Page 57 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)

T he warmth greeted Elizabeth first as she stepped into her chamber from the dressing room.

Then stillness, the profound hush that follows great celebration.

The vows, the toasts, and the farewells had all been made, and Jane had been nearly lost in the clouds of matrimonial bliss.

The wedding breakfast had been filled with endless congratulations and knowing smiles from the assembled company.

And now Elizabeth was in London with her husband. Her husband. The words still felt foreign upon her tongue, like a new language she was only beginning to learn.

This was the part no soul would witness save themselves. Their first evening not as sparring partners or convenient friends, but as husband and wife.

She drew breath slowly, savouring the mingled scents of bergamot and something delicate she could not quite place.

Fitzwilliam—her husband —had been here. She followed the scent to a small nosegay upon the bedside table: briar roses, pale pink and fully opened, with one or two thorns still clinging to their stems .

Elizabeth's lips curved up in a small smile. She touched one petal with the tip of her finger, marvelling at its softness.

"Rather bold of you, Mr. Darcy," she murmured to the empty room.

She moved to the hearth, allowing the quiet to settle about her shoulders like a soft shawl.

The fire had been laid with expert care, and she had no doubt that every single chimney in the house was in good working order.

Everything in the room spoke of Fitzwilliam's attention to detail: the fresh linens turned down just so, the extra pillows arranged with a careful eye to symmetry, even the way the curtains had been drawn to allow just the right amount of moonlight to filter through.

Elizabeth found herself cataloguing these small kindnesses, these gestures that spoke of a man who had given considerable thought to her comfort. It was so very different from the proud, haughty gentleman she had first encountered at the assembly in Meryton.

But then, she was not the same woman who had refused to dance with him at Lucas Lodge, either.

The rap upon the door came a short time later, soft yet purposeful.

Elizabeth's pulse quickened. "Enter," she called, feeling suddenly shy.

How ridiculous. She had conversed with this man, walked with him, argued with him, read with him, even permitted him certain small liberties during their engagement.

Yet now, with the weight of their marriage vows fresh between them, everything felt different. Better.

Her handsome husband entered, closing the door behind him with the air of a gentleman who had waited with considerable patience for precisely this moment.

He was wearing only a nightshirt under a silk banyan and a pair of fur-lined slippers on his feet.

The informal attire was so new to her that Elizabeth found herself staring.

He appeared decidedly less like the imposing master of Pemberley and rather more like the man from her dream who had slipped off his shirt and left it in her hands.

He removed the banyan and stood before her.

Her gaze lingered upon the fine lines of his shoulders, visible now beneath the thin fabric of his nightshirt. The formality that usually surrounded him like armour had been laid aside with his cravat and coat.

"It has been a long day," she said, surprised by the slight breathlessness in her own voice.

His brow lifted slightly, and she caught a flash of something that might have been amusement in his dark eyes. "I thought you might be asleep. I was not entirely certain you would grant me entry."

Elizabeth tilted her head in mock consideration, feeling some of her natural boldness return. "I did hesitate . . ."

"Did you indeed?" The gentle tease made her heart flutter.

"Oh yes. I thought perhaps I should make you wait outside the door for a quarter hour or so, just to establish the proper hierarchy in our marriage."

His smile was almost wicked, and it made her a bit nervous. "And what conclusion did you reach regarding this hierarchy?"

"That you are far too tall to be left standing in hallways. The servants could not help but see you, and they would talk."

"Most considerate of you, Mrs. Darcy."

The name still sounded strange to her ears, but not unpleasant. Mrs. Darcy . Elizabeth Darcy . She supposed she would grow accustomed to it in time.

"Well, my dear, here I am," he continued, holding out a hand to her.

She studied his outstretched palm for a moment before placing her own within it. His fingers were warm and steady, closing gently around hers with a confidence that made her feel oddly breathless.

He led her to the enormous bed, and Elizabeth perched upon its edge, acutely aware of the intimacy of the gesture.

In the expanding silence, her thoughts turned not to ceremony or festivity, but to him, the gentleman who had plunged into icy waters for her.

She had been too weak then to speak, yet not so lost as to miss the strength of his arms or how his white shirt had clung to his skin in a most scandalous way.

She had deemed it a fever-born fancy. Surely no proper gentleman appeared so very . . . The correct word escaped her. So much. Yet the memory persisted, vivid as ever.

Tonight, she would discover precisely how much of her memory had been real.

He stood before her now, his hand still lightly clasping hers. His bearing was different, less guarded, perhaps. More open.

"You are very quiet," he said after a moment, watching her with an expression that made her feel oddly transparent. Somehow seen through, and yet the more cherished for it.

Elizabeth offered him a half smile. "I am assessing the situation. It is quite serious, you know. There is a man in my bedchamber, and he is not even wearing a cravat."

