Page 32 of Mistress of Pemberley

Before she realised what was happening, Elizabeth and Darcy were alone. The colonel left in haste, forgetting to bid them farewell, for his entire family awaited him at home, along with the Duke and Duchess of Nantwich, eager to hear what the surgeon had said. Georgiana excused herself hurriedly and rushed off to the library to write messages, having promised Jane, Mr Bingley, and the Gardiners that she would inform them of the news. Then, with tears in her eyes, she wrote to Mr Bennet, conveying the joyful tidings and expressing her gratitude for his steadfast support during the most difficult moments of their lives.

Just across from the library it took Darcy only a few seconds to transform from a man awaiting his doom into the man he had always been—yet somehow different, for now, just a few steps away, stood Elizabeth, his wife. His heart raced with overwhelming relief, uncontainable joy, and a hint of nervousness, unsure how she would respond to that sudden change in their plans.

With a single stride, Darcy was beside her, enveloping her in his arms. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he lifted her off the ground and spun her around, eliciting a shriek from Elizabeth. “Put me down, you madman!”

When he did not heed her, she spoke again, more determined, “Or you will sleep alone for a month— Two weeks,” she corrected swiftly, although he had already set her down, laughing at how miraculously the sentence had been reduced in mere seconds—for the woman in his arms desired him just as much as he desired her.

He gazed at her, almost solemn, silently pleading for another revision.

“A week,” she murmured.

“But I have put you down,” he whispered against her ear, sending shivers through her. Elizabeth trembled in his arms, waiting for him to kiss her. Instead, he drew away, releasing her.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

“How long shall I sleep alone?” he asked as his fingers traced maddening paths along her bare shoulders.

“Never!” she breathed.

And he kissed her, not as she wanted, but instead he tasted every inch of her neck. He stayed there for a frustratingly long time, murmuring words of love and passion. Then he kissed her ears, making her wriggle in his arms as her whole body was waiting for him, yet not entirely sure what would come next.

And when he finally arrived at her lips, she opened them for him as her whole body ached to do, so intense was the yearning to be his.

From somewhere in the distance, voices reached their ears, drawing closer, and Darcy stepped away from her, his gaze fixed on the door.

“Do not leave,” she whispered, for at last, nothing stood between them any longer.

“You do not wish to be mine on the sofa in the drawing-room?” he asked, his voice rough despite the teasing words.

“Someone has arrived,” Elizabeth murmured, sinking onto the sofa as her legs failed her. It felt as though she had climbed a mountain. Still, it was not only because of the desire that had shaken her body to the point of exhaustion, it was mainly because of the three long months of suffering, of relentless tension, of living in constant pain and fear. She felt so weary that she might have laid her head down and slept right there, but Darcy extended his hand, and she rose.

“Someone knocked at the door,” he said, watching her intently.

With a delighted smile, he smoothed her hair and adjusted her gown at the shoulders before finally calling out, “Come in.”

It was Mr and Mrs Talbot, along with Parker and Anna, who all entered without ceremony, breaking with protocol out of the sheer joy they felt in sharing this moment with their master and mistress.

On an impulse, Darcy embraced the two men who had remained by his side, minute after minute, forsaking sleep for countless nights to watch over him. Meanwhile, Elizabeth held the two ladies close, both of whom wept with happiness.

“The entire household asks permission to see you,” the housekeeper said.

Elizabeth smiled. “Then let them all come, Mrs Talbot.”

One by one, all those who served them passed before them. The men clasped Darcy’s hand while the ladies had tears in their eyes, which Elizabeth often wiped away when they spilt down their cheeks.

“Mrs Talbot,” Elizabeth said at last when they were alone again. “Please inform everyone that, in honour of this celebration of the Darcy household’s rebirth, they will receive their bonus at the height of summer.”

Darcy simply nodded in approval, his agreement broad and confident. He looked at his wife with pride—and with a trace of amusement, for only three months ago, she had timidly asked permission to buy herself a few gowns. In that brief time, Elizabeth had become the mistress of Pemberley, just as he had once wished, back when he had believed he was dying. London adored her, thanks to Lady Matlock and the duchess, who had spoken of her devotion with reverence. Their love story had become a tale recounted everywhere, admired by all. Even Lord Matlock, who had once been cold towards her, had begun to treat her almost warmly, while Darcy’s unmarried friends clamoured for an introduction to her sisters.

