Chapter 18
AND THE TWO SHALL BE ONE
Darcy heard the first raindrops hitting the window, because sleep was not coming easily.
It was Elizabeth’s fault, for being lovely and desirable…
and not merely that—how many women could converse so easily on so many topics?
She had asked him about Pemberley’s farms, and when he had caught himself rambling on, had apologised.
Brushing his apologies aside, she had asked him yet another question on the subject, serious about learning so much more about her new home than merely the size and number of rooms.
Rising to add coal to the fire, for the night was chill, he heard the thunder and swore.
If the storm grew too wild, it would make a muck of the roads, causing delay and even danger in travelling.
He would not have her uncomfortable, not for a minute.
Why had he not remained in London? Why had he been so determined to hurry her away?
But he knew; before she had to face the vanguard of forceful temperaments that composed his family, he wanted her more comfortable.
He wanted, at least, for her to like him.
Georgiana would be kind, of course, but Lady Matlock would immediately identify anything which in her mind smacked of country manners—including Elizabeth’s liveliness, her energy, her teasing, and probably everything else he loved about her—and attempt to shame it out of her.
His uncle would interrogate her relentlessly upon her family lines going back approximately to Adam, and openly criticise those he found beneath himself.
The viscount would follow his parents’ lead.
He did not want to even think of the fits Lady Catherine would throw, never mind the numerous cousins on both sides of the family tree.
Only Fitzwilliam and Thomasina could he count on to be encouraging; unfortunately, their support counted for little with the rest of the family.
He could and would deal with them all, but he did not want Elizabeth to have to. Not, at least, until he could show her Pemberley, show her that the effort it would take to care for him would someday be worthwhile.
The tapping at the door startled him. It would have to be an inn servant, but it must be important to disturb his rest at this hour—an express from Pemberley? He opened the door abruptly, only to see his wife, hugging herself in the shadowy corridor.
“Elizabeth!” He was so surprised he stood there stupidly for a moment, staring at her.
“May I come in?” she asked.
“Oh—yes, yes, of course.” He drew her into the room, realising as he did so that he only wore his nightshirt. He glanced around the gloom, hoping to find his dressing gown or that it was too dark for her to notice.
“I could not sleep,” she said softly, wandering closer to the fireplace. “I tried to knock quietly enough that you might not waken, if you could.”
“I was not sleeping either,” he said, following her. For a few moments he was unsure—but then he nearly cursed himself for being a fool.
She came to me, he realised with wonder. Her decision, her choice.
He stood behind her in the soft firelight, and unhurriedly, so that she could pull away if she wished, he wrapped his arms around her.
They stood there long minutes, he hardly daring to move—it was so sweet, sweeter than any other experience with any other woman.
Nothing existed before her, and nothing would ever exist after her. She was his one. His only.
When she turned in his arms, he thought she was pulling away, and started to drop them—but instead, she put her arms around him, holding him right back.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, “how I have longed to feel you in my arms like this.” The sensation of her, so soft, so warm, so pleasing, was like tinder to a flame. He could not hold her thus endlessly, without wishing for more. She tilted her head up, and slowly he bent to kiss her.
Their first kiss was everything he wanted—not because it was a polished and provocative performance, no; but because her nose bumped his as she inexpertly pulled him closer, and because she laughed against his mouth, at herself and him, and returned to his lips again and again—because she was kissing him.
They did nothing more than kiss for long minutes, his hands in her hair, ruining the neat braid. And when he tugged her towards the bed, he detected no hesitation.
“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice husky.
“I want you,” she replied, her hands at his chest. “I trust you. I wish to know you, in all the ways a woman knows her husband. I realise that will take years, but I want the knowing to begin. Tonight.”
“Oh my love,” he said, nearly overcome. “My brave and beautiful love.”
It was not the setting he would have chosen—an inn room, no matter how nice the inn, was not even close to the well-appointed chamber he had instructed to be readied for her at Pemberley.
Yet, in a way, it was perfect. She knew nothing of the grandeur of her future home; it was neither incentive nor imposition.
It was merely he and she, man and woman, husband and wife.
He owed her, not his best home, but his best self, his greatest care, his gentlest touch, his lightest caress.
He had promised her time, had he not? And this time was the most precious of all he had to offer.
She was his passion, his purpose, the wife of his heart.
And in the morning, when they wakened to the sound of rain pattering against the window, he turned to face her. “It is probably much too inclement for travel today.”
She touched his bare shoulder, tracing the muscle there, smiling and causing a shiver that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. “Whatever shall we do instead?”
Let me never forget, he thought urgently. In all the days and weeks and years to come, let me never forget this gift.