They moved together in silence for a while, their steps perfectly matched, their bodies aligned with the natural ease of compatibility. She rested her head against his shoulder,breathing in the scent of him—soap and something distinctly masculine, utterly appealing.
"I sometimes feel I am living two lives," he divulged quietly, his voice barely audible above the music. "One remembered in fragments and shadows, pieced together from what others tell me. And one unfolding clearly before me, with you at the centre. The first feels like a story about someone else. The second feels real in a way I cannot quite articulate."
She lifted her head to look at him. "Which would you choose, if you could?”
"I would choose this. Every time." His arms tightened around her. "Whatever I was before, whoever I was—that man is gone. Or perhaps he is still here, somewhere beneath these incomplete memories. But the man I am now, the one who exists with you—that is who I wish to be. I hope to never forget this. Us. What we are building together."
"You are most yourself now, I believe. And this side of you, the one I see every day, the one who rescues me from storms and arranges private dances and feeds me strawberries in bed—" She smiled, her throat suddenly tight with emotion. "That is the man I fell in love with."
The words emerged before she fully registered what she was saying, but once spoken, Elizabeth realised they were true. Somewhere in the past weeks, amid the confusion and uncertainty and gradual building of trust, she had fallen in love with her husband.
Fitzwilliam stopped moving, standing still in the centre of the room despite the continued music. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones, his eyes searchinghers as though looking for confirmation of what she had just said.
"You love me?" His voice was rough with emotion.
"I do." Elizabeth's heart hammered against her ribs. "I know this may not be planned—"
He kissed her, cutting off whatever she had been about to say. This kiss was different from the one that morning, but equally as tantalising. It was slower and infused with a tenderness that made her chest ache. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, and their breaths mingled in the tiny space between them.
"I love you too," he whispered. "I think I have been falling in love with you since that day in the library when you argued with me about Milton and made me laugh. Perhaps even before that.”
He kissed her again, and the music continued to play, though neither of them was dancing anymore. They stood wrapped in each other's arms in a room lit by candlelight, and Elizabeth felt as though something fundamental had shifted. They had been building towards this moment for weeks—every conversation and shared glance, every bit of intimacy had been leading here.
They resumed dancing, moving slowly to the music. Elizabeth tucked her head against Fitzwilliam's shoulder and closed her eyes. She should tell him about the letters. She knew that. This moment of perfect happiness, this declaration of love—it was built partially on a foundation of deception, and that deception would eventually need to be addressed.
But not tonight. Tonight was for joy and celebration, for allowing themselves to simply be two people who cared deeply for each other, dancing in candlelight, with no shadows from the past to darken their present happiness.
Tomorrow would be the moment for truth and whatever consequences that might follow.
Tonight, she would simply dance with the man she loved, and let that be enough.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next day
Elizabeth was reviewing household accounts with Mrs Reynolds in the morning room when a footman appeared in the doorway.
"Pardon the interruption, Mrs Darcy, but Dr Newport has arrived for Mr Darcy's appointment."
"Appointment?" She set down her pen, surprised. "I was not aware Mr Darcy had summoned the physician.”
"It is a routine visit, ma'am," Mrs Reynolds explained. "Dr Newport has been calling occasionally since the accident to monitor Mr Darcy's recovery. He examines him, asks questions about his memory and general health. Standard practice for head injuries of that severity.”
"I see." She rose from her chair. "Where is Mr Darcy now?"
"In his study, ma'am. Dr Newport is being shown there presently.
She dismissed the footman and turned to the housekeeper. "Please excuse me. I should ensure Mr Darcy has everything he requires."
Elizabeth made her way to Fitzwilliam's study, arriving just as Dr Newport was being shown in. The physician was a man of middle years with salt-and-pepper hair and the calm, assessing manner of one who had seen much illness and injury in his practice. He bowed to her as she entered behind him.
"Mrs Darcy. A pleasure to finally meet you. I trust you are settling into Pemberley comfortably?"
"Very comfortably, thank you, Dr Newport."
Fitzwilliam stood as she entered. “Elizabeth, I did not mean to disturb your morning. This is merely Dr Newport's regular visit—nothing to cause alarm."
"I know. Mrs Reynolds explained." She moved towards the door, suddenly conscious that she might be intruding on a private medical examination. "I shall leave you to your—"
