Page 35 of Expectations (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #7)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
AND THE TWO SHALL BECOME ONE
“ L oving me?” Her voice came out in a squeak. “ Love? What can you mean by it?”
He would not look at her. “It means that I was on the verge of proposing marriage to you shortly after your sister’s wedding. I loved you seven years ago, and I love you now. I never stopped, not for a minute. There has been no other; if I could not have you, I would have no one.”
Darcy had not meant to say it, to confess it, to lay his feelings at her feet. But she was wrapped within his arms, her little touches light as moth wings and driving him half-mad, and suddenly he could not care less about Bingley’s sins.
“I have loved you for so long, it feels a part of me—like the colour of my hair, the texture of my skin.”
Her eyes, those tantalising, remarkable eyes, showed her bewilderment. “But…in the beginning, you hated me, I know you did.”
He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Oh my dear, you called yourself na?ve. You cannot tell, I suppose, when a man’s attention is fixed, when he cannot look away, even if he resents the obsession.”
“Our first meeting ended in insult.”
“Did it? Somehow I am not surprised—I was such a fool.”
“You said I was ‘tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt you’. It was at an assembly, when Bingley tried to talk you into dancing with me.”
He could only shake his head at his past self.
“I have paid dearly for that stupidity, I think. Naturally, you would want nothing to do with such a man. I cannot remember saying it, but obviously I must have done so.” Trying to recall the incident, he remembered attending an assembly once, perhaps the first one upon their arrival at Netherfield, while in a foul mood.
He had been trying for a week to help Bingley set up meetings, become familiar with the accounts, hire a steward—while Bingley repaid his careful attention with the least possible involvement.
He always felt that Darcy ought to do less work and accompany him in more play—that assembly being a case in point.
If he had rejected Elizabeth, it had only been a stab at Bingley. Idiot.
“Shall I tell you what I remember? Your sister was ill, and you hurried to Netherfield—no carriage being available, you arrived on foot. Your hair was escaping its confines.” He paused, curling a soft tendril of it around his finger.
“Your cheeks were pink, your eyes bright with the exercise, and I suddenly knew how you would appear after a night in my bed.”
“What?” She sounded shocked, and he grinned.
“Such is the base mind of the man you married, my darling. I could think of little else but how I wanted you from that moment on. Every time I engaged you in conversation, every time you teased me, I only wanted you more. Why do you think I was willing, even searching, to adopt another man’s child?
I could not tolerate the idea of another woman filling the place my mind and heart had designed for you alone. ”
It was her turn to shake her head. “I have already admitted to believing Mr Wickham’s lies. I fear it was my own wounded pride which prevented me seeing anything except contempt. But then you left, and never came again.”
Sorrow filled him. Could he have prevented Bingley’s fate? Had he returned, discovered the truth, he certainly would have tried. “I have so much to apologise for, I fear it is impossible to attain your forgiveness.”
She lifted her hand, placed it upon his cheek. “Rather, we both made mistakes, and both lived down to our worst expectations. I do not require apologies; I only need a husband who is willing to speak of his feelings, especially if he is offended or upset with me.”
“It is the least of what you are owed—although at this moment, I cannot imagine ever feeling anything except gratitude for you in my life.”
Her dimple showed then, in her smile. “I am certain to find some means of provoking you. I simply find it difficult to believe you would retain any feeling at all for me, after all this time.”
It was so easy to return her smile. “In the beginning, yes, I tried to attain a different fate—but an essential part of me rebelled. There are those, most perhaps, who can love many. Not I. There is only one for me, and I would have gone to my grave alone, if not for you.”
Her eyes softened with such emotion that his breath caught. “That would be a terrible waste of such a good man.”
It was vital that she understand it the same way he did.
“I do not expect you to return these feelings; I would not weigh you down with obligations you did not ask for. I hope that you will be open to forgiving me for all the ways in which I have failed you. I hope that you will know my intentions are always to provide well for you, whether or not you can abide in this love.”
“I want to love you,” she whispered. “You might just be the man of my dreams, but I am afraid I will waken—any moment now.”
“You have been severely disappointed. You had high expectations of Bingley, and he failed you.”
“He failed my sister.”
“You love your sister; hence, he failed everyone. I am not he, however.”
“No,” she said. “You certainly are not.” She brought her mouth to his, initiating for the first time, a kiss that quickly spiralled out of control.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, “you had better tell me to go. I am starved for you, for your touch, to make you mine. I dare not press my powers of restraint much further.”
She looked him in the eye, his wife did, beautifully, boldly meeting his gaze. “I wish to be your wife, Fitzwilliam. In all ways.”
To hear his name upon her lips was almost as intimate as the kisses she bestowed so wonderfully; in a sweeping gesture, he lifted her, carrying her through the sitting room to the chamber beyond—his bedroom. The coverlet was already pulled back, as though beckoning him.
He did not want to hurry an experience he had waited so long for, yearned for so much; therefore, he slowed himself, making his movements deliberate, measured.
She had no experience, he had already known, and could easily tell—it made it doubly important that he not startle her, that she knew and understood where he would touch, and when.
He asked for her responses, truly wishing to know how she felt, what she liked, and when she began to be overwhelmed, he forced himself to pull back, to gentle, to draw out the senses and sensations, to see to her happiness, to ensure her pleasure in this joining.
In doing so, he only increased his own—something he would have thought impossible—to an exquisite degree.
And when she was his, and he was hers, and they were one, he wondered whether it was possible to die of bliss, of delight, of pure and unadulterated joy.
A single tear slipped down the soft, sweet cheek he adored; he kissed it, hoping it was not a sign of pain. “Are you well?” he asked.
“I am perfect,” she replied, smiling through her tears, and his happiness was complete. In the aftermath of shared passion, lying beside her, he had never known so much contentment in his entire life.
“I wish we could stay here forever,” he whispered, kissing her softly, carefully, enjoying the way the afternoon light played upon her skin.
“Is it always like this?” she asked, wonder in her voice, her hand upon his cheek. “Is it always so…so…momentous?”
“Perhaps not every time,” he said, smiling down upon her.
“I believe if it was always this way, palaces would topple, and the Thames would overflow its banks, and trees would be uprooted, and the earth would shake—and all of England would soon be very angry at us, and Parliament would enact a law to prevent us from ever doing it again.”
She giggled, a delightful sound. “But we would defy them, would we not?”
And he bent to show her, again, just how little he cared for king and country, in comparison to any and every moment with her.