Page 174 of Companions of Their Youth
“Yes,” she said with a smile.
“And Lady Catherine is his patroness?” At her nod, he groaned. “God help us all—she is my aunt, and a more formidable woman you will never meet.”
When Mr. Collins discovered that Mr. Darcy was the man expected to wed his cousin, he nearly choked on his tea. “My patroness must be informed!” he cried. “Surely she would expect—”
“She will be informed,” Darcy said calmly. “After the ceremony.”
Elizabeth arched a brow, amused. “You are brave.”
“I am discreet,” he replied, “and determined not to have my wedding commandeered by the family theatrics of my titled relatives. Having Fitzwilliam and Georgiana at my side is all I need.”
The next days passed in a warm blur—children underfoot, last-minute alterations, excited whispers and small, stolen glances between engaged couples.
And then it was the night before the wedding.
The house had quieted at last as everyone retired early. The fire in Elizabeth’s room burned low, casting gold across the quilt and flickering along the mirror.
She brushed her hair slowly, staring into the glass. Her heart fluttered with anticipation and nerves and something deeper—something stiller.
She was ready.
Tomorrow, she would become Mrs. Darcy.
She slipped into bed and drew the covers to her chin, the firelight dancing across the ceiling above her.
Sleep took her gently, her last waking thought wrapped in the memory of Darcy’s kiss, and the promise of everything that lay ahead.
Chapter 36
The morning of Monday, the twenty-third of December, was particularly frigid. The dawn came in gray, and slow, with frost feathering the windowpanes.
Darcy had barely slept, and as his room lightened with the hidden sun, he lay with his eyes open, heart thudding with something between exhilaration and dread. Not dread of the marriage itself—no, that thought filled him with fierce anticipation—but dread of delay, of mishap, of anything that might interfere with this day at last arriving.
He rose before Bingley and dressed in near silence, methodically tugging on his boots, smoothing his waistcoat, fastening his cravat with trembling fingers before going down to the front morning room.
By the time Bingley emerged from his own room, Darcy was already pacing the carpet in front of the hearth.
“You are going to wear out the floorboards,” Bingley said cheerfully, bouncing on his heels like an overeager hound.
Darcy paused long enough to arch a brow at him, but said nothing.
Bingley beamed. “Can you believe it? Today! Today we marry the most beautiful women in Hertfordshire—perhaps in all of England! Do you think it will snow? I would not mind a little snow. Makes everything feel rather romantic, do you not think? I wonder what Jane will wear. Something pale blue? Or white? She looks very fine in—”
“Charles,” Darcy said tightly, “if you do not stop talking for one blessed moment, I may throttle you.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam, lounging in a nearby chair with a cup of coffee, snorted with laughter.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “I see that marital nerves afflict even the mighty. What a day for posterity. Mr. Darcy, so composed, so rational—undone by love.”
Darcy gave him a look.
Bingley merely grinned, undeterred. “I think I shall faint when I see her.”
“I think we may faint before then from your ceaseless chatter,” Fitzwilliam muttered.
Darcy crossed once more to the mantel and stared at the clock.
Ten minutes had passed.
