Decision made, Darcy bent and slid one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. She was slight in his grasp and murmured something indistinct as he lifted her, her head lolling to rest against his shoulder.
As he made his way to the bed, he was conscious of every step, every shift in his grip that might wake her. Elizabeth’s hand, which had been dangling loosely, moved to rest against his chest.
He reached the bed and lowered her with painstaking gentleness. She relaxed into the pillows with a soft sigh, and he began to withdraw, only to have her hand tighten in his coat.
“Stay,” she mumbled, the word thick with sleep.
He froze. “Elizabeth?”
There was no response. Her breathing had already deepened again, her grip loosening but not releasing entirely. She was asleep, likely unaware she had even spoken.
He extracted himself slowly, removing his coat and boots before settling on his side of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. Elizabeth shifted, turned towards him and curled against his side with the unconscious trust of deep sleep.
She sighed again, this time with what sounded distinctly like contentment, and went still.
Darcy lay rigid, hardly daring to move. He was acutely conscious of every point where her body pressed against his. The distance they had maintained previously, even sharing this bed,had been absolute and unbreachable. Now Elizabeth pressed against him, her breathing slow and even against his neck.
He ought to maintain the boundaries they had tacitly established, which meant that sharing a bed did not mean sharing proximity or touch or any of the intimacies marriage technically permitted but neither had yet claimed.
Instead, after a long moment of internal debate, his arm came up to rest around her shoulders.
She burrowed closer in response and made a small sound of satisfaction.
Darcy stared at the canopy overhead, his heart beating far too quickly for sleep. Yet gradually, as Elizabeth’s chest rose and fell, exhaustion pulled at him with insistent weight.
His last conscious thought was that this—Elizabeth sleeping in his arms—felt unexpectedly, impossibly right.
***
Darcy woke slowly, consciousness returning in gradual stages. The bed beside him was empty, the linens still holding a distinctiveness that suggested Elizabeth had risen not long ago. He could hear her moving about behind the dressing screen, accompanied by the soft rustle of fabric.
He sat up, running a hand through his hair. Had last night actually occurred, or had exhaustion played tricks with his memory? It had in fact happened. He recalled Elizabeth waiting in the chair, him carrying her to bed, and the way she had curled against him in sleep.
And this morning she was awake before him. The question was whether she remembered any of what had passed between them, or if sleep had wiped the slate clean and left him alone with awareness of their intimacy.
The sounds behind the screen ceased and Elizabeth emerged fully into the room.
She had already dressed in a simple morning gown of pale blue muslin and stood now at the dresser. Her hair fell nearly to her waist when unbound, thick and lustrous.
She had not yet noticed that he was awake. He remained still, arrested by the simple intimacy of the scene. How many mornings had passed where he woke alone and broke his fast alone?
For as long as he could remember, his parents had maintained separate chambers and distinct routines. His father had once mentioned, almost wistfully, that he missed the early days of matrimony when such small domestic moments had been shared.
Now Darcy understood with sudden clarity what his father had meant. Watching Elizabeth brush her hair in the morning light and the way she tilted her head to work through a tangle, these were not grand romantic gestures. Yet it was meaningful in ways that surpassed mere aesthetic appreciation.
“Good morning,” he murmured.
Elizabeth started, nearly dropping the brush. She turned, colour rose in her cheeks. “I did not realise you were awake. Forgive me, I should have been quieter.”
“You were not disturbing. I was …watching.”
Her blush deepened and she looked away, resuming her brushing with slightly less assurance than before. “I wanted to thank you. For last night. I remember falling asleep in the chair like a complete fool. And I woke up this morning in bed, which means you must have carried me there. It was very considerate. I am grateful you did not leave me to wake with a dreadful crick in my neck and the mortification of having failed at keeping vigil.”
“I could hardly leave my wife sleeping in a chair.”
“Still. It was kind.” She secured her hair with pins, the movements now brisk and efficient. “I hope I was not too heavy or awkward to manage.”
“Not at all. However, I am curious what prompted you to wait up. I did not expect to return to find you awake.”
