Page 81 of Attempted Compromises
Her face burned scarlet. She clutched the blanket to her chest, her mind racing. They had been… intimate. Not only that, but it had been nothing like the vague warnings and whispered hints she had overheard from married women. It had been… something she had never imagined.
It had been unlike anything she could have ever imagined, filled with a surprising depth of connection. It had felt as though she were cherished, wholly and utterly. His caresses had been gentle, his words considerate. Every moment had seemed crafted to reassure her, to make her feel respected, valued, even loved.
Loved.
The word echoed in her mind, sending a fresh wave of heat to her cheeks. Could it be true? Could he truly feel that way for her? She bit her lip, her thoughts spinning in circles as she tried to make sense of it all. She had felt so safe in his arms, so completely cared for. For a fleeting moment, warmth spread through her chest, and she found herself smiling.
Surely that must mean something—mustn’t it?
And yet…
A wave of guilt swept over her. A memory surfaced unbidden; a conversation with her aunt Gardiner. Elizabeth had been but fifteen years of age and was about to make her come out in Meryton. Aunt Gardiner, ever wise and practical, had cautioned her:“Elizabeth, you must be careful in your dealings with members of the other sex. Some men, my dear, will offer a woman tenderness and devotion in the hope of receiving certain favors. And some women, in turn, may offer such favors in the hope of securing affection, believing the emotion must inevitably follow the act. Be wary of confusing one with the other. True affection is proved through time, through actions—not merely through words or fleeting moments.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, the weight of those words settling over her like a cloud. What if last night had been just that—a moment? Had she mistaken kindness for something more? Did last night mean anything beyond the physical act? Had he given her kindness to fulfill a husband’s duty, or worse, to take what he desired? What if Darcy’s tenderness had been born not of love, but of… of obligation or selfishness?
The idea sent a chill through her, and she drew the blankets closer, as if they could shield her from the weight of her thoughts. The thought that he might not feel as deeply as she did, that this connection might be her end alone…
She shuddered. The thought was a heavy one, and she turned her gaze away, suddenly unsure of how to feel…
Sighing, her gaze fell to her hands. She’d awoken with such joy, such certainty. That was gone now, and all that was left was a terrible loneliness—a sense of being adrift, uncertain of whereshe truly stood with her husband. Darcy had been everything she could have hoped for last night, but the deeper question of his heart remained unanswered.
And what of my own heart?
She stole another glance at him, her gaze lingering on the relaxed lines of his face. He looked so peaceful, so utterly at ease. It was a far cry from the composed, almost severe man she had first met at the Meryton assembly. And it wasn’t just last night. He had shown kindness in so many ways—his care for his sister, his devotion to Andrew, even the small, thoughtful gestures he had extended to her since their betrothal.
Still, she reminded herself firmly, those acts of kindness did not necessarily equate to love. Just as shared intimacy, however meaningful, did not guarantee affection. Her aunt’s warning echoed again, tempering the emotions that had risen so strongly within her. She could not afford to confuse the two, no matter how much she might wish otherwise.
Unrequited love is the worst kind of love.
The realization that she cared for him—that she might even love him—had crept upon her gradually, and now it loomed large and undeniable. But how could she give voice to it when she was unsure of his feelings? How could she risk laying herself bare when she didn’t know if he would catch her or let her fall?
The thought left her hollow. She pressed her fingers to her temple, willing away the heaviness that had settled there. It was absurd to feel this way—she was married, after all. She had made her choice. Still, she resolved to guard her heart. She could notlet herself fall into the trap of equating physical closeness with emotional connection. Not yet. Not until she was certain.
The loneliness deepened, mingling with the memory of his touch, his voice, his warmth. She closed her eyes, willing herself to push aside the confusion, the longing, the ache. For now, she would take one step at a time. She would be kind, be patient, and hope that time would bring clarity.
The faintest sound of Darcy’s breathing filled the space between them, steady and reassuring. Elizabeth sighed softly, brushing her hair back from her face. Perhaps, in time, she would learn to reconcile her heart and her mind. For now, she would focus on the present, on the man who had given her more respect and kindness than she could have hoped for.
Darcy stirred then, his lashes fluttering slightly. Elizabeth froze, unsure of what to say, as her own heart betrayed her by skipping a beat.
“Good morning, Mrs. Darcy,” he murmured. His voice was low and warm and sent a thrill through her. He opened his eyes and the softness there made her heart ache. It was going to be harder to guard her heart than she’d imagined.
“Good morning,” she managed, her voice catching. Her cheeks warmed again, but this time she didn’t look away.
Whatever the future held, she would face it with the same courage that had carried her through so many challenges before. And for now, she would take solace in the warmth beside her, even if it was tinged with uncertainty.
Chapter 23
Darcy had never thought himself a man prone to indulging in idle fantasies, yet this morning, as sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, he found himself wishing for nothing more than to remain in bed with Elizabeth. The memory of her warmth, her hesitant but courageous trust, lingered vividly in his mind, making it all the more difficult to face the outside world.
He had sensed she was awake before he opened his eyes. “Good morning, Mrs. Darcy,” he said softly, his voice still husky from sleep.
He opened his eyes to take her in. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in loose waves, and her profile, serene and thoughtful, was silhouetted against the light from the window. It was a sight so lovely, so achingly perfect, that he simply lay there, content to watch her for a moment longer.
Elizabeth smiled shyly. “Good morning,” she replied, her cheeks tinged faintly pink. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” he assured her, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. “I doubt I could sleep much longer, even if I wanted to.” He hesitated, then added, “And, truthfully, I would rather not waste a moment of this morning.”
She dropped her eyes and plucked idly at the blanket. “Me either.”
