Elizabeth thought of Clarice’s advice earlier that evening—trust him, let yourself feel—and felt warmth return to her cheeks. “She suits me very well. She is direct, a quality I appreciate.”
“She was recommended to me by London friends. She knew no one at Pemberley prior to her arrival, and she was known for her discretion.”
“Then she has not only seen a great deal but is wise enough to keep her own counsel. A rare quality indeed.”
The soup course was cleared, replaced by a selection of cold meats and cheeses that required little ceremony. They spoke of the estate—the tenants Elizabeth had met, the improvements Darcy was planning, and the harvest that promised abundance in the coming autumn. Safe subjects, comfortable topics, the ordinary business of two people learning to share a life.
Yet beneath the comfortable conversation, Elizabeth was keenly aware of his touch, the candlelight playing across his features, the intimacy of this small table in his private chamber. Each brush of his fingers sent warmth spiraling through her; each smile felt like a secret bestowed.
When the syllabub appeared—rose-scented and crowned with crystallized petals that caught the light—Elizabeth felt her breath catch.
“You remembered.” Her eyes widened. “I didn’t believe you noticed.”
“How could I not?” Darcy lifted the serving spoon, his eyes never leaving hers. “I remember everything about you.”
He filled a small dish and held it toward her. She reached for the spoon, but he drew it back slightly, a question in his expression.
“Allow me.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. She should take the dish herself. It would be proper, dignified, and appropriate to her station. Instead, she leaned forward, parting her lips, as he placed the spoon to her mouth.
The syllabub was perfect—light and sweet, the rose water delicate. But she barely tasted it as she was too aware of hiseyes on her mouth, of the way his breath had shortened, and the electric tension that had gathered between them like a storm waiting to break.
“Elizabeth.” Her name emerged rough, almost reverent. “You are?—”
“Yes?”
He shook his head slightly, as though words had abandoned him. Instead, he offered another spoonful, and she accepted it with the same deliberate slowness, holding his gaze throughout.
The fire crackled, candles flickered, and the distance between them shrank with every stretched breath.
“Come.” Darcy rose, extending his hand. “Let us sit somewhere more comfortable. I thought we might read together.”
The settee was arranged before the fire, draped with a deep green wool blanket. A book lay on the side table—Shakespeare’s sonnets. Darcy settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, and lifted the volume.
“Shall I read to you?”
Elizabeth tucked her feet beneath her, settling into the cushions with a boldness that would have scandalized her mother. “Please.”
His voice was lower than usual. “Sonnet 29,” flowing with an intimacy that transformed familiar words into something new. She found herself watching his mouth rather than listening to the verses—the shape of his lips, the way they moved around syllables, and the catch in his breath when he glanced up and found her staring.
The fire had burned low, casting shadows that made the room feel smaller, more secret. He stopped reading.
“You are not attending,” he observed.
“I am attending very closely.” Her voice was low and intimate. “Merely not to the words themselves.”
Color rose along his cheekbones, and he set aside the book. “Elizabeth?—”
His breath was uneven now, no longer steady, and the way he stared at her… heated and yet restrained, waiting. For her.
And so, she kissed him.
It seemed the natural thing to do—the only thing to do—when he was sitting so close and looking at her with such undisguised wanting. Her hands found his shoulders, then his hair, and his arms came around her with a hunger that stole her breath.
His hands traced paths along the small of her back, making her arch toward him while a tingling awareness danced around her waist. His lips kissed a line from her earlobe down the column of her neck to the place where her pulse beat wildly beneath her skin. She gasped—small mewing sounds escaping her that were entirely improper and entirely beyond her control. And she felt him smile against her neck.
“Elizabeth.” His voice was ragged. “If we continue?—”
