Page 29 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
“Thank you. Though I confess, my thoughts are not wholly here.”
“You worry for your family.”
“Yes.” She moved to the window. Darkness had settled over the village. “I wonder if my father now regrets insisting on the Blackfriars match. Whether he imagined I would ever flee rather than yield.”
“Your father made his choice. As did you. The burden of his misjudgement is his to carry.”
“And yet, my actions may bring scandal upon them all.”
“From what you told me, he had alternatives. Others will see that too. Or do you have second thoughts?”
She shook her head. “No, I do not regret it. Not for a second.”
After a pause, Darcy said quietly, “If you wish, I might write to your father and recommend a banker in London who could assist with the estate’s debts, if he’s unwilling to accept help from your uncles.”
She turned, touched. “That is generous. But I would not have you think I married for advantage.”
“I believe no such thing.”
“Perhaps we might wait. We should write once we’re settled at Pemberley.”
That evening, they dined quietly in the parlour. But returning to their room revived the tension that lingered like a second presence.
“I shall make a bed before the hearth again,” Darcy said.
“You’ve already done so for two nights,” Elizabeth said. “It cannot be comfortable.”
“It’s tolerable.”
“You winced this morning. The bed is large. Surely, we can share it without impropriety.”
Darcy looked surprised. “You are certain?”
“Less discomfort than seeing you suffer needlessly,” she said plainly. “This need not be an ordeal.”
“If you are comfortable…”
“I am.”
They prepared with scrupulous formality. A screen divided their undressing, and Darcy placed pillows down the centre of the bed.
“A barricade?” she asked, amused.
“A precaution,” he said, without quite meeting her eyes.
They extinguished all but the bedside candle. Elizabeth lay still, acutely aware of him nearby.
“Good night, Elizabeth,” he said. She turned. It was the first time he had spoken her first name. It was intimate, familiar. What a difference to the last two nights when they had gone to bed as Miss Bennet and Mr Darcy.
“Good night… Fitzwilliam.”
As sleep crept in, she found the thought of their strange marriage—its potential, its peril—not alarming but oddly comforting. She was no longer alone. And perhaps, in time, that might mean more than either of them expected.
Chapter 10
Elizabeth
Pemberley, Derbyshire
