Page 31 of Under Such Circumstances (Desperately Seeking Elizabeth #1)

RICHARD SPENT THE journey consumed by reveries about being with bed with his new and perfect wife.

Truthfully, he’d had intentions of doing more talking with her and less spending inside her and then sleeping next to her, only to wake and want her again with a desperation he hadn’t known was possible.

It was all very different with her.

He’d never been with a woman who needed him in the way she did, and he hadn’t realized the allure of it until he’d been buried in her tight, wet heat, all the way to his hilt, and looked down at her expression beneath him, and realized this woman was his and his alone, that he was the first to have her in this way, that their bodies were joined in the most complete way two bodies could be joined and that this— this —was the way it was supposed to work.

All of the times he’d had a woman before, it had been some sad and shadowy pretension to the way the act was meant to be, and he had just at that moment understood it all, and understood, as he slipped blissfully in and out of her, what it actually was to be a man.

The other women he’d had—widows and actresses and courtesans and the occasional bawdyhouse whore—they had never needed him.

They had been independent in some various way, and they had chosen him.

Certainly, they had wanted things from him—various things, money or companionship or pleasure or what-have-you—but they hadn’t needed him.

And Elizabeth—sweet, wondrous Elizabeth—had surrendered her innocence to him, had entrusted herself to him, and she was now his to treasure and protect and care for, and that was what he had been missing all along, he thought, that was the purpose of being a man, to protect a soft and vulnerable creature, one that belonged to him, not one that flitted about with any man she wished, whenever it suited her. She was his wife .

Oddly, he’d been frightened of this, which was why he’d dallied in actually marrying her.

After that drunken night with Mr. Darcy, he’d thought about what his cousin had said and felt a tight iron band of awful fear around his chest. He hadn’t wanted the responsibility of a woman like Elizabeth anymore than he’d wanted the responsibility of her virginity.

He hadn’t wanted to be obligated to her.

He had hidden from it, shameful and sniveling, like some idiot child playing at being a man. He had been disgusting.

If only he’d done it sooner. If only he’d realized what it would feel like to be that to her, then he could have done things better.

He felt guilty that he’d left very little for Elizabeth in the way of comforts or care.

He had arranged for her to have a carriage and horses, and he also was busily composing letters to send back.

He must inquire about lines of credit, secure her a maid—she only had two servants at Weythorn, and it wasn’t enough for his wife.

His wife needed better than that, and he must find a way to give it to her.

He felt so very foolish and so very ashamed.

And yet, in the past, his shame would have mired him, tugged him down like an anchor to the bottom of a sea of despair and inaction.

But now, with Elizabeth as the shining star to motivate him, he felt he must only correct all these problems from the past. He had a fire burning in his belly in a way he’d never had one before.

Before, everything had seemed so pointless, but he realized this was precisely because he hadn’t had any responsibility. No one counted on him for anything; he didn’t do anything. Now, he had a reason to be worthy of someone, a reason to strive, and someone to live for.

He must get back to her as soon as possible.

He could not get out of this tour of duty now.

He’d requested it, and he would have to see it through.

But he rarely had difficulty getting the kinds of assignments he wished in the army, for his father’s reputation and wealth held a certain amount of sway.

So, he suspected that eventually, he’d be able to request an assignment in England, or somewhere very close, at any rate, and that he would be given it.

Perhaps having this time at the front would be a credit to him, having undertaken danger bravely.

This would be counted as a balance against the relative ease of what he would request in the future.

He only knew that he had to be back in Elizabeth’s arms as soon as he could manage it.

It had killed him to leave her there. As it was, he’d practically been late to board the boat across the channel to the continent.

His superior officer hadn’t been pleased, though he’d laughed with good cheer when the colonel explained he’d come from his wedding night.

Now, the colonel was in a carriage with other officers, scribbling out plans and writing letters. His ink had spilled twice, and the other officers were making jokes at his expense, saying he should have gotten his affairs in order before leaving.

He knew it was true. That shame welled up in him, but it was fuel to burn in his newfound resolve. The other officers said they’d never seen him this way, and he knew that was true as well. He had never been this way.

I suppose I’m in love, he thought.

And not love like he’d thought love was before, not the sort of love that was changeable and without weight. This love tied him to Elizabeth for the rest of their lives, made them one flesh, made them belong to each other in a way that was so sweet it burned inside him.

God in heaven, he missed her, even now.

He was doing that, missing her excruciatingly, when the sound of the volley of gunfire spooked the horses of the carriage so much that they reared up and the carriage wobbled back and forth on its wheels.

Richard’s letters went everywhere. His inkwell spilled again.

He cried out and the other officers did too. Two of them were unseated as they were jarred back and forth.

The horses lurched and the carriage continued to wobble. The door fell open, going out to bang against the side of the carriage.

Richard stood up and reached out to pull the door closed, even as the carriage toppled back and forth.

And then it fell.

On top of him, as he was leaning out to get the door.

He hit the ground first, and the back of his head struck a rock, very hard. He registered the pain only for an instant—bright, hot, impossible pain—

And then there was nothing.

Because he was gone.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was already dead when the falling carriage crushed his body.