Many stories were told, but the most amusing was the one about Elizabeth’s courage—how she had saved him from a ruthless assassin.

Elizabeth was his wife in the eyes of the world, and now that he knew he would live, there was only one thing left to do: make her his woman.

But it was clear to both of them that it would be a while before they were left alone, for the joy of those around them was too great. Within the hour, the Matlocks arrived, followed by the Duke and Duchess of Nantwich. Viscount Brantford, the colonel’s brother, called too, with his wife and their two children. And an hour later, Jane entered, beaming, on the arm of her betrothed, Mr Bingley, followed by Kitty and the Gardiners, accompanied by all four of their children. The vast drawing-room, grand though it was, soon proved too small to contain them all.

Darcy had returned, and his family and friends felt compelled to express their jubilation and relief. And although he and Elizabeth longed to be alone, they included everyone in their exultation, realising that they needed every ounce of joy to help rebuild the peace that had been so gravely threatened.

At one point, the colonel approached Darcy and Elizabeth. With a discreet gesture, he guided them towards the windows, where he spoke in a lowered voice, “This morning, that man was taken under heavy guard to the port and embarked for a long journey. His crime is deemed so grave that he may consider himself fortunate to be alive.”

Elizabeth looked at Darcy, and to her surprise, she found in his eyes an expression not of satisfaction but of sorrow.

“He was my childhood friend, and it pains me that I could not guide him towards a gentler fate.”

Then he laughed, for in his wife's gaze—far less forgiving than his own—he found only the quiet satisfaction of having rid their family of the threat that man had posed.

“The accident has softened you,” she remarked, her tone hovering between jest and earnestness.

“Fortunately, my wife remains as unyielding as the blade of a sword,” he whispered in her ear as they returned to their guests.

Gazing at each other, they were first overcome by calm, then by pleasure, at last realising that nothing stood in the way of their happiness any longer. They had their whole lives ahead of them. No more danger loomed; there were no more fears to chase away. They could live each moment knowing that another, and yet another, would follow.

Then, as if by silent agreement, just before dinner, everyone vanished. Even Georgiana, who was easily persuaded by Kitty and Jane to accompany them to Longbourn—or rather, to Netherfield, for Mr Bingley had decided to reopen the house.

“Has everyone truly gone?” Darcy asked, looking about the room, unable to believe they were finally alone.

“Every last one,” Elizabeth said, laughing.

Then she did something she had once dreamt of—she twirled in the centre of the drawing-room, moving to the rhythm of an unheard melody.

Darcy rose and bowed before her as he would have done in a ballroom, and when she took his hand, he pulled her tightly into his arms, and they moved together, their first dance celebrating their love.

“I do not know this dance,” she murmured in wonder, shivering from that closeness that seemed the prelude to their long-awaited union.

“You will, my love. Soon,” he replied, already imagining their wedding dance, which he had no doubt Elizabeth would perform flawlessly.

They spun two or three times, then stopped, looking at one another, both exhausted, yet the gaze they shared contained nothing but the pure elation of being together.

“Let us sit,” Elizabeth suggested.

Darcy took a moment before speaking. “I still have a long way to go before I regain my former strength after spending three months in bed.”

“And look at him!” Elizabeth cried teasingly, speaking to the whole world. “All he truly wishes for, my Mr Darcy, is to return to bed!”

“I want to return to what we were,” he said.

Yet this notion of ‘returning’ to their former selves suddenly felt wrong. Elizabeth and Darcy of Meryton, Hertfordshire, Netherfield, or Kent had never been a couple; in truth, they had been adversaries for most of that time. And Elizabeth and Darcy of London had shared nothing more than a mere arrangement.

“Do you feel deceived?” Darcy asked suddenly, his voice tinged with sadness.

In an instant, she was in his arms. He sounded so sorrowful. Never, in all those months, had she told him she loved him. She had withheld her words and feelings with immense effort, not wanting to burden their desperate situation with a sentiment that might have deepened his despair.

“Do not lie to me,” he pleaded. “Three months ago, I proposed an agreement. Now, you have me for life.”

