Page 19 of Desired By Mr Darcy
Mr Darcy’s expression softened as he met her eyes, his voice quiet yet firm.
“I am very glad to have you here. If it is not too bold, may I say I have missed you?”
Her heart gave an unbidden flutter, and her smile widened. She felt the warmth of his words settle over her like a balm, soothing the irritation that the carriage ride had stirred within her. She reached for his hand, squeezing it softly. She lingered a moment, reluctantly pulling her hand away before they were seen.
“I have missed you too,” she admitted, her tone tender. “You shall never be rid of me once we are married. Every moment apart has seemed endless.”
“I have seen to it that you and Miss Bennet have appointments at a modiste tomorrow for your trousseau. I apologise if arrangements have already been made, but I have an account for Georgiana and thought it best if they had your measurements. You may decide what you like best, and in the future they shall send dresses directly to Pemberley when you require them. Mr Bingley has seen to Miss Bennet’s account.”
“It is far too generous of you,” she replied.
“You will be Mrs Darcy,” he said simply, as though that explained everything. “You must have whatever you desire.”
Her gaze softened, and she dipped her head in gratitude.
“Thank you. Is Mr Bingley joining us this afternoon?”
Darcy nodded.
“He will be along shortly, I am sure.”
For a brief moment, they stood in companionable silence. The sounds of the house carried on around them - the muffled chatter of servants, the rustle of footsteps on polished floors - but it all felt distant to Elizabeth. In that moment, she was utterly present, enchanted by him. It was strange, she thought, how a face so familiar could still hold such power over her.
“Lizzy!” Her mother’s voice rang out, cutting through the reverie. “Come along!”
Darcy stepped aside, gesturing with a subtle incline of his head.
“Please, after you.”
Elizabeth hesitated, a playful glint in her eyes as she leaned closer.
“Whatever happens during our time here,” she whispered conspiratorially, “please do not break the engagement.”
Darcy’s brows drew together in a look of genuine concern.
“I would never,” he said earnestly. “Do you believe I ever would?”
Elizabeth instantly regretted her poor joke. She placed a gentle hand on his arm, her voice softening.
“I am only teasing,” she assured him, her tone laced with affection.
“Such a topic is far too serious to be used for humour,” he replied, his eyes fixed on hers with calm determination.
She smiled ruefully, chastened yet touched by his sincerity.
“You are right,” she said. “Forgive me.”
With a slight nod, Darcy offered his arm, and together they stepped into the house.
The Darcys' London residence was every bit as elegant as Pemberley, though it bore the hallmarks of modernity in its design and furnishing, distinguishing it from the timeless grandeur of their Derbyshire estate. Where Pemberley’s charm lay in its seamless harmony with nature, its every room a testament to generations of tradition, the London house exuded a cosmopolitan refinement that spoke to the taste and affluence of its owners.
Elizabeth could not help but pause in the grand reception hall, her eyes sweeping over the high ceilings, the intricate plasterwork, and the gleaming parquet floors. The room was flooded with natural light, pouring in through tall sash windows that framed a view of a neatly manicured garden below. It was an effect both welcoming and impressive, the very balance she had come to associate with Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Traditionally, a new mistress of such a house might set about redecorating to suit her own tastes, but Elizabeth felt no inclination to alter anything. Indeed, she could not imagine what she might improve. Every detail, from the richly patterned rugs to the subtle gilding on the cornices, was executed with a precision that bordered on artistry.
As they passed through into the parlour, Lizzy’s admiration only deepened. The room was dressed in an enchanting shade of green, neither too bold nor too pale, but a perfect blend that seemed to draw the outside in. It was a colour that spoke of life and renewal, yet maintained an understated elegance that was quintessentially Darcy. The walls were adorned with landscapes rendered in delicate watercolours, each framed in gold, and the furnishings - ornate yet not ostentatious - echoed the green in muted upholstery and polished wood.
“I can see you are pleased,” Fitzwilliam said, breaking the silence as he observed her. His voice held a note of quiet satisfaction, as though her approval meant more to him than he cared to admit.
