Page 83 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

"I shall not. I have not so much as turned an ankle since November." She looked out over the lake. It was frozen at the edges, gray and glassy, and the far bank was all bare beeches. "Is it not beautiful?"

"Yes," said Darcy. He was not looking at the lake.

She had walked every morning since they came to Pemberley. She walked to the lake, and up through the beech woods. Once she went all the way to the lodge and back before breakfast. Mrs. Reynolds had been scandalized. The gardeners had grown used to her. Darcy had given up trying to keep pace and simply came with her.

Her ankle never hurt now. Some mornings she forgot she had ever hurt it at all. Then she would come to a stile, or a ditch, or a hollow tree, and remember.

They walked along the edge of the lake. The ice creaked and settled near the shore.

Darcy stopped. He pulled off his right glove and put it in his pocket. He took her hand and drew off her glove too, one finger at a time.

"Fitzwilliam. It is freezing."

"I know." He laced his bare fingers through hers.

His palm was warm against her cold one. She could feel the scar across the middle of it, smooth and a little ridged, pressed against her own skin.

They walked on, hand in bare hand, and her fingers were warm before they reached the boathouse.

At the end of the lake the path climbed to a stile in the park wall. Elizabeth went up the steps first. At the top she stopped and looked down at him.

He held up his arms.

She had stopped teasing him about it weeks ago. He liked to lift her down from things. He lifted her down from the carriage, and from stiles. Once he lifted her down from the library steps, though she could perfectly well climb down herself. She had decided to let him.

She put her hands on his shoulders, and he lifted her down onto the path.

He held her by the waist, with her feet just touching the frozen ground.

Then he bent his head and kissed her. His mouth was cold for a moment, and then it was not. The old heat kindled at the first touch. Her hands slid up from his shoulders into his hair. His mouth went to her throat, under the edge of her bonnet.

"Fitzwilliam. We are in full view of the house."

"It is half a mile off," he said against her skin. "Let them look."

When he lifted his head at last, they were both breathing hard. Her feet were still not quite on the ground.

"I am heavier than I look," said Elizabeth.

He raised his eyebrows. She had not said it since November.

"You weigh precisely what you ought," he said.

"Today," said Elizabeth.

He looked at her, puzzled. She only smiled, and tucked her bare hand back into his, and walked on.

She had not said anything to him yet. She could not be sure of anything before the quickening, and that was months away.

Mrs. Reynolds had sent up dry toast for three mornings running, and said nothing at all. She had a very knowing way of saying nothing. Elizabeth had eaten the toast, and gone out walking, and thought a great deal.

She would tell him what she suspected tonight. She had decided where, and when.

They came in through the garden door with red faces and cold ears. Georgiana was at the pianoforte in the music room. She played them up the stairs, very loudly. She laughed when Darcy put his head round the door to complain.

They did not come down again until the dinner bell had rung twice.

There was a letter from Longbourn on the hall table.