Page 28 of Expectations (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #7)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EMOTIONS COMPOUNDED OF PLEASURE AND PAIN

D arcy was in a kind of purgatory.

It was a hellishness of his own making, true. Perhaps it was unfair to name it that, however, when a keen edge of pleasure shaded his every interaction with Elizabeth.

My wife, my wife.

He had thought he understood how it would be. He was a man who kept the strictest control over his appetites and passions. He had been celibate for years now, unable to bear the thought of pretence in his bed, of all places, while chasing after her in his dreams.

He had believed he was accustomed to the ache, to the wanting.

All this time, however, it had been tempered, at least during his waking hours, with the fire of his resentment.

Sometimes weeks would pass without consciously thinking of her, when his various business and farming interests invaded every waking hour.

He had lived his life perpetually not permitting himself to dwell upon her, to obsess, and with the exception of his interactions with Mrs Collins, had been nearly successful… for the most part.

Unbeknownst to him, however, that resentment had grown paper-thin over the years since it formed, and like tissue in a hot flame—once he had been reunited with her in Hertfordshire—it had dissipated until not even ashes remained.

The wanting now was thick and viscous; he could hardly think of anything else. He lived for the breakfast and dinner hours, when he could reasonably visit with her, learn of her thoughts and feelings. He expected nothing, yet his hopes vacillated wildly between optimism and despair.

Within a few hours of their confrontation of the morning, he had regretted his unwillingness to speak of the Gardiners any further.

What did he care if the man had humiliated him once, long ago, in defence of his niece?

He had survived it. That niece was his wife now; he could never be thus used again, and if necessary, he could ensure Gardiner learnt it.

He did not even much care that she had gone to visit them—a family whose name he had hardly been able to tolerate, even in his mind, for years.

After she returned home from her visit, it had been all he could do not to pester her to forgive him for his graceless refusal to accompany her—even though he could not imagine walking into the Gardiner home.

It was as though the last blackened shards of his resentment had been brought abruptly into the sunlight and had been unable to withstand the illumination.

Suddenly, he found he only wanted to hear that her visit had made her happy.

As dinner was served, he carefully studied her; she did not seem happy; she seemed…subdued. After several silent moments, while she only moved food about upon her plate instead of consuming it, it was easier than he had ever expected to ask, with real concern, about her day.

“Your visit went well?”

She glanced up at him sharply. Then her gaze shifted to the footman standing nearby. “Yes,” she said. Her meaning was clear—she did not wish to speak of it in front of an audience.

What could possibly have happened during her call that could not be discussed at dinner? Had her uncle said something to make her feel uncomfortable?

With uneasy consideration, Darcy began to wonder: Had Gardiner revealed what he had kept hidden from her all these years—his blackmail of the man she now called husband?

It had never occurred to him that after all this time, the man would speak of it.

She no longer appeared hurt at Darcy’s refusal to accompany her.

Neither did she did appear angry—indeed, there was no reason she ought to be.

The gift of three thousand pounds, for an obligation not his own, was hardly cause for outrage.

But all his pretence of marrying her for the children’s sake had been shown up for the lie it was, if she knew.

It seemed to him that only a man in love would do such a thing; he could think of no other good reason. If the situation between them had been awkward before, it was a thousand times more so now.

Each evening, at the children’s bedtime, Elizabeth read to them. The first night, she had been surprised when Mr Darcy joined her there, only listening. Quickly, however, Cassandra had insisted that he read too, and ever since, they had done so—both taking a turn, page by page.

Elizabeth stole a surreptitious glance at her husband as he read, in his deep, rich voice, “The poor girl endured everything patiently, not daring to complain to her father. The latter would have scolded her, because he was ruled entirely by his wife.”

“Are you ruled by your wife, Papa?” Cassandra asked.

“Every good man is, darling girl,” he replied, without missing a beat, continuing to read without pause.

“I will never let my wife rule me ,” Tommy declared with a touch of defiance, once the book was finished. Unlike his sister, Tommy remained uncertain towards Mr Darcy, and Elizabeth glanced over to see how her husband responded to this slight insolence.

Mr Darcy only smiled. “It all depends upon the wife, I suppose. If you do as I did and marry well, you will never regret doing all in your power to promote her happiness.” He looked at Elizabeth with a peculiar intensity, and she found herself powerless to resist his gaze, her heart beating harder.

Once the children were abed, they walked downstairs together; the previous few evenings, he had bid her goodnight at the second-floor landing.

Tonight, Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something to delay him, but he turned away so quickly with a murmured goodnight, it was almost rude.

Before she could think of how to voice any of the thoughts that were stumbling through her mind, to stop him, he had disappeared behind his study door.

The odds were slim that he would join her in the drawing room later, she judged, but she went there anyway, had her tea, worked her embroidery, and tried to decide what to do. Since her return to Curzon Street a few hours before, she had thought of little except her aunt’s words.

She had entered into this marriage unrealistically, that much was now obvious; the idea that she could dip her toes into the waters of matrimony and decide, as she went, just how much to participate was, upon reflection, ridiculous.

There were, clearly, conversations she ought to have had before taking those vows, and her own missish apprehensions had prevented her.

I was stupid.

But what was done, was irrevocably done. She could either sit here waffling like a great coward, else face it head-on. He had claimed to only wish her happiness; did she believe him?

The maid, Susan, who helped Elizabeth dress and undress, was—like every other servant in Mr Darcy’s employ—polite and respectful.

For the first time since she had arrived in Darcy’s house, however, Elizabeth wondered what the girl thought of this odd marriage, of a husband who only spoke to his wife at mealtimes or in the presence of the children, who kept to his chambers as she kept to hers.

Was the strangeness of their circumstance discussed by them all?

Neither Mrs Miles nor Henderson, the butler, would permit gossip, she was sure.

Still, they would all know . Servants always did, no matter how dutiful and discreet.

After dismissing Susan, Elizabeth paced, prayed, and practised what she would say to her husband.

It was long into the night before she heard the low murmur of voices from the adjoining room that told her he had finally begun readying for bed.

When there had been no sound from his chamber for several minutes, she drew near the connecting door.

Her sitting room connected directly with his bedchamber; it felt impossibly bold that she knock, making the first approach. However, what other way was there? Nothing else had occurred to her in all the long, silent evening.

The sound of her knock was loud in the quiet room; she cursed the blush already tinting her cheeks. It seemed forever before the door swung wide.

Mr Darcy filled the doorway with his outsized presence, clad in a dark blue silk brocade banyan; a linen shirt showed beneath, open in a deep vee which revealed the crisp dark hair at his chest. She tore her eyes away from that view, only to stare at his bare feet.

“Yes?” he asked, sounding impatient.

Courage, Elizabeth .

“I would like to speak with you, if I may.”

“Now?”

He sounded disbelieving, incredulous, even.

She thought about defending herself, of accusing him of avoiding her at every other time except meals—but this was not the way she wished to begin this conversation.

“Yes,” she said, pleased when the words came out firmly.

Over her nightgown, she had donned a thick woollen shawl; on her feet she wore warm slippers.

Even with the fireplace stoked, his room was massive and cool with December’s midnight chill; she thought she had come prepared.

It was not until she sat beside him upon a small settee, his bed looming at her back, that she realised how much the armour of everyday clothing created barriers between them; it was a peculiarly vulnerable feeling to be without them now.