Page 98 of The Briar Bargain
His breath caught audibly. “You are very good at this.”
She gazed up at him. “At what?”
"This." He lifted her hand and turned it gently over in his, as though examining something rare and precious. "Being my wife."
“Oh, that is a very great compliment,” she said, deeply moved. “But I am sure to disappoint. You know that I have many faults.”
"Then we shall add them to our collection. I find I have grown quite fond of your faults, Elizabeth. They make you . . .you."
She leaned forward and placed a kiss on his cheek, soft and brief, then another, tentatively, just at the corner of his mouth. His skin was warm beneath her lips. When she pulled back, he was smiling again, though this time there was nothing teasing in it. Only tenderness.
He kissed her palm, his lips warm against her skin. "Shall we begin, Mrs. Darcy?"
Her smile was bright and sure. "Oh yes. I would like that very much."
He reached for the candle on the bedside table and pinched the flame with practised ease. Darkness enfolded the chamber, but it was not cold or frightening. And in the moments that followed, Elizabeth discovered beyond all doubt that her memories had not deceived her. Her husband was indeed every bit as remarkable as she had dared to hope, and perhaps, if she were very fortunate, she might prove worthy of the love she saw reflected in his eyes.
Later, long after the hush of the house had deepened into true night, Elizabeth stirred beneath the counterpane and reached one hand towards the vase. Her fingers found the nosegay once more, the delicate pink briar roses still fresh, their scent mingling with the warmth left on her skin. She traced a petal with a gentle touch.
A thorn pricked her thumb, just faintly, not enough to wound, only enough to remind her that beauty and bravery often went hand in hand. She smiled to herself in the dark. Perhaps this was her briar bargain after all: not a tale of slumber, but one of waking. Tonight, she had not waited for love to find her. She had walked straight into its keeping, and it had welcomed her home.
Epilogue
It was not the pinnacle of Edward Harrison’s career, nor the culmination of his soldierly discipline, but it was certainly his favourite pastime. Knotting. A habit acquired in the army, as familiar to him as polishing boots. Knots were orderly, precise, manly even, with just enough artistry to make the exercise worth the trouble.
He was no disciple of fashion otherwise. Jackets, coats, waistcoats were all well enough, but Harrison’s loyalty lay with sound tailoring that let the man, not the garment, be seen. In that respect he was fortunate to serve Mr. Darcy, who had no desire to strut about like a dandy. His master wanted his clothes to fit, not to announce themselves. That suited Harrison perfectly. His master’s indifference left him free to practice his craft in the one arena where both could be satisfied: a cravat that was impeccable, understated, and entirely his own work.
And so, he tied.
Harrison, formerly of the British Army, veteran of the Peninsular War, and now valet to England’s most steadfast gentleman, stepped back to survey his day’s handiwork.
His satisfaction was entirely at odds with the battlefield of a dressing room around him.
Master Bennet Darcy, aged four, possessed of perpetually sticky fingers and a profound disregard for a valet at his work, had very nearly upended the shaving powder in his enthusiasm to "help Papa look handsome." His older sister, Miss Anne, a cherubic menace in white muslin who could have taught Talleyrand about strategic misdirection, had absconded with the silk waistcoat buttons.
"These would make very pretty doll eyes," she had declared.
The older boys, Masters Richard and Charles, were eighteen months apart in age and nearly identical in both their looks and fiendish nature. They had declared open war on the shoehorn, wielding it alternately as sword, sceptre, and catapult. One had succeeded in launching a pearl stud across the room, where it now resided somewhere beneath the mahogany wardrobe.
And amidst it all, Mrs. Darcy herself appeared, watching from the doorway as though observing a particularly entertaining siege. Her smile was both playful and wicked, her eyes alight with that treacherous sparkle that had first entranced her husband and suggested she was enjoying the spectacle far more than any respectable wife ought.
After a moment, she spoke firmly. “Children, you will clean everything up and put it back where you found it. Now, if you please.”
They groaned.
“You will do so now even if you donotplease,” Mr. Darcy said, standing. “You have tortured Harrison enough for one day.” His children did as they were told, but while they repaired everything they had torn asunder, the master leaned over to Harrison to say, “Not that you do not deserve it.”
“I do not know what you mean, sir,” Harrison replied. He did, of course.
"I do believe, Harrison," Mrs. Darcy said as the children streamed out of the dressing room around her, "that you have outdone yourself. Mr. Darcy is magnificent.” Her smile was pert and teasing. “I cannot decide whether Mr. Darcy has been sacrificed upon the altar of the cravat, or merely crowned its high priest.”
"I live but to serve, madam," Harrison replied pleasantly, for Mrs. Darcy was ever his supporter.
Mr. Darcy bore the entire procedure with his typical stoicism. His dark eyes held the glint Harrison had learned to recognise as a gentleman who loved his wife too much to gainsay her, especially on matters as trivial as the knot in his neck cloth.
"You know," Mrs. Darcy added conversationally, "he did not even own a proper glass when we were first engaged. Just that tiny shaving mirror. You have worked wonders, Harrison."
"I had a glass," Mr. Darcy protested, his voice carrying the tone of a man who had made this argument before and expected to make it again. “Harrison was already my valet by then.”
