Page 96 of The Briar Bargain
And now Elizabeth was in London with her husband.Her husband.The words still felt foreign upon her tongue, like a new language she was only beginning to learn.
This was the part no soul would witness save themselves. Their first evening not as sparring partners or convenient friends, but as husband and wife.
She drew breath slowly, savouring the mingled scents of bergamot and something delicate she could not quite place. Fitzwilliam—herhusband—had been here. She followed the scent to a small nosegay upon the bedside table: briar roses, pale pink and fully opened, with one or two thorns still clinging to their stems.
Elizabeth's lips curved up in a small smile. She touched one petal with the tip of her finger, marvelling at its softness.
"Rather bold of you, Mr. Darcy," she murmured to the empty room.
She moved to the hearth, allowing the quiet to settle about her shoulders like a soft shawl. The fire had been laid with expert care, and she had no doubt that every single chimney in the house was in good working order. Everything in the room spoke of Fitzwilliam's attention to detail: the fresh linens turned down just so, the extra pillows arranged with a careful eye to symmetry, even the way the curtains had been drawn to allow just the right amount of moonlight to filter through.
Elizabeth found herself cataloguing these small kindnesses, these gestures that spoke of a man who had given considerable thought to her comfort. It was so very different from the proud, haughty gentleman she had first encountered at the assembly in Meryton.
But then, she was not the same woman who had refused to dance with him at Lucas Lodge, either.
The rap upon the door came a short time later, soft yet purposeful. Elizabeth's pulse quickened. "Enter," she called, feeling suddenly shy. How ridiculous. She had conversed with this man, walked with him, argued with him, read with him, even permitted him certain small liberties during their engagement. Yet now, with the weight of their marriage vows fresh between them, everything felt different. Better.
Her handsome husband entered, closing the door behind him with the air of a gentleman who had waited with considerable patience for precisely this moment. He was wearing only a nightshirt under a silk banyan and a pair of fur-lined slippers on his feet. The informal attire was so new to her that Elizabeth found herself staring. He appeared decidedly less like the imposing master of Pemberley and rather more like the man from herdream who had slipped off his shirt and left it in her hands. He removed the banyan and stood before her.
Her gaze lingered upon the fine lines of his shoulders, visible now beneath the thin fabric of his nightshirt. The formality that usually surrounded him like armour had been laid aside with his cravat and coat.
"It has been a long day," she said, surprised by the slight breathlessness in her own voice.
His brow lifted slightly, and she caught a flash of something that might have been amusement in his dark eyes. "I thought you might be asleep. I was not entirely certain you would grant me entry."
Elizabeth tilted her head in mock consideration, feeling some of her natural boldness return. "I did hesitate . . ."
"Did you indeed?" The gentle tease made her heart flutter.
"Oh yes. I thought perhaps I should make you wait outside the door for a quarter hour or so, just to establish the proper hierarchy in our marriage."
His smile was almost wicked, and it made her a bit nervous. "And what conclusion did you reach regarding this hierarchy?"
"That you are far too tall to be left standing in hallways. The servants could not help but see you, and they would talk."
"Most considerate of you, Mrs. Darcy."
The name still sounded strange to her ears, but not unpleasant.Mrs. Darcy. ElizabethDarcy. She supposed she would grow accustomed to it in time.
"Well, my dear, here I am," he continued, holding out a hand to her.
She studied his outstretched palm for a moment before placing her own within it. His fingers were warm and steady, closing gently around hers with a confidence that made her feel oddly breathless.
He led her to the enormous bed, and Elizabeth perched upon its edge, acutely aware of the intimacy of the gesture. In the expanding silence, herthoughts turned not to ceremony or festivity, but to him, the gentleman who had plunged into icy waters for her. She had been too weak then to speak, yet not so lost as to miss the strength of his arms or how his white shirt had clung to his skin in a most scandalous way.
She had deemed it a fever-born fancy. Surely no proper gentleman appeared so very . . . The correct word escaped her. Somuch.Yet the memory persisted, vivid as ever.
Tonight, she would discover precisely howmuchof her memory had been real.
He stood before her now, his hand still lightly clasping hers. His bearing was different, less guarded, perhaps. More open.
"You are very quiet," he said after a moment, watching her with an expression that made her feel oddly transparent. Somehow seen through, and yet the more cherished for it.
Elizabeth offered him a half smile. "I am assessing the situation. It is quite serious, you know. There is a man in my bedchamber, and he is not even wearing a cravat."
Fitzwilliam looked down at his chest as though noticing the absence for the first time. "I did not wish to intimidate you with Harrison’s notion of the proper knot for such an occasion."
She knew that her husband’s valet, Harrison, was more attuned to his master’s preference for sober tailoring than to the whims of fashion, yet the man tied cravats with the grim determination of a midshipman knotting rope. "How thoughtful. I do thank you for the consideration. I find myself particularly susceptible to starched linen."
