Darcy packed the car while Elizabeth gathered flowers. He felt raw, spent, renewed. His thoughts rarely strayed from the events of the night before, the words they’d spoken; he’d cracked open and poured out a torrent of emotions. He felt happy today, deeply in love, and calmly astonished at all he’d emptied out. He—Fitzwilliam Arthur Darcy of Eton, Cambridge, and Harvard—sounded more like a Hallmark card than like John Donne, yet he didn’t care a bit. Elizabeth Bennet loved him. She knew the worst of him, and she refused to dwell on his flaws and mistakes. Instead, she’d told him all that was good and all that she loved about him. He stared at the luggage and took a deep breath. Happiness was rather difficult to get used to.
He awoke that morning with Elizabeth in his arms, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. They’d made love nearly a dozen times since Friday. He remembered it all. Twice Friday afternoon, again that night, and once during the wee hours when they’d awakened and each reached, almost blindly, for the other. And again when they woke up on Saturday, and once more after dinner before they went to look at the stars. And under the stars, she had given him absolution and the purest look of love he could imagine receiving. Then she’d led him inside to bed, and they’d made love, slowly and gently while he’d whispered words to her that didn’t begin to express the depth of his feeling and gratitude—vast reserves of love and adoration he knew would never empty. He awakened just before dawn and reached forher, and she’d pulled him to her and held him closely, silently. That morning, hearing rumbles of thunder, they’d stayed in bed, talking about the history of the house and their work demands for the week ahead and sharing silly stories and sweet endearments. When they began working on an oldSunday Timescrossword puzzle and he’d put on his glasses to read the clues, Elizabeth’s eyes had lit up in surprise. He had no complaints about the appreciation she’d shown for his scholarly look. “Glasses and stubble. Oh, you are such a keeper,” she’d sighed before pulling him to her.
They’d made love again and taken a walk along the rain-swept beach before giving in to the reality of the long drive back to the city. Over the past day, he’d shared stories of things barely remembered: teaching Georgie to swim in the pool, the sand castles she asked him to build, the last slice of cheesecake his mother always saved for him. Elizabeth listened, asked questions, and told a few funny stories about Jane and her stepsisters. But with the return to real life came the awareness of many topics they needed to discuss, such as the legal issues with Wickham; his name and other looming concerns had not been spoken of in the sanctity of their bed.
Their bed.
They couldn’t stop touching each other, couldn’t keep their hands or lips off each other. Heart to heart, skin on skin. Not even a condom between them—a first for a man who had always been so careful, guarding himself and his family name, and never letting himself be vulnerable to consequences. Now he felt free and safe rather than dangerously exposed. After nearly a year without sex, he was insatiable yet almost aching from a wealth of it. Nothing in his life compared with the hours he’d spent wrapped in Elizabeth’s arms. He had no words, no poetry, to sum up how changed he felt, especially after she told him she loved him and showed him just what those words—whathe—meant to her.
He groaned. How could they be going back to separate apartments? How could he sleep without her curled up next to him?
Elizabeth, walking toward the car from the gardens, noticed Darcy moving as slowly and with as much reluctance as she was. Her pace, though, was affected by some achiness in the few muscles she didn’t use running or exercising—tendons and joints and nerve endings thathadn’t been awakened in years, if ever. It wasn’t simply that she was out of practice, but she’d never made love the way she had with him. Sex with college boys had been little more than that—sex. For all her experience in the world and her knowledge of words and history, she’d learned quite a bit in the past two days about what it meant to make love and to lay bare one’s soul.
Last night, she had wanted to do nothing but hold tightly to this man, to absorb his pain and losses and assure him of her love. She’d whispered words and made vows to him. His vulnerability was almost beyond her comprehension, but she was grateful that he’d opened up and she could provide a balm for him.
He had fallen asleep first, emotionally exhausted and spent. Elizabeth had gazed at his face, so young and unlined: a boy at rest. Sometimes she forgot how young he truly was—only four years older than she but burdened with heavy responsibilities and high expectations. And guilt. How many Fitzwilliam Darcys were there? The dark, gloomy, imposing one she met last fall? The earnest, hopeful, would-be lover? The angry man who lashed out at Wickham? The son, nephew, and cousin who picked up the pieces after others broke things? The quiet, gentle man who reached for her hand when her world was crashing down? They were all the same man: one who dug clams with young children, gazed at her with dark, impassioned, hooded eyes, laughed and teased with her, touched her gently, and made tender, searing love to her. How had it taken so long for her to see it—to seehim? He’d seen her so quickly—the good and the bad, the serious and the silly, the smart and the stupid—and loved her anyway.
She understood far better now why he had worked so hard and risked so much to help her. He hadn’t been able to save his mother or his sister. His life had gone to hell, and he’d lived with a series of “what ifs” for more than a decade. Tears came to her eyes when she thought of his strength and his pain that she, somehow, had helped alleviate. She lightened him, he said. It was an awesome power he granted her. He gave his heart to her and then, slowly and painfully, won hers. How she wished she’d handed it to him long ago.
