Page 50 of Pemberley's Imposter
“What say you to the change from Mr and Mrs Darcy to Sir Fitzwilliam and Lady Darcy?”
“Oh my!”
“Exactly. We have no choice but to comply. A ceremony will be held at St James’s in about a month. It will delay our return to Pemberley for some time, and we need new garments appropriate for court.”
“Hoop skirts and trains?”
“Something like that.”
Mr Darcy rose, rounded his desk, and gathered Elizabeth’s hands in his.
“It is not so horrid. If Georgiana could manage to curtsey before the queen, we can bow to the Prince Regent.”
“You do not think I would offend the prince by bowing instead of curtseying?”
Her impertinent remark, which habit of hers he had admitted early in their relationship was particularly enticing to him, made Darcy forget himself. He pulled Elizabeth into his embrace. The impetuous gesture startled her. Her body went rigid, which prompted him to pull away, but she would not allow it; she put her arms around his waist and held him tight.
“I am sorry, I…” Elizabeth’s voice was muffled by the coat her face was buried in.
“I do not want to force my attentions on you, Elizabeth. You are not comfortable with me, which is natural and just.”
“I am not uncomfortable exactly. I fear you will regard me as wanton if I…”
Darcy tightened his grip around her and pulled her as close as possible.
“My heart bleeds for what we have lost. The tender familiarity we cultivated during our short months of wedded bliss has elapsed into awkward estrangement that may take years to amend—if it is at all possible. What I can do is to alleviate your fear of being deemed wanton, a concern you would never have harboured if not for my blasted cousin’s machinations. I have never thought you wanton, Elizabeth. Not before, not now, not ever!”
“But why have you not exerted your marital rights? You must be in want of an heir if not—”
“I have an heir, an adorable one at that, but I cannot imagine you could tolerate my person, much less forgive my offences. Hell, I cannot even forgive myself!”
“The first few weeks of our marriage were the happiest of my life,” Elizabeth interjected, interrupting his torrent of self-reproach.
Darcy’s back went rigid.
“I am sorry.”
“No!” he exclaimed vehemently. “Do not ask for forgiveness. I am content with having you and Ellie in my life. The alternative is a bleak existence.”
That night, Darcy left a tender but chaste kiss on his wife’s lips. A week later, she was no longer on edge at the gesture, and he let his hand trail down her cheek before he turned towards his chamber.
#
St James’s Palace
The evening’s event was a crush. Elizabeth surmised they had invited approximately twice the number of people that the ballroom could comfortably hold.
Mr Darcy was now Sir Fitzwilliam, and Elizabeth was Lady Darcy.
“I want to go home,” she declared.
“We have stayed the required amount of time that the Prince Regent could reasonably expect.”
“While I am not opposed to returning to Darcy House, I meant away from London.”
“You want to visit Longbourn?” her dolt of a husband asked.
“I would like that, but I was thinking about Pemberley.”