“Oh, Mr Darcy, how shallow you are!” Elizabeth smiled with amused reproof. “Despite all the hardships, something extraordinary has come from our shared suffering. Perhaps we were not a conventional couple, but those months sowed between us a deep understanding—a way of speaking without words, of accepting each other with all our faults, an understanding of each other’s families. And above all, the immense desire for what we had, whether a lot or a little, to never come to an end. I was ready to stay by your side until the end of my days.”

“Nonsense,” he said, still unconvinced.

She rested her head against his chest, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Hush, and listen to my heart, my body. They will tell you everything you wish to know.”

“You are a woman like any other. Passion can be nothing more than desire.”

“And would that not satisfy you?” she teased, tracing gentle patterns across his chest, caressing him in a way he had imagined all that time.

Darcy sighed softly. This, too, he had learnt in her presence—to temper his pride, to let her see his vulnerabilities.

“When I called for you, I believed that merely seeing you would be enough. I could not conceive of dying without laying eyes on you one last time. And then I knew—you were the only one who would accept such an arrangement, for you desired a freedom few women truly long for.”

“Were you certain I would accept?” she asked, leaning against his chest to look up at him.

“No, dear God, no! Not in the least.”

“Silly man, how could I not accept?” she asked, and he gazed at her in astonishment.

“Because you wished for the freedom I was offering you?”

“Because, first and foremost, you offered me yourself.”

“I had offered you the same thing in Kent—” he began but stopped, realising it was false. When he proposed in Kent, he had demanded that she leave everything behind to follow him into his world, to forsake her own—a world he had once despised.

“In Kent, I merely wanted you to be my wife. I was certain you would accept—”

“Precisely. Whereas here, when you proposed to me, you were a man who loved a woman and wished for her to be his. Marriage was never merely a transaction for you, even when you asked me to accept that—”

“How do you know that?” he interrupted.

“Because when you looked at me, your gaze was a symphony of emotions, all born from love. Your love was never a secret—”

“No,” he admitted. “I wished to marry you, to make our wedding the final chapter of my life. A last fragment of grandeur…for as long as it was still possible. And from the depths of my heart, I wished for Georgiana not to be left alone in the world and for you to gain what you had always desired—freedom. But love came first, no matter what I said that night,” he added with a smile. “The question, my dear wife, is what did it mean to you?”

Elizabeth pondered for a long moment. She rested her head against his chest again, and in the stillness of the house and the quiet between them, she could have remained there for a lifetime.

“If I told you I loved you from the moment I stepped into your house, would you believe me?”

“Not entirely.” He laughed, though it was clear he had shaken off the sorrow that had gripped him moments before.

“And yet, it is the truth. That is the truth, Darcy.”

“When you call me Darcy, it feels as though you are scolding me.”

“Fitzwilliam is too long to use as an endearment.”

Her hand slipped beneath his coat and shirt, reaching for that place where the bullet had struck.

“I have always wanted to touch your chest,” she whispered, overcome with emotion. “I used to dream that I could close the wound, make the bullet disappear…bring you back to me. I wanted you to be my husband…even if I never dared to admit it, fearing I would only augment your suffering.”

“And I have dreamt all this time of caressing this,” he said, placing with his palm on her perfect breast with infinite care, and she sighed, closing her eyes, retreating from the world to the rhythm of his touch. As if her bosom was bound by hundreds of threads to the core of her body, which longed for him. And as his touch became stronger and more rhythmic, she cried out, trembling in his arms, sure she was ready to be his wife.

“I love you,” she said with her eyes still closed while he slowly caressed her body, a prelude to their physical union.

“Open your eyes, Elizabeth Darcy.”

She opened them, staring into his while his hands did not stop their wonderfully tortuous journey. Without hesitation, she told him the truth that had haunted her all that time, certain that she would never have the chance to say, “I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy! I love you forever! I love you with everything I am, my soul, heart, and body.”

“Will you be my wife, Elizabeth?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes!” she cried, while, for the first time in her life, her body trembled as he caressed her. “Yes, I shall be your wife, Fitzwilliam!”

“I am your wife,” she added with effort when she wrenched herself free from his embrace. His hands were ready to claim dominion over the realm she defended with the pure knowledge that only true love could conquer. Yet she wanted more than a sofa in the drawing-room.

“We shall eat our wedding dinner, my love,” she said, “And then you will take me to your bedroom—”

Yet she stopped, reflecting. “Better, to my bedroom.”

And he laughed in agreement as they left the room to prepare for their wedding night.