Page 5 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER THREE
A WEDDING SEALED
There was something to be said for waking up married to a man one had previously considered insufferably proud—particularly when that man was currently tracing lazy patterns on one’s bare shoulder while pale December sunlight filtered through the broken shutters.
Elizabeth stirred in Fitzwilliam’s arms, immediately aware of his warmth against her back and the solid weight of his arm across her waist. She blinked at the strange water-stained ceiling above and turned her head to find Fitzwilliam Darcy watching her, his dark eyes soft with an expression she had never seen in them before.
Gone was the stern, disapproving gentleman of Hertfordshire assemblies.
In his place lay a man whose features, relaxed in the gentle dawn light, bore a vulnerability that made her heart constrict oddly in her chest.
“Good morning, Mrs. Darcy.” His voice was still rough with sleep.
“Is it?” she asked, purposely deflecting from his use of her new title, one that had not yet been formalized. “I confess I have not had sufficient experience with mornings such as these to properly judge their quality. ”
His answering smile transformed his countenance, erasing the habitual severity she had come to associate with him. “It is the finest morning of my life,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice rendered her speechless.
She reached to touch his face, tracing the strong line of his jaw. How strange to be granted such liberty with a man she had once claimed to despise. Stranger still to find comfort in his presence when the rest of her world had collapsed around her.
“Elizabeth,” he said, capturing her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm, “there is something I must ask you.”
Her heart stuttered. What now? Had he reconsidered in the cold light of day? Did he regret what had passed between them? She steeled herself for disappointment, but tried to appear nonchalant.
“How old are you?”
The question was so unexpected that she laughed. “Of all the things you might wish to know about your… about me, you ask my age?”
“It is a matter of some legal importance,” he explained, though his smile belied the formality of his words. “If you are under twenty-one, certain permissions would be required for what I am about to propose.”
Elizabeth froze. She wouldn’t turn twenty-one until next May, but what was six months? Hadn’t a math tutor taught her about rounding to the nearest whole number?
“One and twenty,” she replied evenly. “My birthday is in May.”
Relief softened his features. “Excellent. Then there is no impediment to our marriage. I intend to make you my wife today, Elizabeth Bennet, if you will have me.”
“Yes, I will, but are you certain, Fitzwilliam? Once done, it cannot be undone. Your family, your connections—they will hardly rejoice at your choice of bride, especially under such circumstances.”
He took her face between his hands, his gaze unwavering. “I have never been more certain of anything. As for my family, they will adapt or they will not. Either way, it changes nothing. Besides,” his tone softened, “we might say we got night and day mixed up.”
His words brought a fierce blush to her cheeks. Of course. They had already enjoyed the marriage bed. Unable to meet his ardent gaze, she focused on those talented hands, face burning.
“Though I warn you, you are gaining a wife with neither dowry nor connections worthy of your notice. My sole contribution to this marriage is myself.”
“It is the only contribution I desire, Elizabeth, you,” he said, and kissed her with a gentleness that belied the strength she knew he possessed.
When they parted, Elizabeth found herself smiling. “Well, Mr. Darcy, how does one arrange a wedding at dawn in a coaching inn? I confess this particular scenario was not covered in my education.”
“First,” he said, rising from the bed with new purpose, “I shall inquire after any clergymen who might be staying at the inn, or in the vicinity. The storm likely stranded more than just ourselves last night.”
“And if there are none to be found?”
“Then I shall be very persuasive with whichever clergyman serves the parish of Barnet.” He began to dress with efficient movements. “The Church of England may frown upon irregular unions, but even the most principled man can be convinced to bend the rules when presented with sufficient motivation.”
“By which you mean money,” Elizabeth observed dryly.
“Indeed. Money and the Darcy name, which carries weight even in these parts.” He pulled on his still-damp boots with a grimace. “Rest assured, I shall return with a clergyman and the necessary paperwork before the hour is out.”
“And I shall wait here, contemplating the extraordinary turn my circumstances have taken,” she replied. “From cast-out daughter to prospective bride in less than a day. My mother would be simultaneously horrified and delighted, were she to know.”
