“Elizabeth and I will remain for part of the season,” William said. They had not spoken of these plans, and Elizabeth felt her indignation begin to flare. Then he added, quite naturally, “I wish to show Elizabeth off, and I know she would enjoy visiting the museums and attending the theater. But when she decides she is ready to leave, we will certainly arrange a visit.” He placed a large hand on the small of her back.
She wished to reprimand her husband for making such a decision without even consulting her, but my goodness, he was so very thoughtful that to rebuke him would make her feel churlish. He was correct—she would indeed enjoy visiting the museums, and she loved the theater. Perhaps he might even escort her to a concert or the Opera House. She had never attended an opera. Once this mess with Mr. Howard was resolved, they would have a wonderful time. She squared her shoulders, ignoring the apprehensive glance her husband sent her in response.
All she did, in the end, was take her father’s hand. “We shall certainly make a visit, Papa. Mama would be disappointed if she were unable to pose us in the drawing room and invite all the neighbors to visit.”
William coughed, a sure sign, Elizabeth thought, that he was masking some discomfort at the notion. That would be punishment enough.
In no time at all, she had farewelled her father and Jane, and was happily ensconced in the carriage with William.
He reached across her to pull down the shades, then draped one arm around her shoulders. “You are an impertinent minx,” he told her.
She tipped her head to one side. “You do not appear to be distressed by it,” she responded.
He kissed her. No warning, no slow approach, just his lips on hers. “Oh,” she whispered when they broke apart. “What did I do to deserve that?”
William’s expression crumbled. “My apologies, Elizabeth,” he said, stuttering slightly. “I should not have . . .”
“Do not you dare apologize,” Elizabeth said laughingly. “I quite enjoyed it. You startled me, is all.”
She was relieved to see the tension in his face disappear. He cradled her hand in his own large, gentle one.
“I kissed you because”—he stopped to place his lips against her thumb, and the sensation made her shiver—"you made excuses to your aunt.”
He pressed her index finger to his lips, and she drew in a quick, shallow breath. “You made excuses,” he continued, “because you wished to be alone with me.”
“Yes,” she concurred in a shaky voice. “I did. I do.”
“Then our wishes are in accordance,” he said, placing a kiss on her middle finger.
“Mmm,” was all Elizabeth could muster. How could something so simple addle her so completely?
He caressed her ring finger, and Elizabeth wondered if her complexion would ever recover. She placed her free hand against her burning cheek. “I am merely pleased,” he whispered, placing a final kiss on her little finger, then lifting the palm of her hand to his lips, “that you feel the same.”
An image of her husband when he removed his banyan flooded her mind and sent her heart racing. It took some time for Elizabeth to recover enough to answer him. “You must not do that again until we are in our rooms, William,” she warned him as she attempted to regulate her breathing. “It has made me feel . . .” Her eyes drifted closed as he brought his mouth to her wrist.
“Yes?” he asked, sounding just as breathless.
“I do not know how to describe it.” She could not, even when her mind was working correctly.
William dropped a final, feathery kiss on her temple. “It is desire, dearest. And love.”
“Love,” she said with a sigh, taking his arm and leaning against him. “And we almost never knew.”
After a hurried entrance and a playfully indecorous dash upstairs, the newly married Darcys did not emerge from their chambers until dinner, when, truly fearing the displeasure of Cook, they removed to their private sitting room. Mrs. Spencer sent word the next morning that the full staff would return soon. She would have them prepare the formal dining room unless Mrs. Darcy did not wish it. It was a sad reminder that within the week their relative privacy would come to an end.
After dinner on Sunday, Darcy gathered their empty dishes and placed them on a tray. Elizabeth was reclining on the chaise, feet tucked beneath her, winding a lock of hair around one finger and staring into the fire. In her other hand was a copy of Twelfth Night.
He took the tray into their sitting room and left it for Slipworth, who was still acting as their maid, before returning and sitting beside his wife, pulling her legs over his lap and caressing her feet. He adored saying it. His wife.
“Where are your slippers?” he asked. The woman was forever leaving her feet bare.
Elizabeth smiled at him. “Next to the bed.”
He stood to collect them.
As he returned to slip them on her feet, she asked quietly, “Will it always be like this?”
“I am not certain what you mean,” he replied.