“And I am sure Carew felt safe walking in Pemberley’s park, even as she approached whoever it was who murdered her!”
She flinched, and he winced at having raised his voice. “I am sorry, my dear. It is simply a horrible thought, that she knew her attacker but had not known to be afraid of him. She might not have even run or defended herself because he was supposed to be a gentleman, the master’s friend.” He gripped her a little tighter. “I brought this into my home, Elizabeth.”
“Oh, Fitzwilliam, it is not your fault.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek, lingering there. “Guilt is a terrible taskmaster.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, it is.”
“You have a responsibility to everyone at Pemberley, of course, for their safety, their happiness—but you did not kill Carew. You cannot take on all of this guilt. Leave some for Mr Balfour or Mr Utterson. They are to blame, not you.”
He nodded and gave a half-smile. She was not wrong, of course, but that did not lessen his self-reproach.
“I am torturing myself thinking of what Carew’s final moments must have been like,” he said, remembering turning over her body in the stream, the blood on the side of her head. “Of what her father suffers now and will suffer further when I tell him that my friend, the friend of the man who employs him and employed his daughter, who he had a right to expect would keep his daughter safe...” He shook his head.
“You cannot carry the pain of someone else’s loss.”
“In this case, I think I can.”
She brought a hand to his cheek and gave him a sad smile. “Then you shall have to let me help you carry the burden.”
Darcy brought his hands to her face and pressed a soft kiss against her mouth. He tried to draw back and thank her, but Elizabeth increased the pressure of her lips and coaxed his lips apart, slipping her tongue deep into his mouth. The intensity in her kiss set his mind whirling and gave him the courage to let his hands move up from her hips.
Elizabeth moaned softly into his mouth, and rather than tensing under his touch, she pressed into his hands, making desperate littlesounds that spurred him on. He could have kissed her and touched her like this for hours, but Elizabeth pulled away to kiss his jaw and neck. Darcy sighed at this calmer feeling after such a passionate exchange, but then she moved her hand from around his shoulder to down between them to touch him.
The air in his lungs escaped in a rush, his voice low due to his tightening throat. “You don’t have?—”
“I want to,” she murmured into his ear.
He could hardly argue with such a reasonable answer. It was a foreign sensation to feel someone else’s fingers drawing him to life. Even through his clothes, he shuddered at the gentle contact. After enjoying it for longer than he should, he moved her hand away and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tighter against him, seeking her lips. She relaxed into him, parting her lips and offering her tongue, but this time both of their hands stayed in one place.
“Will you come to bed with me?” she asked after this exchange ended.
His heart raced along with his ardour even as he shook his head. “This... this pain, this grief about what happened—it is a terrible reason to go to bed with you.”
“Only if it was the only reason.” Her eyes were dark and full of meaning. “If Hester, or Caroline, or any other woman came in here looking to comfort you, would you have let them this far into the room?” He shook his head. “There is nothing wrong with your finding solace with me.” She shifted in his lap and gave a quick downward glance, her lips parted. “If you said yes, it would be because you love me, and have loved me for months, and because I have promised to marry you.”
What had before been only transient desires, Elizabeth inspired in him a rising passion, and thoughts of her as his wife began to take a more settled hold in his imagination. He had never felt the calm satisfaction of being loved, and certainly not by someone who so well understood him. Darcy brought a hand to her cheek, running his thumb across her lips until she gave it a firm kiss. “I have been a fool. I should have asked you to marry me a week ago, and I should have said yes the moment the invitation left your lips.”
Her brow creased in sympathy. “Not a fool, Fitzwilliam. Perhaps you have been... rather too much of a gentleman.”
“Then ask me again.”
“If I were to invite you to come to my room in ten minutes and”—she blushed prettily but did not look away—“and stay for the rest of the night, would you?”
“Of course.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Elizabeth dressed for bed and paced with a mixture of tension and excitement. She was ending the day with a complete reversal of her situation, and at various moments was certain she would laugh from happiness at finally being assured of Darcy’s love or laugh from nerves at knowing what was to happen now.
She had to appear at least outwardly composed before Darcy entered. She knew enough of his character that if she appeared unsettled, he was certain to not spend the night with her.
She tried to remember what Jane had told her, and almost wished she had asked Hester if she had any helpful advice. What was slyly spoken of at weddings and christenings were perhaps the most useful hints she had. But they were two intelligent, curious people who loved each other; how difficult could it be?
There was a soft knock, and the door opened. Darcy entered with a hurried air, and she saw him bend and flex his fingers as though his hand had shaken whilst he closed the door.
“You are here,” she said, rather dumbly, she realised.
He tilted his head. “Did your heart prophecise some mischance? Did you think I would get lost?” He smiled. “You cannot have thought that I would change my mind.”
