Page 49

The breakfast, with its increased numbers and joyous air, lasted for well over an hour. Only after much cheer and many congratulations, farewells, expressions of good luck, and promises of forthcoming visits, did Darcy eventually find himself alone with his new wife.

“I am so proud of you,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “But a few months ago, I could never have conceived of such a gathering—my uncle, sitting at table with yours and conducting himself with humility and good grace.”

“I thought he was lovely.”

“That is because you are lovely. He is as proud and conceited as I ever was. My whole family are, yet you have won them over to a piece.” He kissed her, chastely, in thanks.

“Did you not win my mother over for me?” she replied. “And keep Jane from humiliating herself over Mr Bingley? Oh, and save my whole family from ruin?” She kissed him, much less chastely. “It is you who is in every way lovely. I am so very proud to be your wife.”

What happened next was not at all what Darcy had intended.

His plan had been to treat her like a queen; to see her settled into Berkeley Square and shown all the affection and tenderness she required to begin to feel at home.

But his restraint was not proof against her allurements, and as sure as the devil could not withstand her will, so it was that he treated her like the glorious siren she was.

In this, as in all things, she was passionate and fearless, no more intimidated by her own innocence than by any other obstacle he had seen her face—though he was oh so reverent in his attentions.

They were, in his admittedly somewhat partial opinion, sublime together.

It was simply not possible that he should ever love her more than when he lay, afterwards, with her head resting on his chest and her lithe legs entwined around his, as he toyed with her unbound hair.

The late afternoon sun coming through the window danced over her bared skin, accentuating her every curve and turning every shadowed contour into the promise of paradise.

Elizabeth ran roughshod over his complacency when she started quietly giggling and asked, “Is that what you walked in on my mother doing?”

“Good Lord, Elizabeth! Why would you make me think of that at such a time?”

She only laughed harder. “I am sorry.”

“You do not sound very sorry.”

“I am, truly—” It did not stop her laughing. “But your going to talk to her is even more remarkable now! What mortification you have borne for my sake!”

He resorted to tickling to make her cease; tickling led to other impositions, and before long, the unpleasant memory had been banished and some exceedingly fine new ones made.

“Let us not go to the ball,” he murmured a while later, only half joking. “Let us stay here.”

“If you knew how much trouble I have taken to secure a gown without society discovering my purpose, you would not ask that of me.”

He chuckled. “Very well. We shall go to the ball and teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity really is.”

“Just how multitudinous should I expect this multitude to be?”

“There were close to four hundred in attendance last year.”

“Four hundred?” she cried, propping herself on one elbow to look down at him incredulously. “That is not a ball, that is a small town!”

“You are not nervous?”

She shook her head. “I am too happy to be nervous of anything.”

There were closer to five hundred, in fact, or so his friend Tomlinson energetically informed him later that evening.

To Darcy, however, the Duchess of Gracemont’s palatial house might as well have been empty but for one person; he had eyes only for Elizabeth.

He was exceedingly glad she had gone to such lengths to secure her gown, for she looked extraordinarily well in it.

Certainly nobody could think anything wanting when he led her to the head of the line to open the first set, as Her Grace had invited them to do.

The whole room quieted and stared. It would have been enough to make his skin crawl at any other time, but nothing could dent Darcy’s happiness that evening.

He paid not one iota of notice to any of them and fixed his eyes on Elizabeth.

She gave him a small expressive smile and called a waltz.

The corner of his mouth lifted in appreciation. Let them speculate on that!

Elizabeth danced every dance from that moment on. He danced more than he was wont to do, but by no means every one; he preferred to wait for Elizabeth, marvelling at how effortlessly she amazed her every partner, and resonating with pride to see her radiant, smiling, and his.

Perhaps because nobody was expecting it, and because Elizabeth’s gloves concealed her wedding ring, the matter of their marriage did not arise.

The duchess remarked only that she was pleased they had honoured her invitation and that they made a handsome couple before abandoning them to her other guests.

They were once or twice asked whether they would admit at last to being engaged, to which they answered, honestly, that they were not—though Elizabeth did not scruple to confess that she was in love with him to anyone who asked, and since one of those who asked was Lord Stewart, that news got around rather quickly.

Only Lord and Lady Rothersea, who had more reason to suspect than anyone else, guessed their news.

They were profuse in their congratulations and delighted to accept an invitation to Pemberley that summer.

Other than them, the multitude remained benighted—and Darcy remained entirely indifferent to the lot of them.

These people who had governed his moral compass—ineptly—for the past eight-and-twenty years no longer represented what was important to him.

At one o’clock in the morning, he decided he and Elizabeth had entertained the ton for long enough, and he took his beloved wife home.

“Is something the matter?” Elizabeth asked.

Darcy lowered his newspaper to meet her gaze but then paused, unsure what to tell her.

He had woken up an hour ago to the blissful repetition of finding Elizabeth asleep in his arms. He had thought it a perfect way to round off what had so far been a perfect beginning to his marriage.

The newspaper that had been brought up with their breakfast tray had revealed a fly in the ointment, for in it was the revelation that they had not entertained the ton quite as well as he had assumed.

“You might as well tell me,” she said. “If it is printed in the newspaper, I shall find out what it says eventually.”

“As you wish.” He read aloud. “Our Darlings of the Season have overplayed their hand. Mr Darcy and Miss Bennet have dangled us on their hook all winter, feeding us scraps of intrigue and leaving us to scramble about in search of proof of their attachment. We have duly marched to their tune, delighted by such an unconventional alliance, hope springing eternal that the engagement would be confirmed. Their conduct last night has taught us all a valuable lesson in credulity.”

He paused to glance at Elizabeth, whose expression was half frowning and half laughing. He kept a sombre expression and raised an eyebrow to forewarn her that it did not improve with further reading.

“They came with the evident design of convincing us all that they were, indeed, a couple—even declaring themselves in love. But they have erred if they think we, the Bon Ton , are such fools. We are well aware that that is not what love looks like. It was overblown and false; a coarse attempt to mock us. So extravagant was the charade, nobody can be surprised that they could not even maintain it until the end of the night, sneaking out unpardonably early. A hollow performance all round. It was perhaps never more than a ruse concocted to keep the Master of Pemberley safe for another Season. Either way, the game is up, and we must reconcile ourselves to finding another diamond or two. This pair have well and truly lost their brilliancy.”

Darcy lowered the paper and regarded Elizabeth anxiously.

From his own early conceit to the mob at the Four Feathers, London society had treated her abominably, culminating in last night’s ball where her reward was to have her reputation yet again treated as so much fodder for his sphere’s insatiable appetite for gossip.

It was hardly an auspicious start to her life as one of the First Ladies of his set.

He grimaced, and was about to try and apologise, when she reminded him why he was so ridiculously in love with her by beginning to laugh.

It was nothing more than a soft chuckle at first, but it very quickly progressed into such gales of hilarity that it brought forth a snort, which made him laugh too.

“Dare we hope they will leave us alone now?” she asked merrily.

“You are not upset?”

“Are you?”

“Only in as much as it injures you.”

“I am not injured! It is the best laugh I have had in a long time—and you know how I love a laugh. It seems to me it is society who are feeling injured by our ‘overblown’ love affair.” Leaning forwards, she put her hand over his.

“Why do not we go home to Pemberley, and leave them to lick their wounds?”

Darcy’s heart leapt at the suggestion. He took hold of her hand and pulled, insistently, until she took his meaning and climbed into his lap. “Have I mentioned that I love you, Mrs Darcy?”

She nodded against his shoulder. “I am rather enamoured of you myself, Mr Darcy.”