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He came downstairs to find his wife. It did not take much searching, for she was exactly where he had left her. And she picked up the conversation precisely where they had left off. he conversation had been about oranges.

Elizabeth was very nearly nine months gone with their second child, and Darcy had spent the past several weeks becoming intimately acquainted with every chair she found comfortable, every staircase she ought not climb, and every expression that might indicate discomfort.

He was attempting to be reasonable about it, and by his own estimation, was succeeding admirably.

Apparently, Elizabeth’s estimation differed.

She sat at one end of the sofa with her feet raised upon a cushion, a letter open in her lap, and a stubbornness upon her face that Darcy recognised immediately.

“I did not say you could not purchase oranges,” she said before he had reached her. “I said you should not travel to purchase them yourself.”

Darcy stopped. “I had not said that I would.”

“You were about to.”

“I might have been about to say any number of things.”

“You were about to ask why Mrs. Reynolds informed you that she was sending Nash into Lambton tomorrow.”

He regarded her steadily. Five years of marriage had produced many wonderful and unexpected developments. Only a few were not as pleasant, one of which was Elizabeth’s ability to conduct not only her part of the debate but his as well, without requiring his participation.

“Mrs. Reynolds,” he said, “said that the instruction came from you.”

“It did.”

“Have I been forbidden to purchase oranges?”

“No. You have been forbidden to ride several miles through December weather.”

“I will take the coach.”

“Why must you go? Is it because you have decided Christmas will somehow fail if Pemberley does not possess the correct number of oranges?”

“I have not decided anything of the kind,” Darcy assured his wife.

She was tired. More than tired. Miserable, if he were to use a word she would certainly object to. Her hand rested over the great curve of her abdomen, and for just an instant there was something almost uncertain in her face.

The oranges had nothing to do with it, he decided, and felt like an idiot that he had not known this at once. She did not care whether he bought them, or whether Mrs. Reynolds sent a boy to buy them, or whether Pemberley celebrated Christmas without a single orange in the house.

She did not want him riding into Lambton because she did not want him several miles away in uncertain weather. The child was due so soon that every unusual pressure, every ache, every tightening might mean something—or nothing—and Elizabeth, who had spent most of the past months insisting that he need not hover, apparently wanted him close.

And when his wife wished him close, he was only too happy to comply.

“Very well,” he said.

Elizabeth blinked. “Very well?”

“I shall not go.”

Her shoulders eased ever so slightly, something Darcy did not think he would have noticed five years ago. Darcy sat down, settled back, and wrapped his arm around her.

“Mrs. Reynolds may purchase as many oranges as she pleases,” Elizabeth told him, leaning against his shoulder.

He kissed her temple. “That seems reckless.”

“She is a woman of excellent judgement.”

“Unlike me?”