“Your smile is rather roguish, Mr. Darcy,” she said breathlessly.
“Did Mr. Collins ever kiss you, Elizabeth?” he asked, reaching one long arm above his head and was pleased to see her grimace.
He saw the moment she realised what he was about, for she held out her hand for the white berry he plucked from the mistletoe hanging above. Darcy placed it very gently in her palm and her fingers curled around it.
“If Mr. Collins had ever made the attempt,” she said in a low, throaty voice that made Darcy wish to call the carriage and make for Netherfield instantly, “I would have slapped him.”
“Then my dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,” he nearly growled, “he and I have nothing in common. Not anymore.” He took her lips in his own and felt her melt against him. “Do not you agree?”
Elizabeth’s eyes were glazed. “What?” she asked.
Darcy smiled. “You were telling me that I am the only man you have ever loved.”
“And the only man I ever will,” Elizabeth said, most agreeably.
“Happy Christmas, love,” he said, and leaned down to capture her lips again.
Epilogue
Elizabeth Darcy shivered as her bare feet touched the cold floor. With a sharp intake of breath, she scurried to the curtains and parted them a little. Then, just as quickly, she made her way back to bed and thrust her legs under the warm covers.
Fitzwilliam slept soundly beside her. There was a peace that settled over him here at Pemberley, especially visible as he slumbered, when all the cares of the day were banished. Elizabeth rolled away from her husband and onto her side to watch the snow drifting lazily past the window, allowing the warmth from the quilt and his body to begin to lull her back to rest. She jumped when one strong arm snaked around her waist.
“Your feet are like the inside of an icehouse,” he grumbled.
“Which is why I returned to bed, dearest.”
“You returned for the blanket and not for me?” The low, gravelly sound in her ear made her shiver, and it was not from the temperature in the room.
“You are warmer than the blanket,” she informed him, turning in his arms to place a little kiss on his nose.
He took her in his arms. “When you recompense me in such a way, I do not mind your freezing feet.”
“That may be the most romantic thing you have ever said to me,” Elizabeth teased.
Suddenly she was beneath her husband and he was smiling down at her. She proudly noted the lines near his eyes that proved her Fitzwilliam smiled and laughed a great deal more than he had when they first met. He raised himself up on his forearms. “If that is the case, I must make amends.”
Elizabeth reached up to touch his face. “As wonderful as that sounds,” she told him, “I would like to take a walk out of doors before church.”
“You would rather go out in the snow than remain indoors with me?” Fitzwilliam asked, a wicked gleam in his eye. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I shall have to do better by you, Mrs. Darcy. Allow me to demonstrate.”
He then trailed several light kisses down her neck, and Elizabeth sighed with pleasure. Who could have guessed that the activities in the marital bed could be so very pleasing? Particularly when they had been wed ten years and already had four children. Fitzwilliam had once explained that having waited so long for her, he was determined never to take for granted a single moment they had together.
Elizabeth acquiesced. “Very well. But afterwards, I wish to go out, whether it is before church or after.”
“It would be my pleasure to escort you out into the freezing snow for your walk, Elizabeth,” he told her. “You know how much I enjoy it. Particularly when you throw snowballs at me.”
She laughed at him. “You adore walking in the snow. Before the day is out you will roust all three of our sons and lead them in pelting one another with snowballs. Do not even attempt to deny it.” She smiled mischievously up at him.
He smiled but did not reply, and Elizabeth felt her point had been made. As Fitzwilliam lowered his face to hers, she only wished she could recall what that point had been.
When at last Fitzwilliam felt he had sufficiently defended his honour, Elizabeth kissed him on top of his head, sat up, and plucked a letter from inside a book on her bed table.
“Here,” she said a bit nervously. Why, she could not say, for they wrote letters to one another with some frequency. Their Christmas letters, though, were special. “It is for you.”
Fitzwilliam took it with a shake of his head. He leaned back and stretched one long arm behind him to open the small drawer on his own bed table, from which he removed another missive, sealed in red wax. He held it out to her.
“You seal yours every year. So formal, sir.”
