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“Well, you are not a woman.”

He chuckled. Darcy took her hand, and Elizabeth’s fingers closed around his at once. He turned her hand over gently and pressed his mouth to her knuckles.

“I shall stay home. I will not be far away,” he said.

Darcy could see that Elizabeth was both relieved and grateful, and he chastised himself for that. His wife should never have to feel grateful to him for anything so simple as being near when she needed him.

“You bought two dozen oranges the first Christmas we spent together,” she reminded him.

“There were a considerable number of people in the house.”

“There were eleven.”

“As I said. The children enjoyed them.”

“My aunt too. We used a few for the kissing bough and one for my uncle’s wine. Which left us with a dozen uneaten.”

“Bingley managed to finish them.”

She laughed at that.

Darcy allowed himself a moment merely to look at his wife.

Her hair was dressed simply tonight. Elaborate arrangements had largely been done away with, for sitting for too long was difficult. Her gown had been altered twice in the past month and yet seemed to trouble her. She had informed him that morning that her ankles had disappeared altogether and suggested that, if he wished to be useful, he might organise a search for them.

He had nearly summoned the physician, but he asked her first and she had told him it would be soon, but not yet.

Darcy had been accustomed to responsibility for too long. At Pemberley, problems were presented to him and then were solved. Decisions had to be made, and he had learned how to make them. People depended upon him to notice what was needed before they asked.

It had taken Elizabeth to teach him that a wife was not an estate. Nor was Anne. And presumably the child presently making it impossible for Elizabeth to rise from a chair without someone holding out both hands and hauling her to her feet would not be the same either.

The difficulty was that loving them had not lessened his instinct to protect, it had in fact made it considerably worse. He had simply become better at asking before acting.

Usually.

Darcy glanced towards the door, although there was no reason to expect Anne to appear in it. Her nursemaid had strict instructions, and his daughter’s yawns during the second story had been so strong that she had been objecting to bedtime while her eyes were closed.

Three years ago, Anne had not existed. The thought occasionally stopped him, for he could barely recall what life had been like without her.

He recalled very well the terrifying wait outside Elizabeth’s chamber. Then someone had placed a furious red infant into his arms and informed him that she was his daughter. She could not speak then, or walk, or do much more than eat and sleep and cry.

Now she had more complicated needs and desires and was beginning to issue commands.

Darcy was not certain he would ever become accustomed to the speed with which his life had changed—or the speed with which it was proceeding.

His gaze dropped to Elizabeth’s abdomen.

“Fitzwilliam.”

“Yes?”

“You are doing it again.”

“What?”

“Watching me. I promise that when I am ready to be brought to bed, you shall know it.” She arched her back. “The entire household will know it.”

Darcy took the pillow, flipped it over, and placed it at the far end of the sofa. Then he carefully lifted her feet into his lap.