembling with an emotion that was equal parts anticipation and longing. “I wish to be your wife in truth. Tonight.”
Every unspoken hope, every carefully controlled desire she had ever glimpsed in him, seemed to ignite in his eyes at once.
A faint shimmer distorted the air between them, the atmosphere charged by the sudden surge of his magic.
His gaze intensified as the hand that had been resting gently on her waist tightened, his fingers moulding to the arch of her body.
“Elizabeth,” he managed, “Do you…do you apprehend…forgive me.” He cleared his throat, “That is to say…”
A wicked glint entered her eye. He was still the gentleman. “I do,” she said, the word catching on a breathless laugh, “Do you?”
“How I love you,” he groaned. His next kiss was deep and searing, and the scent of him, a clean, masculine fragrance of warm skin, was wholly intoxicating. Lost to the rush of new sensations, she had no time to recover before he swept her into his arms and carried her towards the bed.
As Darcy lowered her to the edge of the bed, his eyes searched hers, seeking one last confirmation, seeking one last reassurance, seeking something he perhaps dared not even name, dared not even hope for.
“Yes, William,” she said, her gaze holding his, an invitation, a plea, a terrifying, exhilarating leap of faith.
His eyes never left hers as his hands went to the buttons of his waistcoat. In one fluid movement, he slipped the garment from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor, a final, discarded piece of a gentleman’s formality.
His fingers, she noted with a thrill of her own, were not entirely steady as they now went to the buttons of his shirt. He worked the shirt free, the linen whispering as he pulled it over his head, revealing the hard, lean lines of his body.
Her throat tightened, and a pulse she did not recognise began to beat an insistent rhythm deep within her. Her own clothing suddenly felt impossibly restrictive.
Darcy’s gaze dropped to the modest neckline of her dress, his eyes asking the question before his lips formed the words.
“May I?” he asked, a low tremor in his voice.
In answer, Elizabeth reached out, her hand finding his, and guided his fingers to the top button of her dress.
That was all the encouragement he needed.
His touch was sure now as he undid the fastenings, his knuckles grazing against her skin with each movement.
As the fabric fell away, his fingertips ghosted over her back, a touch as light as a whisper, yet it sent fire through her veins.
In his touch, she felt his strength and his tenderness, his measured control and his unrestrained passion, and she found herself desiring more.
It was a sensation both daunting and wonderful, this first unveiling, this intense vulnerability.
Yet she did not feel bashful. This was William. Her husband.
She felt daring.
With every brush of his fingers, an arc of living energy seemed to leap from his skin to hers. She shivered.
Darcy answered her shiver with a kiss. His mouth found the sensitive skin of her neck, and a gasp escaped her, not just from the sensation, but from the jolt she felt through their bond, a surge so intense she felt the sharp bite of winter air and the burn of the sun all at once.
Her senses reeled; her skin came alive, every nerve ending awake and tingling.
With an urgency that surprised them both, her hands found the back of his head, her fingers tangling into his thick hair as she tilted his head to hers, seeking his lips.
She had no experience to guide her, no knowledge save for the half-understood whispers of married women or the observations gleaned from living at a country estate, yet every instinct in her body told her this was right.
His magic flared through their bond, an unleashed pulse that matched the sudden, feverish claiming of his mouth on hers. His arms tightened around her, and he let out a low moan as he pulled her closer, eliciting an answering murmur of pleasure from her.
“Oh, William.”
She felt him first stiffen, and then unravel, the meticulous control he held so tightly coming undone.
The kiss became deeper, rougher. Elizabeth met his fervour with a bold exploration of her own, arching into him as her hands drifted down from his shoulders, down the lines of his body, before coming to rest on the taut muscle of his thigh.
A shudder wracked him. He broke the kiss abruptly, resting his brow against her collarbone, his breathing quick and shallow. “Elizabeth. A moment. I fear I might…”
“Am I meant to be alarmed?” she teased, as her hands came back to trace the taut plane of his chest. She delighted in the small, involuntary tremble that ran through him beneath her palm.
“Temptress,” he said, his voice strained.
As Elizabeth took in the sight of him, so handsome, so beautifully unguarded, the unfamiliar pulse inside her deepened into an slow, sweet ache.
“Look at me,” she whispered.
Drawing a single, deep breath, Darcy obliged.
As his head rose and he met her gaze, she saw his eyes darken with desire and intent.
He leaned toward her ever so slightly, his breath warm as it skimmed across her cheek.
Her body seemed to recognise and answer his silent request, for she yielded, a slow, inevitable descent, her shoulders sinking back into the pillows as he moved down with her.
All awareness of the world fled, her senses consumed by the the sheer masculine magnetism of him, poised with such effortless control above her. His dark gaze held her fast in the sudden hush, as all other sound faded away. The world stilled.
And in her next heartbeat, she looked into the depths of his eyes and saw it all. Everything they had overcome and everything they now were.
A perfect spark ignited.
Their shared connection blazed to life, a gentle fire that filled the room with a golden canopy of light.
This was a power made not to scorch or consume, but to envelop them in its living warmth.
Elizabeth felt him not just with her body, but with her very being, a connection so complete it was as if she could feel the beat of his heart as her own.
She felt the frantic edge of his need gentle, eased by the magic now flowing between them. Darcy stilled above her, his expression one of almost disbelieving wonder as he looked not at her, but at the light their magic had created. “Is this...is this our doing?”
“I believe it is,” she said, equally awed, “It is dazzling.”
Darcy’s gaze returned to hers. The sound he made was an unsteady breath, caught somewhere between a hitch and a laugh. “Dazzling, certainly. And perhaps a little hazardous.”
Her hands came up to weave through the hair at his nape, her fingers gently urging him closer. “Then you must attend to me with diligence, sir, and ensure that I do not set the curtains ablaze.”
“A charge I shall undertake with the utmost devotion.” The amusement in his voice gave way to a deeper, richer timbre.
“My brightest flame,” he whispered, his lips finding hers.
“My dearest.” His mouth trailed a path to the dip of her collarbone.
“Loveliest.” The word was a hot breath. And then lower still, a sealing kiss before he whispered her name against her skin. “Elizabeth.”
And as he came to her, every touch, every kiss, was a rewriting of their history.
The icy disdain of Meryton was melted by the heat of his skin against hers.
The bitter arguments in the lesser library were silenced by their breathless murmurs.
The forced, cold contract of their marriage was consumed and reforged in the fire of their shared passion, their intertwined magic, their finally, perfectly, united hearts.