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“Then I shall take care that your slippers remain pristine,” he murmured. “You need not fear.”

He drew her to the center of the room, where the candlelight pooled on the floorboards and the fire had burned down to embers. His right hand found the curve of her waist, and her left hand settled on his shoulder. Their clasped hands rose between them, and they were closer than they had ever been—closer than the pavilion, closer than the garden where she had proposed, closer than the library where he had held her against his chest.

He could feel her breathing and savor the faint lavender of her hair, the ghost of the primrose she had worn behind her ear.

“We move to the count of three; you can count,” he said.

“I suppose I am able to count that high,” she said, as they began to move.

Without music, the rhythm came from them alone—the steady count she whispered under her breath, and the pressure of his hand guiding her through the turns. “You are a tolerable dancer, Mr. Darcy,” she said, and her voice was softer than her words.

“Merely tolerable?”

“I am adjusting my expectations upward, but slowly, so as not to encourage complacency.”

He turned her, and her skirt brushed his leg. The firelight caught her face—the brightness of her eyes, the curve of her mouth he had been watching since Hertfordshire, the flush at her throat she could not govern. She looked at him with expectation, startled and uncertain, as if she were arriving at a conclusion she had not sought and could not prevent.

He drew her closer, and she did not resist. Her hand had shifted on his shoulder, her fingers resting now against the fabric of his coat rather than hovering above it, and through the thin muslin of her gown he could feel the curve of her waist beneath his palm. The dance was slowing, though neither of them had acknowledged it—their steps smaller, their circles tighter, until they were barely moving at all, simply swaying together in the candlelight.

“Elizabeth,” he said.

She tilted her face up to meet his gaze. Her lips parted slightly, her breath coming in small puffs, and he wanted to kiss her so badly it was a physical ache.

And he felt her wanting it too, as her eyes softened and a lovely blush filled her cheeks. But he would not—not yet—because she was only beginning to trust, and he wanted their first kiss to come when love declared itself.

He was there, at the precipice, falling and not regretting it, but he would not take anything she was not prepared to offer. So instead of leaning down to close the distance between them, he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur. “For this evening. For the walk this morning. For—” He stopped himself before he could say more. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” she replied, “for asking.”

She held his gaze just past comfort, just as long as necessity demanded, then let go, stepped back, and the room resumed its proper proportions. The evening had ended.

She crossed to the door, stopped, and turned back. “The wine was exceptional, Fitzwilliam. Your father had excellent taste.”

“In wine, certainly. In other matters, his judgment was more variable.”

“I begin to think the same might be said of all the Darcy men.” She smiled—that smile, directed at him—and was gone.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE KEYS TO PEMBERLEY

The dinner with Darcy was enchantment twice over, and Elizabeth walked on air, not quite ready to consider what that silent waltz or Mr. Darcy ladling soup onto the tablecloth meant. Mrs. Reynolds’s sitting room, however, brought her back to Pemberley’s immediate needs.

She had finally been invited into the inner sanctum by the household accounts ledger. Darcy had not spoken to her about it, preferring to greet her every morning with a stiff bow and conversation ranging from volcanoes to sea voyages, Arctic birds to Indian shawls. And hence, Elizabeth was surprised when Mrs. Reynolds approached her after breakfast one morning and asked her to join her in her sitting room.

Instead of a cramped and dusty room, Elizabeth found a comfortable parlor with good light, a well-tended fire, and shelves lined with leather-bound ledgers whose spines bore dates stretching back half a century.

No speech or introductory remarks, nothing formal or stilted. Mrs. Reynolds ordered tea and set a ledger before Elizabeth. “The stillroom inventory, ma’am. We are well-stocked in preserves and cordials through the summer, but the lavender stores are low. Lady Anne used to order from a supplier in Provence, but with the war…”

Elizabeth ran her finger down the columns, absorbing the rhythm of household supply and demand. Beeswax candles, tallow candles, soap, salt, sugar, tea. She noted the expense of imported fragrances. “We shall manage with the native English lavender.”

“Yes, Lady Anne would agree, although she was an Earl’s daughter and accustomed to the finer details.”

“Is this her writing?” Elizabeth turned the page and noted the faded ink. Rose water, 2 gallons. Primrose cordial for the master’s cough.

“Yes, and it is time you are presented with these.” She crossed to a cabinet and returned with an iron ring, heavy with brass and iron keys of varying sizes. “Mr. Darcy asked that you take charge of his household.”