"Has been paid extra to hear nothing and stop for nothing."Darcy's fingers traced the line of her throat, pausing where her pulse fluttered wildly."Though I'll endeavor to keep you quiet."
"How considerate."She shifted on his lap, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him."And if I don't wish to be quiet?"
His eyes went dark, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of brown remained."Then the coachman will earn his extra pay."
He kissed her again, slower this time but no less intense, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other explored the curve of her waist through layers of silk and stays.Elizabeth melted into him, her fingers tangling in his cravat, pulling it loose until she could press her lips to the hollow of his throat.
Darcy groaned, his head falling back against the cushions."Elizabeth—"
"Mrs.Darcy," she corrected, nipping at his jaw.
His hands tightened on her."Mrs.Darcy.My wife."Each word came out wondering, as if he still couldn't quite believe it."Say it."
"Your wife."She pulled back to look at him properly, smoothing her thumbs across his cheekbones."Your omega.Yours."
The sound he made wasn't quite human—something between a growl and a purr that vibrated through his chest and into hers.He buried his face in her neck, breathing deep, and she felt him shudder.
"You still smell like Longbourn."His lips moved against her skin with each word."Tomorrow you'll smell like me.Only me."
Heat pooled low in her belly at the promise."And you'll smell like me?"
"Of course."He pulled back, eyes blazing with satisfaction."How I hated when I had to wash you off.It drove me half-mad every day."
Elizabeth traced the line of his jaw, feeling the muscle jump beneath her touch.Outside, the countryside rolled past unnoticed, the afternoon sun slanting through the windows to paint golden stripes across the leather seats.They had hours yet—hours of anticipation, of stolen kisses and wandering hands that never quite satisfied the building need between them.
"How much longer?"she asked.
Darcy's gaze never left her face."Too long."
He kissed her again, and Elizabeth forgot to care about the time.
* * *
The London townhouserose four stories above Grosvenor Square, its white stone facade gleaming in the late afternoon sun.Elizabeth pressed her nose to the carriage window, counting windows—twelve across each floor, all perfectly symmetrical, with iron balconies that curved like black lace against the pale stone.
"Welcome home," Darcy murmured against her ear.
Home.The word settled strange and warm in her chest.
The front door opened before they'd reached the steps, servants spilling out in neat lines.The butler, ancient and dignified, bowed low while the housekeeper curtsied, but Elizabeth caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth when Darcy helped her from the carriage with both hands, lingering far longer than necessary.
"Mrs.Darcy," the housekeeper—Mrs.Carroll—said warmly."We've prepared everything for you according to Mr.Darcy's instructions."
Somewhere behind them, housemaids collapsed into delighted whispers as Darcy's fingers came to rest at the curve of Elizabeth's spine, ushering her forward when she knew the way perfectly well.Through the fine silk, his thumb sketched endless circles, and Elizabeth found herself rewriting history—all those months of supposed indifference, when really he'd been holding himself back with iron control.Now, permission granted, he watched her move through his house like a man studying light through stained glass.
"This is the morning room," he told her softly, though servants trailed them like a bridal train."The sun comes through these windows first thing—wonderful for reading.And the library adjoins—" He threw open the doors onto a cathedral of books, shelves stretching up the walls."Any titles you desire, any authors—I'll have them brought from the shops tomorrow."
The house revealed itself as a love letter written in objects: the pianoforte's voice perfectly pitched, flowers chosen for their perfume, fires that had been burning long enough to warm the stones.He kept his world with the same fierce attention he now turned on her.
"Georgiana will be thrilled," he continued, leading her up the main staircase."Two more months at her finishing school, then we'll bring her home to Pemberley for good."
The third floor held only bedchambers.Darcy paused before an open door, gesturing her inside."Your rooms."
Someone had decorated this room for a ghost—a theoretical Mrs.Darcy who might appreciate French blue silk and Wedgwood cream, who would sit prettily at this unblemished vanity and arrange herself like another ornament.The furniture spoke money fluently but had forgotten how to speak desire.Even the air was perfumed with something expensive and forgettable.
Elizabeth touched the vanity's looking glass, her reflection wavering in its spotless surface.Not a fingerprint, not a memory embedded in this space.A stage set waiting for its actress.
"Did you even enter this room before today?"she asked the mirror, watching his reflection materialize behind her own.
