Her words landed heavily, revealing her true wishes. She was merely satisfied—the word of a woman who has made her peace with less than she deserved and was determined not to complain about it. That she felt at ease to tell him meant she had no romantic designs on him. Perhaps it was just as well, but… a tiny ache nagged that he had, in the corners of his heart, wanted more.
“Satisfied,” he repeated.
“It is more than many women have. More than I expected, when my father first fell ill, and we began counting the months until the entail took everything.” Her chin lifted, that stubborn Bennet pride surfacing. “I am grateful, Mr. Darcy. You need not look at me as though I have announced a tragedy.”
“I am not—” He stopped, unsure what he was not doing. Looking at her with pity or guilt? Or with the growing, uncomfortable awareness that he wanted far more from this marriage than satisfaction, and that he had no right to want anything at all?
“You gave me a roof and a name and a child who handed me his wooden horse and told me to hold it safe.” Elizabeth’s voice softened. “Those are not small things. I do not need midnight declarations on top of them.”
“Elizabeth.” Her name felt different in his mouth than “Mrs. Darcy”—more intimate, dangerous. He saw her still at the sound of it. “If I could give you more than satisfaction… if I could give you something closer to what you dreamed?—”
“Mr. Darcy.” She held up a hand, and he saw something complicated move behind her eyes. “Please do not make promises out of guilt. I have accepted our arrangement as it stands, and I do not require… I am not asking for you to go against your principles and playact a romance for my benefit.”
“What if Iamasking?” Darcy’s breath hitched.
He saw the shift in Elizabeth’s posture, the way she pulled back, guarded and wary, and his stomach plummeted.
He had promised her security, a life of quiet respect, not the agonizing, unpredictable demands of a heart he had tried to keep buried. By suggesting more, he was reopening a door she had been wise enough to leave shut.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A WIFE’S RESPONSE
Elizabeth squeezedthe water from her bonnet, blinking the raindrops from her lashes as Darcy wrapped a rough horse blanket around her shoulders, covering her soaked riding habit. The horses had found the feed bin and were munching with the contentment of creatures who understood that storms were best waited out in warm, dry places, while Darcy stood back stiffly, as if assessing her condition. He looked away in a valiant effort not to stare at the way her hair hung loose around her shoulders, dripping steadily onto the packed-earth floor.
His question, more persistent than the raindrops on the roof, hung unanswered between them.What if I am asking?
She could not fathom why a man like Darcy—serious, proud, so thoroughly convinced of his own rightness in all matters—would concern himself with neighborhood speculation. They had a perfectly serviceable arrangement. She had Thomas to mother and a household to manage, and he had a wife who would not embarrass him at dinner parties, at least not too much.
Romance had never been part of the contract, and she had made peace with her decision to secure her sisters’ futures.
Yet here he stood, a stray wisp of hay in his hair and his cravat a casualty of the weather, regarding her as if her answer might alter the course of his existence.
“What exactly are you requesting?” She settled on a reply balanced between wit and honest inquiry. “If you are asking whether I require moonlit proclamations, then I can reassure you that I am quite capable of supplying poetry for your recitation. I have memorized several particularly overwrought sonnets that would have Georgiana swooning before the soup course.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “I never perform for the neighborhood, and my sister would read romantic intent into a simple request that you receive the vicar’s wife.”
“Well, then, you need not concern yourself with romantic intent, Mr. Darcy. We are well past the banns we did not post, and the uneaten wedding breakfast that was not provided. I have been assessed and vetted while sitting in the Darcy pew, and if you fear I might relinquish my position as your wife due to unmet romantic expectations, your concern is misplaced. You have done your husbandly duty admirably this afternoon. I hazarded Mrs. Bickford’s interrogation and old Hobson’s delight at my seat—quite ladylike, he had proclaimed. With the horseback tour of Lambton attended by the surrounding whispers, I believe I am thus thoroughly oriented.”
“I would wish you, Elizabeth—” He caught himself on her name, as though it had escaped without permission. “Mrs. Darcy, for you to be entirely comfortable with what I can provide. You may have wishes I have not addressed, and I would not want to be remiss.”
Did he wish to be seen by the community as the perfect husband? But why, when he had already fulfilled his part of the bargain? Her father’s debts were settled, the roof was on itsway to sanity, and her mother’s nerves soothed by the liberal application of pound sterling.
Elizabeth lifted her chin, half-suspecting the rain had unsettled his wits. This was not the same disagreeable gentleman of Meryton memory, and she found herself at a loss. That man had never troubled himself with her comfort or her feelings—certainly not when he delivered his infamous insult at the assembly, nor during his glacial silences at Netherfield, nor in any of their brief, awkward encounters before the day he had marched into her father’s study and offered for her hand.
“I rather thought we had covered the essentials,” she said lightly. “Roofs and settlements and the proper care and feeding of two-year-olds who bite.”
“Elizabeth.” He cleared his throat. “May I call you Elizabeth?”
“I thought you had already established that particular claim, but yes, should you require my assent again.” A faint suspicion stirred, even as she spoke. Men had their needs, as her mother had often hinted, gesturing vaguely at heirs and obligations. Perhaps this was merely the overture to asserting what he was owed by the marriage contract.
“I would rather you grant me a privilege rather than take a claim,” he asserted, and the hesitation in his tone compelled her to look more closely.
He had drawn nearer—when had that happened?—and she became acutely conscious of the warmth radiating from his nearness, the breadth of his shoulders beneath the damp coat, and the way his gaze held hers without wavering.
She nodded, swallowing against a sudden tightness in her throat. He wanted her, but was polite enough to ask. So, then, this was the moment leading up to the kiss. Was that not how it worked? A man spoke honorable words, assuring her of his regard, murmuring about weddings and about how she was thecleverest woman he had ever met, before maneuvering a woman into a dim, enclosed place, like this hay barn, and then he would touch her cheek, lift her chin, and…
Except this man had already married her. He had every right to the compliance she owed him as a wife. She braced herself, tilted her chin, and waited, not daring to breathe. Darcy was handsome, even while rude and insufferable, and he had been wretchedly kind since the day he marched her to the chapel. The distance between them had been eroding for weeks: he had gifted her a writing desk, bound her wounded thumb with liniment, and wrapped her in this musty blanket.
