Page 41 of Expectations (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #7)

But Darcy only smiled. “Nonsense. She loves you for who you are, and will be beside herself with joy—not only at the pending event, but at the notion of you living nearby. I cannot believe you thought otherwise.”

It was what Lydia had hoped, and what Andrew had reassured—nevertheless, she was glad she had asked.

Her brother was too honest to lie to her outright; she would have known.

She swallowed down an unexpected lump. This was one of the problems with having a babe in the belly…

her emotions had been unruly of late. She took a deep breath, to clear them.

“I rather imagine you will have to apply some pressure upon Lord Nottley to sell it to us,” she said boldly. “He would much rather accept an offer from one of his highborn comrades, and I expect it will cost us more than it should—us being shopkeepers, so to speak.”

“Your birth is well enough, and so I shall make sure he understands,” Darcy said. “I believe he will be reasonable. Now go, tell your sister the excellent news. I am no good at keeping secrets from her.”

Much later that night, once Darcy and Elizabeth were finally alone together in the bed they shared, he told her of the conversation.

“She thought what? How could she believe such a thing?”

“You must admit, she is as unlike Jane as it is possible for a person to be.”

“Perhaps, in some ways,” she reflected. “She is daring and resilient and has a much better husband, to be sure. Jane was…soft and loving and I believe she would have outgrown her childish dependency upon all of the Bingleys eventually. At least, I hope it to be the case. But in Lydia, I see not the opposite of Jane, but the person Jane might have become, had she the inner strength and determination…and the time. Enquiring how I might feel about her living nearby, knowing that it was a dream I once cherished with Jane…it shows a very Jane-like sensitivity.”

Elizabeth leant over him, her thick braid spilling over her shoulders, peering as if trying to see his face in the firelight. He pulled her down for a kiss, just because he could.

“Your sister is an excellent person. A bit unconventional, but that has only helped her succeed in anything she sets out to do.”

“The unexpected part of it all is how much I truly enjoy our friendship. Once upon a time she was almost destructive in her selfishness, and now she is the most interesting of any of the Bennet sisters.”

Darcy reached up, wrapping her braid around his fist. “I disagree with that opinion. You are far more interesting.”

She smiled down upon him, brushing the side of his cheek with soft fingers, and sending an electric thrill through him. “You may have a slight prejudice. Lydia has visited so many places on the Continent, and met such fascinating people. She tells the most remarkable stories.”

“Yes, she is well-travelled and never dull. However, you have a certain magnetism that I have never seen in anyone else. Why do you think Lydia prefers to live in Derbyshire? She is a great favourite of your mother, the Hertfordshire weather is gentler, and they would have a ready acceptance amongst her old home neighbourhood. Nevertheless, she chooses to be nearest you. Just as I do, along with most everyone else we know.” He felt her fingers push through his hair, and Darcy tugged the braid to move her closer, to take her lips with his, to feel the excitement fill him once more.

“I will never grow tired of this, I tell you,” he murmured, reversing their positions so that he held himself above her, looking down into her lovely features—caught between bliss and anticipation.

She enfolded her arms about him, and it was much, much later before anything else was spoken at all.

As he lay within the quiet aftermath of passion, his heart still beating hard, feeling the silky softness of his precious wife curled against him, her voice spoke into the darkness.

“Lately, all my conversation is of the babies, and who else is having babies, and the trials of training new servants for the babies. You must often feel my contributions to our discussions exceedingly dull.”

It took Darcy a moment before he realised she had returned to their earlier exchange, almost before he could even formulate words.

He turned her to face him in the firelight.

“Darling, if you can imagine, with any part of your being, that I am disinterested in the slightest…well, I have not served you well this night.”

She giggled a little. “You have served me very well. It is only a feeling that perhaps I must try a bit more…to read the papers, or your farming journals—to speak to you, with greater intelligence, of subjects upon which you care deeply.”

“I care deeply about our babies,” he replied. “Do you not understand how I relish every anecdote, every report of their progress?”

“What of when I am whingeing, of too many tears and infant squabbles? Surely you must wish to be elsewhere then.”

“Never. Those are the times when you need me—or at least a listening, sympathetic ear. I love being the one you turn to when you need a helping hand, or even, yes, someone to complain to. We are a family. Your concerns are mine. Read farming journals if they interest you, but nothing captures my attention more than you, talking to me—about anything.”

“I love you,” she whispered, pressing against him, and he felt, again, the miracle of it, of her love, her loyalty, of her turning to him in the night with desire and devotion.

“And those are my favourite words of all,” he said, and brought his mouth to hers.