Page 49 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
A curious tension filled the space between them—not uncomfortable, but charged with something unspoken. Before either could break it, a discreet knock sounded at the library door.
“Enter,” Darcy called, stepping back from Elizabeth.
The butler appeared with a silver tray bearing several letters. “The evening post has arrived, sir.”
“Thank you, Simmons.”
After the butler’s departure, Darcy sorted through the correspondence with practised efficiency. “Business from London… a note from Bingley… and—” he paused, his expression shifting to one of interest, “a letter addressed to you, from Nocturne Publishing.”
Elizabeth’s heart leapt. “From Nocturne? Already?”
Darcy crossed to her immediately, the letter extended before him.
With trembling fingers, Elizabeth broke the seal, her injured wrist momentarily forgotten in her excitement. She scanned the contents, and her hand shot up to her mouth.
“They wish to publish my manuscript,” she whispered. “They request a meeting in London at my earliest convenience to discuss terms with both of us. As my husband, you are required, of course.” She looked up at Darcy, her face bright with joy. “They find merit in my work. They truly wish to publish it.”
“Of course they do,” Darcy replied, his own expression warm with pride. “Anyone with sense would recognise the quality of your writing.”
In her elation, Elizabeth acted without thought. She rose swiftly and threw her arms around Darcy’s neck, pressing against him in a moment of pure, unguarded celebration.
“Thank you,” she breathed against his shoulder. “Without your help, I could never have completed the manuscript in time.”
Darcy froze, as if shocked by their sudden proximity. Then his arms encircled her waist, returning her embrace with equal warmth. Elizabeth became suddenly, acutely aware of their position—the nearness of him, his scent, the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek.
She began to draw back, conscious of having overstepped the bounds of propriety, but before she could fully withdraw, Darcy’s hand came up to touch her cheek, his fingers light yet warm against her skin.
Their eyes met. Elizabeth saw something in his gaze—a vulnerability, a question, a hope that seemed to mirror her own confused feelings.
Then he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.
The kiss was gentle—a question rather than a demand. When he pulled back slightly, Elizabeth remained still, unsure what had happened. Darcy searched her face, and whatever he found there must have encouraged him, for he leaned forward once more.
The second kiss was different—deeper, less tentative. Elizabeth’s body responded as she pressed against him ever so slightly.
All too soon, clarity returned. She stepped back, her hand rising unconsciously to her lips.
“Forgive me,” Darcy said immediately, his voice altered. “I should not have presumed—”
“No, please,” Elizabeth interrupted, struggling to gather her thoughts. “There is nothing to forgive. The fault was mine. In my excitement, I forgot myself.”
“The fault was entirely mine,” he insisted. “I took advantage of the moment in a manner most ungentlemanlike.”
Elizabeth could not meet his eyes, focusing instead on straightening her sleeve, though it needed no adjustment.
“We must consider the journey to London,” Darcy said at length. “Nocturne Publishing will expect a prompt response.”
Elizabeth seized upon this change of subject. “Yes, of course. How soon might we depart?”
“Within the week, if that suits. The roads should be good at this season.” He hesitated, then added, “We shall need to consider our accommodations carefully. London will present challenges we have not yet faced together.”
“How so?”
“Our families reside nearby. We have thus far avoided society’s scrutiny, but a visit to Town will make such continued isolation impossible.”
Elizabeth nodded, her mind focusing on these logistical concerns as a welcome distraction from the lingering sensation of his lips upon hers. “You are right, of course. We must prepare for such encounters.”
“We might also call upon your family in Hertfordshire,” Darcy suggested, his tone carefully even. “Netherfield Park is let to Bingley, as you know. We could break our journey there.”
