bones facilely, yet she grips him with an unbelievably strong clench.
“Elizabeth,” he whispers hoarsely, gently pushing her away from his body, “do you think your father is home? I must speak with him and I cannot wait any longer.”
She looks up at him. He wipes the tears from her cheeks, eliciting fresh waves of heat so that she laughs shakily. “Yes, he is at home.”
He offers his arm, “Come then. We should not linger here any longer.”
They walk in silence, arm in arm, and steal glances at each other. Strangely, neither feels shy or uncomfortable, simply suddenly acutely aware of the other’s presence and their unchaperoned companionship. She cannot resist focusing on his exposed neck and chest, as well as noting how the damp linen of his shirt clings to his muscles. His eyes betray him by continually resting on her braided hair, her delicate shoulder line, and the flash of an ankle when she lifts her gown.
“Do you prefer to be called ‘Fitzwilliam,’ or do you have another name?” she inquires abruptly.
“My full name is Fitzwilliam Alexander James Darcy. James was my father’s name and Alexander after an ancestor. No one has ever used either. Fitzwilliam was my mother’s maiden name. It is the surname of my uncle, the Earl of Matlock. Consequently there are quite a few ‘Fitzwilliams’ about at family gatherings.” He laughs, a sound still startling to her ears but beautiful. She mentally notes to tell him so, but he continues. “My cousins are both often addressed as Fitzwilliam. Col. Fitzwilliam is my cousin. Did you know this?”
She is genuinely surprised, “No, I did not. Nor did I realize you had an earl for an uncle. Mother will be impressed.” She laughs and he smiles.
“Richard, Col. Fitzwilliam, is two years my senior, but we grew up together and have always been friends as well as relatives. Anyway, my family all call me William. It is what I prefer, although I rather think you, dearest Elizabeth, could call me anything and I would find it delightful.”
She blushes.
“Your family is so illustrious,” she says teasingly. “Lords and ladies abounding!”
He flushes and grows somber. “Yes, well, I fear my Aunt Catherine has proven how a title does not indicate worth or an assurance of proper manners. Fortunately, you will discover my uncle and his wife quite different. They will adore you, I am certain.” He gazes at her with a bright smile, rendering her breathless. Her steps falter in her rapt adoration of his face, providing the need for him to steady her with one hand to her elbow and the other around her waist, his face then mere inches from hers.
“Are you alright, Elizabeth?” She nods, unable to speak, and neither of them moves. She has always been captivated, even in her annoyance, at how penetrating his gaze is. He has the bluest eyes, fierce as a raptor and brimming with intelligence; yet she notes that they darken somewhat when he stares at her. Previously she had erroneously decided it was disapproval and disdain. Now she understands it is enthrallment, love, and… passion? Desire?
She blushes and tears her eyes away, resuming her steps. Clearing her throat gruffly, she says, “Proper manners or otherwise, having peers of the realm as relatives will win you points with my family! Mother, especially, will likely faint dead away, so be sure you lead with that fact.” Her laugh fades when she glances to see him trailing a step behind her, his expression grave. “Mr. Dar… William? Whatever is the matter?”
He meets her eyes and smiles slightly. “I love hearing my name spoken by you, Elizabeth.”
“How providential that you do since you will be hearing it so uttered for the rest of my life!” She unthinkingly reaches a finger to the tiny furrows between his brows, rubbing lightly. “What troubles you, William?”
Catching her hand and kissing her fingers, he holds on and resumes walking. After some ten minutes of silent contemplation, he speaks, “I am well aware of the fact that I made a poor impression on the citizens of Hertfordshire, aided partially by Mr. Wickham but primarily due to my own surliness. Your father has no reason to approve of me as a suitor, wealth or family connections notwithstanding. Nor do I wish him to render his approval based on those inconsequentials. It is imperative, Elizabeth, that he knows I love you and deem your happiness of the utmost importance.”
They are now within sight of Longbourn so he halts, staring into the empty windows of the manor. She touches his chin with her fingers, drawing his gaze to hers. “William, my father is a reasonable man. Be honest, as I know you only can be, and say to him what you have said to me. He will not refuse you.”
He searches her eyes, still frowning mildly. “Does he know about Rosings?”
“No one knows about that but us.”
His brows arch in surprise, “Not even Miss Bennet?”
“No, I never told anyone. Did you?”
“Only Georgiana. She extracted the information as only she can.” He smiles fondly. “In truth, I was a bit of a wreck after Rosings, and she was worried.” He shakes his head and shrugs the unpleasant memories aside. A moment later he laughs.
“What?”
“It is humbling. I manage a vast estate and intricate affairs of business domestic and abroad without flinching, yet I am daunted by the prospect of a confrontation with a country gentleman.” He looks at her, eyes sparkling with mirth, and reaches to caress gentle fingertips over one cheek. “Of course, not one of those ventures has ever been as vital to my existence as this one.” He squares his shoulders purposefully, squeezes her hand, and turns toward the house, “Come, Miss Elizabeth, my love, destiny awaits!”
Hand in hand, they meet their fate.
“Enough, Mr. Darcy! Release me! I am famished,
He laughed and rolled away from her side, untangling his legs from hers. “Very well, although I believe it patently unfair to blame me for this.
Lizzy harrumphed, already busily removing victuals from the basket and tossing them randomly to her husband. She attacked the chicken with relish, thoroughly enjoyed the apple pie, gagged on the honeyed carrots, and flatly demanded Darcy discard the smoked salmon as far away as humanly possible. She ate quickly, honestly thinking she would perish in seconds if not fed, and then required a half hour of absolute immobility to keep it inside. Darcy stroked her forehead and encouraged her to sip some wine to settle her stomach, speaking soothingly in his resonant voice until she fell into a doze.
He watched her sleep, marveling as he always did at how lovely she was. He laid his hand gently on her still flat abdomen and wondered. The signs of pregnancy were all increasing; however, until she felt the baby quicken, they had judged it best to delay formal announcements. The doctor was scheduled to examine her the day before they departed for Netherfield, Darcy insisting the doctor approve the long trip. In addition, they were hoping he could definitively confirm her state so they could freely share their private joy. Georgiana knew, of course, and Richard, but they had promised to be silent.
Society would dictate that he pray for a boy, an heir to Pemberley. In truth, he wished for a girl. A little angel with chocolate eyes, curly chestnut hair, and a pert nose. Nonetheless, the health of the child and his wife were the principal preoccupation. Lizzy, aside from sporadic nausea and mild lethargy, seemed unaffected thus far. Her appetite, as recently evidenced, was humorously vacillating. One moment she was queasy and literally the next second she was ravenous and weak.
Mrs. Reynolds had ordered to have small trays of eatables placed in nearly every room of the manor so the Mistress could nibble whenever she felt the urge. Lizzy had not actually been ill since the day her memory was restored, so Darcy did not fret overly. Inevitably, she managed to eat enough, and the medical book assured him that all she was experiencing thus far was perfectly normal.
Thankfully, her extreme moodiness had disappeared. Mornings were not her best time; therefore, their romantic interludes had ceased for what he hoped was a temporary duration. Not that he could complain in that quarter as overall her amorousness was unaltered, if not slightly increased. He had quickly reorganized his daily schedule to coordinate with her. Now he rose while she slept, went riding, or worked in the stables or at his desk for several hours before joining her for breakfast. For the bulk of the day he attended to business throughout the estate, rarely coming home for lunch, but returning mid-afternoon to convene for tea, which generally led to a pleasurable liaison before dinner.
He smiled with supreme contentment. No, Mr. Darcy had absolutely no cause for woe regarding the physical
