Page 67 of The Difference of a Darcy
Her softness next to him, the catch in her breath, the shift of the pillow as she turned her face towards him—everything told him she wanted him, wanted the kiss as much as he did.
And he had nearly done it.
But he had not.
Hecouldnot.
To do so would have been to cross a boundary he was not willing to break. Not with her. Not when he valued her so deeply. Not when her trust in him was something hehad earned—slowly, painfully—and might shatter with a single moment of weakness.
She was nothis. Not truly. Not yet.
And more than that, he could not allow the ache in his chest—or the pull of her nearness—to cloud what mattered most. Her dignity. Her safety. Herfuture.
He thought of Jane Bennet. Of Bingley’s abandonment. Of a kind, gentle girl burdened with a shame that should never have been hers.
No,he told himself again.Not like that. Never like that.
But if he kissed her now—truly kissed her—he would not stop at one taste. Not when they were alone. Not when the bed was already shared. Not when the barriers between them had fallen so completely.
And she deserved more than that. They both did.
He would kiss her—properly, fully, joyfully—when they were no longer suspended in uncertainty. When he could lay his whole heart before her and know it was wanted. When he could love her without restraint or fear of shame.
It could wait until she bore his name—truly, not in pretense. When they had a place to call home. When the uncertainty of the future was gone. When the world, whichever world they found themselves in, recognized them as one.
And what worldwasthis?
His joy was tempered, as it always was, by the strangeness of their reality. They still did not know how long the magic would last—if it was even magic at all. What if they married in this life only for the spell to break? What ifonly oneof them returned? What if children came, and they were ripped apart.
What if this world was the true one now?
The questions circled his mind, too numerous, too heavy.
But even with all the uncertainties, one truth remained steadfast and clear: he loved her.
And when they were together for the first time—truly together—he wanted it to be without fear or shame or regret. No secrets, no hesitation. No borrowed names or altered realities.
He wanted to give her everything.
Our first kiss—our first proper kiss—should not be stolen in the dark, in a borrowed bed, as guests in a stranger’s inn.
It should be in a time and place oftheircontrol. Undeniable. Unforgettable.
Because she was not just some fever dream born of magic and longing.
She wasElizabeth.
And she was becoming his whole world.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his body to remain still as he listened to her breathing soften beside him. Sleep, for him, was a long time coming.
But for the first time in years, it was not fear or loneliness that kept him awake.
It was hope. And love.
Chapter 13
Elizabeth awoke to the soft creak of the shutters and the faint orange glow of dawn spilling across the floorboards. For a moment, she did not move. Darcy still lay beside her, his breathing deep and even, his hand mere inches from her own. The night’s words echoed in her mind—his confession, her choice, the press of his lips to her forehead like a vow whispered in the dark. She felt it still, the warmth of that kiss lingering on her skin like a secret.
