There was a brief spark of pleasure, immediately followed by a wince, as if the name itself had struck a discordant note. The warmth in his expression faltered, his shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly. “Fitzwilliam,” he echoed, his voice suddenly more formal, “I confess…it seems an unexpected choice, coming from you.” He grimaced, as if to dislodge an unwelcome thought. “I beg your pardon. That was poorly said. It is merely unexpected.”
“Unexpected? Your given name? Am I to believe you are so very punctilious, sir, that you find my use of it astonishing?”
He gave her a peculiar look. “It is my cousin’s name, too.”
The sudden shuttering of his expression was a more telling answer than any words could have been. It was a look she had seen before, she realised.
Her mind, seizing upon his strange reaction and his even stranger words, began to connect the threads. There were his abrupt, cold withdrawals after she laughed with his cousin, and the silence he would adopt at dinner whenever her conversation with Richard became too animated.
Even his behaviour, his careful cordiality in the recent days, perhaps had not been born of a lack of feeling, but precisely the opposite. Perhaps it had been the conduct of a man who would not do her the disservice of imposing his own affections where he believed they were not wanted…because they were otherwise engaged.
He had believed she preferred his cousin.
The notion thatMr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberleycould be jealous was so astonishingly unexpected, so astonishingly human, that a warm, incredulous laugh bubbled up within her. It was a contradiction so at odds with the self-assured front he maintained, so contrary to the immense magical power he commanded, that it almost took her breath away. It was precisely the kind of wonderful irony she would have once delighted in pointing out.
But the laugh died in her throat before it could form. To meet this vulnerable honesty with a teasing wit seemed an unkindness. He did not need her laughter now; he needed her assurance.
Instead of answering first with words, which he could so easily misinterpret, she simply reached out and took his hand in her own.
It was the first time they had ever touched this way, skin to skin, hand to hand, without the polite barrier of gloves. His hand, which had been resting on his knee, tensed for a fractionof a second at the unexpected touch before his fingers, as if by some instinct of their own, curled to meet hers. The size and strength of his hand, now so intimately woven with her own, sent a pulse of warmth through her.
He looked down at their hands as if he had never seen such a thing before, then back up at her, a silent question in his eyes.
“My esteem is reserved for you alone,” she said, “Indeed, when you are before me, all others fade from my notice entirely.”
A new, more intense light kindled in his eyes.
“Though to avoid confusion,” she continued, though her heart began to hammer against her ribs from the way he was looking at her, “I suppose I will call you ‘Darcy’ when the colonel is around.”
He did not seem to hear her words, only the invitation beneath them. The distance between them simply dissolved. Suddenly, he was close, so close she could feel the heat from him.
“And…perhaps…when we are quite alone, I might venture to say ‘Fitzwilliam,’” she whispered.
A ghost of his rare, beautiful, and utterly disarming smile softened his expression. “We are quite alone now.”
The truth of his words, the sudden, charged intimacy of their sitting room, washed over her. Yes. Yes, they were. Entirely. And the realisation sent a fresh, potent shiver of anticipation through her.
He leaned in again, and this time there was no hesitation, no questioning. His lips met hers with a new possessiveness. It was a kiss that melted the last vestiges of her reserve, a kiss that promised a future she was only just beginning to dare to imagine. And as she returned his kiss with answering fervour, a single word escaped her lips against his: “Fitzwilliam.”
When they finally came apart, both breathless, Darcy rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, as if savouring the precious intimacy of the moment.
Then, with a visible effort, he drew back slightly. “Elizabeth, I would not wish to press upon you sentiments I know were once unwelcome, however - ”
But Elizabeth, her own heart still soaring, her senses still reeling from the intoxicating sweetness of his kiss, the even more intoxicating sound of her name on his lips, had no patience for carefully worded discussions, for the cautious, hesitant parsing of feelings. Not now. Not when this new and wonderful reality was still so precious, so easily bruised by doubt or delay.
She silenced him with another kiss, softer this time, but with more confidence.
“They are no longer unwelcome,” she whispered against his lips, a smile in her voice. “Let us dispense with words; they have seldom served us well.”
It was a slow, wonderful exploration. One kiss melted into another, each one softer, yet more certain than the last. His hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb gently stroking the curve of her face as if learning her features. He kissed her again, a lingering press of his lips against hers that spoke of weeks of longing.
A sigh trembled from her as his touch, so gentle at first, sent a delightful shiver through her. With each soft sound she made, she felt the nature of his kiss begin to change. What had been tender and questioning now became deeper, more urgent. She felt something tighten within her, some strange sensation low in her belly.
He pulled back then, with a grace that was almost painful in its control. “You have made me happier than I ever believed possible. I wish nothing more than to remain with you,” he said, his voice strained. “Which is precisely why I must leave before reason abandons me entirely. I will see you in the morning, Elizabeth.”
“Fitzwilliam…” she breathed, the name an entreaty, a question, and an acceptance all at once.
To let the wonderful moment end felt like a sharp, unwelcome deprivation, yet to ask for more was a precipice she had not yet found the courage to leap from. She was frozen there, caught between the pain of his retreat and the fear of his advance. And before she could choose a direction, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
