Chapter 10
DARCY
I spent the day avoiding my wife.
My resolution required patience, discipline, and constant attention. It had not prepared me for hunger.
Every time I thought of the gallery, I heard her voice asking me to continue.
I saw her tempting mouth lifted toward mine, the confidence mixed with defiance in her eyes, the quick rise and fall of her chest beneath the fichu I had retied.
I had waited months for that kiss. Now that she had asked for it, I feared I would not know how to stop.
I locked myself in my study with the estate accounts.
The figures blurred.
I met with the steward, answered two letters, examined a repair proposal for a bridge, and discovered at the end of the meeting that I had retained only one word in three.
I took the estate register, turned to the back, and opened to the last page, which had remained blank for eight years.
I wrote down what I knew of her.
That she walked every morning in all weather and returned with mud up to her ankles without anyone daring to scold her for it.
That she took her tea too strong. That she read two books at once and left them open, face down on the furniture, which damaged the bindings—something I decided never to mention.
That she laughed more readily with Mrs. Reynolds than with the ladies of the neighborhood.
That she had asked three times where the estate school was.
I reread the page.
A reasonable man would have seen only the list of a stranger’s habits.
I saw a way to remember what mattered to her.
I closed the register just as the door opened.
At four o’clock, Georgiana entered without knocking.
“You have been here since luncheon.”
“I have work to do.”
She looked at the pile of untouched documents to my right.
“Mrs. Darcy is waiting for you in the library.”
My eyes lifted too quickly.
Georgiana smiled.
“She asked whether you intended to dine with us or whether Pemberley had developed a crisis requiring your confinement.”
“I was not confined.”
She turned the door handle.
“Naturally.”
I followed shortly after, irritated at having become so transparent to my sister.
Elizabeth stood near a library window, an open book in her hand. The fading sun lit her profile. She had changed her dress for dinner; the dark blue set off the whiteness of her skin and the warm brown of her hair.
She did not immediately close her book.
“Has your estate survived?” she asked.
“Barely.”
“Shall I congratulate you on your courage?”
“You could begin by looking at me.”
She closed the book.
“You spent the entire day not looking at me.”
“Because I knew what would happen if I did.”
Her expression grew more attentive.
“And what will happen?”
I approached until only the table separated us.
“You asked me to kiss you.”
“I had noticed.”
“Do you still wish me to?”
She set the book on the window ledge.
“Yes.”
The word cut through my restraint.
I walked around the table. She did not move when I stopped before her, but her fingers tightened slightly on her skirt.
“Are you afraid?”
“A little.”
“Of me?”
“Of not understanding what this will change.”
“Then we will stop before it changes too much.”
A nervous smile touched her lips.
“Is that possible?”
“I intend to try.”
“You refused detachment this morning.”
“I am not detached.”
I lifted my hand to her face. She leaned her cheek slightly against my palm, a movement so trusting it took my breath away.
I stroked her skin with my thumb.
“Elizabeth.”
“Fitzwilliam.”
I leaned down.
The first touch was softer than anything I had imagined.
Her lips were warm, motionless beneath mine. I brushed them once, then again, learning their shape with a patience that cost me dearly. She inhaled through her nose, her hands still clenched on her dress.
I pulled back a few inches.
“Breathe.”
She opened her eyes.
“I was breathing.”
“Barely.”
“So were you.”
“I have more experience.”
“That's an irritating thing to say.”
“It had the desired effect.”
Her indignation chased away some of her fear. I smiled, then claimed her mouth again.
This time, she responded.
The movement was hesitant but deliberate. She raised one hand and placed it on my shoulder. I felt her fingers through my coat as if they were touching bare skin.
I slipped my other arm around her waist.
She moved closer.
The gentleness vanished.
I pressed my lips more firmly against hers. When they parted, I tasted the spiced wine she'd drunk before dinner and something that was hers alone. A soft sound hummed in her throat.
All my restraint wavered.
I pressed her back against the bookcase—not roughly, but without leaving her room to ignore the effect she had on me. Her body molded to mine. She felt my desire; I knew it from the sudden stillness of her hands.
I broke the kiss.
“Forgive me.”
Her lips were red, her eyes dark.
“Why?”
“I didn't want to frighten you.”
Her gaze dropped between us. Color flooded her face.
“Is it… is it always like this?”
“With you, yes.”
She looked up, surprised by my frankness.
“Since when?”
“Netherfield.”
“That's impossible!”
“Do you think I spent so many evenings watching you because your conversations with Mr Collins interested me?”
She laughed, then fell silent when I let my thumb trace her lower lip.
“I desired you before I esteemed you,” I continued. “I esteemed you before I admitted I loved you. None of it made me particularly reasonable.”
“And now?”
“Now you are my wife, and I sleep behind a closed door.”
Her breath quickened.
I withdrew my hand before I could yield.
“We should rejoin Georgiana.”
“She knows we're here.”
“Precisely.”
“Fitzwilliam.”
Her voice held me back.
“Yes?”
“Kiss me again.”
I didn't ask her to repeat it.
This time, her hands slid into my hair the moment my mouth found hers. I buried one hand in her hair, unintentionally loosening a pin. The freed curl slipped against my fingers.
I kissed her until I lost all sense of time, until her lips followed mine without hesitation, until her body strained against me with an instinct no instruction had taught her.
My hand slid from her waist to her hip.
She shivered. I slowed, ready to pull away.
But her fingers closed on my lapel and drew me back to her.
I gently squeezed her hip, feeling beneath the layers of fabric a curve I had dreamed of discovering. My name escaped her lips against my mouth.
I had to pull away.
“Why do you always stop when it gets interesting?” she asked, breathless.
“Because you don't yet know where this path leads.”
“And you?”
“I know it too well.”
She lowered her eyes to my chest. Her fingers played with my lapel.
“I could learn.”
“Yes.”
The word came out rougher than I'd intended.
“But not in a library where my sister might walk in.”
Elizabeth glanced toward the door.
“You're right.”
“That's a phrase I'd like to hear more often.”
“Don't get used to it.”
She touched up her hair with her fingertips. A pin fell onto the carpet. I picked it up and offered it to her.
“Keep it,” she ordered.
“Why?”
“To remind you that your experiment wasn’t entirely under control.”
I closed my hand around the small pin.
I treasured it.