Page 145 of Triumph at Pemberley

Her lips quirked. “Just what every estate needs, would you not say?”

How much he loved her! Elizabeth had dealt with it all in good humor, from Napoleon to being on the run in France, from High Fae attacks to being the prisoner of the Wicked King himself. Even lynx kittens climbing her bed curtains were just another source of amusement for her.

What a treasure he had discovered in her, purely by accident! Would he have recognized her fine qualities if the war had not forced him into marrying her? “I suppose we will have fewer problems with poachers.”

Elizabeth reached out to scratch under his lynx’s ears. The creature pressed his head against her hand and rumbled a loud purr. “Tell me, Fire Eyes, which one has the High Queen chosen for Jenny’s familiar?” Her voice had a laugh in it.

Of course. Darcy should have realized it. His mother had arranged for him to have the most powerful familiar possible, which had proved to be a royal lynx. Once again Elizabeth was a step ahead of him.

The lynx batted his eyes at her, then pushed an image of the kitten hanging from the bedcurtain into Darcy’s mind.

Darcy pointed. “That one, apparently.”

The kit displayed its tiny, sharp teeth and hissed at his finger, a sound which would barely even have frightened a mouse. It made Darcy chuckle.

“A fierce one,” Elizabeth said with mock solemnity. “Very appropriate. Now, in the meantime….” She slid her arms around Darcy in an unmistakable manner, sending desire throbbing through him. In a husky voice, she added, “Perhaps we had best sleep in your room tonight.”

Leaning down to press a kiss on the side of her neck, he tasted the sweetness of her soft skin. “An excellent idea, my love.”

Even if he had no intention of sleeping any time soon.

The End

Epilogue

Seven years later

A scratching sound came from the study door, and Darcy looked up to see five-year-old Francis Radetsky, his big eyes wide with worry. “Sir?” he said hesitantly. The poor boy never knew what to call him, since his father insisted he use ‘Mr. Darcy’ and his mother said it should be ‘Fitzwilliam.’ Francis, who hated being in trouble, split the difference and never called him anything but ‘Sir.’

“Yes, Francis?” he asked.

“Jack fell again, sir, and hurt himself.” The boy hung his head, as if it were somehow his fault. Whereas everyone knew that Darcy’s son Jack, now nearly seven, was as much of a daredevil as his Uncle Jack had been as a boy.

“Again?” Darcy exclaimed. “How bad is it this time?”

Francis screwed up his face. “He’s crying. I told him not to climb so high, really I did, but he never listens! He didn’t want me to tell you, but Uncle Jack said we had to.”

Of course his son wanted to keep it a secret, and his best friend Francis wanted to tell. It was always that way. Francis was far more cautious and rule bound. His father, Josef Radetzky, the son of an Austrian baron, was one of the dragon companions who had stayed at Pemberley while his dragon visited the new Nest. Most of those visitors eventually moved into the new Companion House, but Josef never left. Darcy had wondered about it until the day Josef asked Darcy’s permission to make an offer to his mother.

When she heard that news, Elizabeth had laughed and said, “Hardly a surprise after all the time he spends at the Dower House! Your mother is still young from the time she lost in Faerie; her body is only seven years older than yours.”

So Lady Anne finally had a mage husband to whom she had no repulsion, and later that year she shocked everyone by producing young Francis. Darcy had barely adjusted to having a new baby sister, and now he had a half-brother, too. Even if he felt more like the children’s uncle than their brother.

Darcy pushed his chair back. “Take me to him, then. Where is he?” He hoped it would not be too serious. This was one of Coquelicot’s beloved hospital days, and he hated to interrupt her when she was healing desperately ill children who had traveled long distances for the miraculous chance of a healthy life.

Francis hung his head. “Down the lane, in the lime trees.”

Darcy swallowed a curse. “One of these days I am going to cut every one of those trees down,” he threatened. He would not, of course; they had been planted on his grandfather’s orders, but ever since young Jack had learned that Topaz had a vision of him climbing one of them, he seemed to have made it his personal mission to reach the top of each tree. No matter how many gray hairs it gave his parents. He followed Francis outside.

Just past the curve in the lane, Darcy spotted his brother Jack, who now went by the name of Watson, standing over a small form on the gravel. Young Jack’s face was tear-stained, his arm bent at an unnatural angle. It must be agonizing. Topaz, who was now Jack’s shadow instead of his, was curled up beside him, his head resting on Jack’s chest.

Darcy came to stand next to his brother. He had long ago decided to consider Jack his brother rather than his cousin, especially since everyone at Pemberley who had known him before thought so. “I see he called for the sympathetic adult first,” he said dryly.

Jack grinned. “I understand why boys climb trees, even when they keep falling.”

Darcy jostled him with his elbow, then said to his son, “One day you will hurt yourself badly enough that Coquelicot cannot fix you, and then you will be sorry.”

Young Jack pouted. “You don’t want me to do anything interesting. And it’s not fair. Jenny gets to go to Faerie all the time and I am stuck here.” It was a refrain Darcy was all too familiar with.