Now, watching Darcy pull out his phone and stare at it, Elizabeth ached for him, dreading the days ahead when work and responsibilities would pull them apart. She’d only had glimpses of his professional obligations; he’d ignored his phone all weekend and only once had she seen him take a call. She’d stood open-mouthed Saturday morning, holding her toothbrush and staring at him clad in boxer shorts andspeaking in perfect French to a company executive in Paris. His cool tone and elegant voice had conjured up memories of the overwhelming Mr. Noir, but his gentle, true side re-emerged the moment he hung up and softly called her name. Still, when they’d talked about the next few weeks and tried to determine how they would fit into each other’s workaday lives, she’d seen his travel schedule: Boston, Washington, Paris, Berlin. And she’d been excited that she was heading to Chicago for the book promotion?
His travel was but one small indication of the vast gulf between their day-to-day lives. She lived and worked in New Jersey and came to the city for fun and adventure as her budget allowed. She’d glimpsed the scope of his life—Pemberley, the Beresford, paintings of two houses he still owned in England, and the wealth and privilege behind it—but the pleasures he took in simple domestic life calmed some of her fears. He seemed to truly enjoy time spent together in the kitchen preparing meals, and he clearly treasured the hours they did nothing but talk or touch and kiss. Being with her, he had insisted over and over, meant everything to him. Then he’d said something in French, and she was lost to the sound of his voice and his many other charms. It took so little for either of them to succumb to the other.
Their eyes met as she approached the car, bouquets in one hand and the empty cooler in the other. Darcy took her burdens, placed them in the trunk, and then turned and opened his arms to her. They held each other for a moment and kissed, and just before they climbed into the car, Elizabeth pulled out her camera, stretched out her arm, leaned on his shoulder, and snapped a selfie. “I love it here with you,” she whispered.
Darcy gripped the wheel more tightly than usual. He didn’t want this weekend to be over.It’s all too new. But Elizabeth had the book launch coming up, and the kickoff party was already consuming her. She’d apologized earlier when her cell phone buzzed and she had to talk to her boss. It had signaled the end of the weekend and the return to normality—thenewnormality where they had each other to consider and consult and care for. He took a deep breath.Before and after and now and forever. Yes, I truly am a bloody Hallmark card.
Elizabeth put her phone away and pulled her thoughts from the chaotic directions in which they were heading.Work. Book. Laundry. Grocery. Ugh.A glance at the man inches away, tanned and handsome, ruined her discipline. She knew too much about him now, like that spot behind his ear that was especially vulnerable to her touch and thegasp she could induce with one small but intense kiss. He knew her little secrets now, too, and persevered to show her that her body deserved the worship he lavished on it. He knew what he was doing under the covers, and she was grateful for his higher education. She sighed and rested her eyes on his profile and her hand on his thigh. He turned, and even through his sunglasses, she could see his smile reach his eyes.
“One word, Elizabeth, and I’ll turn us around. We have everything we need at Pemberley. No one will bother us.”
“And we can catch our dinner from the sea and make salads of dandelion greens?”
“Our own Walden Pond,” he quipped. “Our fortress of love.”
“Oh, it would be so wonderful,” Elizabeth said wistfully. “But we can find paradise in the city too. Even in August.”
He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips.
She smiled, over the moon in love and still amazed by this dream world. He drove carefully, wending them through traffic as WQXR played Brahms.
“Rich texted me again about the dinner on Thursday with his parents, my Uncle Michael and Aunt Patricia. I should be there, what with Annabella’s arrest.” Darcy’s eyes settled on hers, and he looked a bit unsure. “I’ve never taken anyone, but thanks to Rich, they know about you.”
“I’ll go.”
“Are you certain? It isn’t too much?”
Elizabeth shook her head. They’d talked, and she’d worried endlessly about the week ahead. She would be mired in the following week’s book launch, and he had to follow up on Annabella’s arrest, run up to Boston on business, and get back in time for this dinner—apart and distracted, and then together and surrounded by other people. She hated the idea of her bed, her apartment, without his hard, solid warmth beside her.
“Of course, it’s fine. I’ve already met the De Bourghs, but I’m rather intrigued to meet the people who spawned your charming, chatterbox, playboy of a cousin.”
Darcy chuckled. “He’s not feeling that way these days. He’s not used to being discarded, and two women have broken up with him in the past few months.”
Elizabeth thought a moment. “It’s your turn to be the supportive cousin. Maybe that will keep the focus off of us.”Off of me.
“He’s a solid friend. Despite his penchant for oversharing, he’s a good listener with a clever talent for cutting me to the quick. Rich was rooting for me to get past my stupidity and figure out how to talk to you.”
Elizabeth squeezed his hand and scooted as close as the console box would allow. “Oh, talk is cheap now that I’m reacquainted with your kissing skills. And some other lovely bits.” Her fingers smoothed down a wrinkle on his shorts.