Darcy paused at the door. “Would you prefer to inform your family? We could delay our departure for London, send word to Longbourn?—”
“No,” Elizabeth said firmly. “They made their choice when they cast me out. I have made mine in accepting you. Let us leave the past where it belongs.”
He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “Very well. I shall return shortly. Do not…” he hesitated, then continued with a trace of his old formality, “Do not go anywhere.”
As if she had anywhere to go, Elizabeth thought wryly as the door closed behind him.
Still, his concern was touching, particularly given the events of the previous evening.
She rose from the bed, wincing slightly at unfamiliar soreness, and set about making herself as presentable as possible with the limited resources at hand.
Her trunk yielded one gown that had somehow escaped the worst of the water damage.
It was a simple muslin day dress in a shade of green that Jane had always said brought out the color of her eyes.
Not a wedding gown by any means, but it would have to suffice.
She brushed her hair as best she could and pinned it into a simple knot at the nape of her neck.
No maid, no mother, no sisters to help her prepare for her wedding day.
The thought brought a momentary pang, but she pushed it aside.
Self-pity would not improve her circumstances.
By the time Darcy returned, accompanied by a thin, nervous-looking clergyman and the innkeeper with his wife, Elizabeth had achieved a reasonable approximation of respectability.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, formal in the presence of others, “may I present the Reverend Michaels? He has agreed to perform the ceremony.”
The clergyman bowed, his expression disapproving. “I must emphasize that this is most irregular,” he said, glancing between them. “Were it not for Mr. Darcy’s assurances as to the urgency of the situation?— ”
“And his generosity,” the innkeeper muttered, earning a sharp look from the reverend.
“Yes, well.” The clergyman straightened his coat. “I happen to have a special license with me, as I was traveling to London for a wedding that was to take place tomorrow. Given the circumstances, and Mr. Darcy’s… persuasiveness, I am willing to adapt it for your use.”
“How fortunate for us,” Elizabeth said, unable to keep a trace of irony from her voice. “That the storm should strand not only ourselves but also a clergyman with the exact documentation we require. One might almost call it providential.”
Darcy’s lips twitched, but he maintained his solemn expression. “Indeed. Shall we proceed, Reverend? I am eager to make Miss Bennet my wife without further delay.”
Reverend Michaels fidgeted with his prayer book. “The fee for such an irregular ceremony…”
“Will be generous,” Fitzwilliam assured him, producing a bulging leather purse.
Elizabeth bit back a smile. Her husband—for he would be her husband shortly—had a remarkable talent for reducing complex situations to their essential elements and then bulldozing through any obstacles with sheer determination and strategic application of currency.
“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Michaels began, his voice gaining strength as he settled into familiar words, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…”
Elizabeth couldn’t help gazing at Darcy’s face as the reverend spoke. His expression was solemn, focused, as though he were memorizing every word. Completely responsible and earnest. Why had she assumed his intense reserve was arrogance?
His penetrating gaze extracted her full attention.
“I, Fitzwilliam Edmund Darcy, take thee, Elizabeth Rose Bennet, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth. ”
Elizabeth’s voice wavered, smaller without her usual bite, as she repeated the vows. She would never again misjudge this honorable man who’d sacrificed his standing to gift her his name. Had he not appeared, she would have been truly fallen.
When Reverend Michaels pronounced them husband and wife, Fitzwilliam’s kiss was gentle, reverent, and entirely proper for their makeshift congregation.
“You may sign here,” the reverend said, producing a marriage certificate. “Mr. Darcy first, then Mrs. Darcy.”
The paperwork was completed with efficient dispatch, Darcy signing his name with the bold strokes of a man accustomed to having his signature respected. When it was Elizabeth’s turn, she paused, pen hovering above the parchment.
“Your maiden name, madam,” the reverend prompted, impatience evident in his tone.
“Yes, of course,” she replied, and wrote “Elizabeth Bennet” for the last time.