“I have something to tell you,” she said. “I have been waiting to be certain, and I think I have just become certain.” She took a breath. “I felt it. I think… I am with child.”
“You are...” He sank to his knees. His shoulders shook.
She put her hands in his hair and held him and let him have this, because she understood what it meant. Family. The family his father had lost. The proof that love did not have to end in devastation, that it could build something instead of destroying it, that the wanting he had been so afraid of could create life instead of grief.
“Fitzwilliam.” She tilted his face up. His eyes were wet and his expression was wrecked and she loved every line of it. “Are you happy?”
He laughed. The sound was thick and raw and beautiful.
“I spent most of my life believing that happiness was something that happened to other people,” he said. “That the best I could hope for was a tolerable existence, carefully managed, with as little feeling as possible.”
He stood. Took her face in both hands. Kissed her with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
“I was spectacularly wrong.”
Through the glass roof she could see the sky turning gold. Neither of them moved. His hand had not left her stomach.
“We should go in,” she said. “We have guests to dress for.”
“To the devil with our guests.” He took her face in both hands and kissed her. Hard. Kissed her the way he had kissed her in the cottage, the way he had kissed her in the carriage, the way he kissed her every night when the bedroom door closed and the rest of the world fell away. Fierce and thorough and completely without apology.
When he pulled back, she was breathless and his eyes were dark.
“Now we may return,” he said.
“That,” Elizabeth said, “was item one. I believe there are sixteen remaining.”
Elizabeth pulled him back down and kissed him again. He did not resist. His arms came around her and her back met the warm stone wall and the April light poured through the glass above them and neither of them gave a single thought to the dinner menu or the guests or any other sensible concerns.
They were quite late for dinner.
The End.
Thank you for Reading!
I hope you enjoyed this book. It was a delight to write! If so, you can join my reader club and get a free short story from me here (link URL: https://geni.us/md-nl)
You also might be interested in my book, Mr. Darcy Confesses His Love.
A secret kiss. A sister’s betrayal. Can Mr. Darcy sacrifice pride for the ultimate prize, Miss Elizabeth, warm and willing, in his marriage bed?
After rejecting Mr. Darcy’s first proposal, a visit to Pemberley and fate offers Elizabeth a second chance. And the attraction between them has only grown. But even if Mr. Darcy has taken steps to repair the broken beginning between Mr. Bingley and Jane, will their love survive Lydia’s betrayal?
Since botching his proposal at Hunsford, Mr. Darcy’s passion for Miss Elizabeth Bennet has only grown. When his sister, Georgiana, invites the Gardiners and Elizabeth to stay the night, a midnight encounter brings them together, but betrayal may tear them apart. Will Mr. Darcy sacrifice pride for the ultimate prize, Miss Elizabeth Bennet in his marriage bed?
Here’s a quick sample:
"Oh! Look at this, Elizabeth!" Mrs. Gardiner said, catching her breath as she pointed to the portrait above the mantelpiece in Pemberley’s main hallway. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was rendered in bold strokes in front of a fine chestnut steed.
“Humph,” Mr. Gardiner said, nodding at the portrait before turning to look at a series of Indian elephants, carved in ivory, on the mantle beneath. “Splendid horse.”
“Sleek, and well maintained,” said Mrs. Gardiner with a sly glance at Elizabeth. “A fine stallion.”
The frame, white with gold filigree around the edges, highlighted the horse’s defined musculature, black mane and gentle eyes. Mr. Darcy's eyes were gentle too, Elizabeth conceded, so different from his cold, hard gaze at the Netherfield ball.Different too from the intensity of his ardent declaration at Hunsford.
In Mr. Darcy’s home, she met the ghost of a different man. His features had always been striking. In the face of his insults and confounding behavior, she had admitted him handsome, at least to herself. Now, staring at this new rendering of him, their last encounter further conflicted her. At Hunsford, anger had consumed her in a righteous passion. The bond of sisterhood was more powerful than the tendrils of desire Elizabeth had relentlessly ignored in his presence. But faced with his image and her memories of his declaration, Elizabeth felt a different, embarrassing heat.
Such attraction was a betrayal of Jane. Besides, even if Mr. Darcy made amends, he would want nothing further to do with her. Elizabeth had made it dreadfully clear how little she wanted to do with him. Now, listening to his housekeeper’s sincere approbation, Elizabeth questioned herself. If only half of what Mrs. Reynolds said was true, Elizabeth had made a mistake and perhaps turned aside the possibility of love.