Fitzwilliam looked down at his chest as though noticing the absence for the first time. "I did not wish to intimidate you with Harrison’s notion of the proper knot for such an occasion."

She knew that her husband’s valet, Harrison, was more attuned to his master’s preference for sober tailoring than to the whims of fashion, yet the man tied cravats with the grim determination of a midshipman knotting rope.

"How thoughtful. I do thank you for the consideration.

I find myself particularly susceptible to starched linen. "

"Are you indeed?" His eyes danced with mirth. "I shall make note of it."

"You may wish to record it in that little book you keep of everyone's character defects. Under 'E' for Elizabeth: 'Cannot be trusted in the presence of creatively tied cravats.' "

He lifted a gentle hand to her cheek. "I do not keep such a book."

"Do you not? How disappointing. I had rather imagined myself occupying several pages by now."

His smile deepened as he took the place beside her, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight. He turned his face to hers.

She studied the line of his jaw, the heat in his gaze. He was so steady and strong and just the tiniest bit uncertain. Her heart turned over in the most peculiar way.

"I thought I might feel nervous," she admitted. "But I do not."

His brow lifted faintly. "No?"

"Not with you." The admission surprised her with its truth. Here she was, alone in a bedchamber with a man who had once seemed the embodiment of pride and disdain, and she felt safe. Beloved. Almost perfectly at ease.

A silence followed, but it was not empty, for his gaze spoke to her without words. The hearth crackled quietly, casting soft amber light across the coverlet and the folds of her dressing gown.

"I was afraid," he said quietly, "that I might overwhelm you. I know I can be—"

"Serious?" she offered helpfully.

"Yes."

"Unbending?"

"Occasionally."

"A great towering wall of masculine restraint and miscommunication?"

He laughed then, fully, the sound rich and unguarded. It transformed his entire face, making him appear younger somehow. More approachable. "Precisely."

"Well," she said, scooting closer until their knees nearly touched, "I believe I married you for it. "

"For my towering restraint?"

"For the challenge of toppling it." She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve, and then lingering just a little longer.

The fabric was soft beneath her touch, warmed by his skin.

She had touched him before, his arm, his hand, even the curve of his cheek once—but now it was different. Now it was allowed. Encouraged, even.

"I confess," she said, tracing the pattern of embroidery along his cuff, "I have a great many expectations about what this night might entail."

"What are they?" His voice held gentle curiosity.

Elizabeth was uncertain how to answer.

"I only wish to make you feel at ease," he said softly.

“And you have succeeded, Fitzwilliam. I trust you entirely."

He looked very nearly undone at the sound of his name on her lips, perhaps, or at the quiet acceptance in her voice.

"It means everything to me to have your trust."

"You do." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Enough that I trust I can even steal your slippers in the morning, and you will pretend not to mind."

"I shall mind deeply," he said gravely, though his eyes betrayed his amusement, "but only because my feet will be cold."

"Then I shall warm them myself," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

His breath caught audibly. “You are very good at this.”

She gazed up at him. “At what?”

"This." He lifted her hand and turned it gently over in his, as though examining something rare and precious. "Being my wife."

“Oh, that is a very great compliment,” she said, deeply moved. “But I am sure to disappoint. You know that I have many faults.”

"Then we shall add them to our collection. I find I have grown quite fond of your faults, Elizabeth. They make you . . . you . "

She leaned forward and placed a kiss on his cheek, soft and brief, then another, tentatively, just at the corner of his mouth. His skin was warm beneath her lips. When she pulled back, he was smiling again, though this time there was nothing teasing in it. Only tenderness.

He kissed her palm, his lips warm against her skin. "Shall we begin, Mrs. Darcy?"

Her smile was bright and sure. "Oh yes. I would like that very much."

He reached for the candle on the bedside table and pinched the flame with practised ease.

Darkness enfolded the chamber, but it was not cold or frightening.

And in the moments that followed, Elizabeth discovered beyond all doubt that her memories had not deceived her.

Her husband was indeed every bit as remarkable as she had dared to hope, and perhaps, if she were very fortunate, she might prove worthy of the love she saw reflected in his eyes.

Later, long after the hush of the house had deepened into true night, Elizabeth stirred beneath the counterpane and reached one hand towards the vase.

Her fingers found the nosegay once more, the delicate pink briar roses still fresh, their scent mingling with the warmth left on her skin. She traced a petal with a gentle touch.

A thorn pricked her thumb, just faintly, not enough to wound, only enough to remind her that beauty and bravery often went hand in hand.

She smiled to herself in the dark. Perhaps this was her briar bargain after all: not a tale of slumber, but one of waking.

Tonight, she had not waited for love to find her.

She had walked straight into its keeping, and it had welcomed her home.