His eyes darkened with an intensity that made her pulse flutter. “Are you saying that your opinion of me has altered since our first acquaintance?”
The question hung between them like a bridge waiting to be crossed. She knew that her answer would change everything, allowing for more vulnerability that would further bring them closer.
“I am saying that I was gravely mistaken in my initial assessment of your character,” she replied with complete honesty. “I saw pride where there was actually dignity. I mistook your reserve for arrogance when it was merely the caution of a man who had learned to guard his heart. I judged you harshly without understanding the weight of responsibilities you carry or the depth of your devotion to those in your care.”
She paused, meeting his gaze directly. “You are not the cold, unfeeling man I once believed you to be. Your tenderness with Ambrose, your patience with my adjustment to this life, your protection of us both—these actions reveal your true nature. I have come to respect and admire you greatly, and I confess that respect has begun to blossom into something warmer.”
The transformation in his expression was remarkable—a mix of surprise, relief, and something approaching wonderall warring for dominance. “My dearest Elizabeth,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “To hear you say such things… I had not dared hope that your feelings might soften towards me.”
“They have softened considerably,” she admitted with a shy smile. “Though I suspect there is still much we have yet to discover about one another.”
As they continued toward the stables in companionable silence, Elizabeth reflected on the unexpected turn her life had taken. She had married a man she felt conflicted about and discovered layers of him that intrigued and attracted her.
The future was once constrained by duty and circumstance and it now held the possibility of genuine partnership. Yet even as hope filled her heart, a small voice whispered warnings about the challenges still to come. Wickham had not abandoned his schemes, and their growing understanding might yet be tested in ways they could not anticipate.
For now, however, she chose to embrace this new beginning and certainty that whatever developed between them would be built on honesty rather than illusion.
Chapter Seventeen
“Papa, why must we go to London when everything nice is at Pemberley?” Ambrose’s plaintive question echoed in the carriage as familiar countryside gave way to increasingly crowded roads leading toward the capital.
His small face pressed against the window, watching the landscape transform from rolling hills to cramped buildings and smoking chimneys. The boy’s instinctive reluctance to leave their peaceful sanctuary only heightened the tension that had gripped both adults since they departed Derbyshire.
“Business sometimes requires our presence in town,” Darcy replied with careful impartiality. “We shall not remain longer than necessary.”
The Darcy townhouse in Grosvenor Square commanded respect even among London’s most fashionable addresses. Its elegant Georgian facade spoke of generations of wealth and refinement, whilst the perfectly maintained entrance suggested a household run with military precision. Yet as their carriage drew to a halt before the imposing front door, such grandeur provided little comfort to the family within.
“It’s very grand, isn’t it?” Ambrose observed with the matter-of-fact acceptance children displayed toward adult mysteries. “Though I still prefer Pemberley. The peacocks will miss me.”
His innocent comment struck straight to the heart of their predicament. Within days, he might be torn from everythingfamiliar and thrust into an uncertain world with a father who remained essentially a stranger. The thought made Elizabeth’s stomach clench with protective fury.
The townhouse’s interior proved as magnificent as its exterior promised. Marble floors gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers, whilst priceless artwork adorned walls covered in silk damask.
“Your chambers have been prepared, Mrs Darcy,” the London housekeeper informed them with crisp efficiency. “Master Ambrose’s nursery adjoins your apartments, as Mr Darcy requested.”
The subtle acknowledgement that they might need to comfort a distressed child at a moment’s notice was not lost on her. Every aspect of their London arrangements had been designed around the looming crisis, from the proximity of their rooms to the early scheduling of appointments with solicitors.
That evening, she and Darcy worked together to settle Ambrose for the night, their cooperation masked by cheerful conversation about a future planned excursion to Astley’s Amphitheatre. The boy’s excitement over seeing the famous equestrian performances helped distract from the tension that radiated from both adults.
“Will you tell me a story, Mama?” he requested as she tucked the blankets around his small form. “One about brave knights who always win their battles?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” She smoothed his dark hair, noting how it curled in a manner that oddly reminded her of Darcy. “Once upon a time, there was a knight who protected a young prince from a terrible dragon…”
As her voice wove the familiar tale of good triumphing over evil, she caught sight of Darcy standing in the doorway.His expression held such tender pain that she had to look away before her composure cracked entirely. They were spinning pretty stories whilst real dragons circled ever closer to their door.
Hours later, sleep proved as elusive as she had feared. Every creak of the unfamiliar house made her start, whilst her mind conjured increasingly vivid scenarios of tomorrow’s hearing going disastrously wrong. When exhaustion finally claimed her, the dreams that came were worse than wakefulness.
In her nightmare, she stood helpless in a courtroom whilst Wickham led a weeping Ambrose away. The boy’s desperate cries for his mama echoed in her ears as she struggled against invisible bonds that prevented her from reaching him. She called his name until her throat was raw, but he grew smaller and smaller until he disappeared entirely into darkness.
She woke with a strangled sob, her nightgown damp with perspiration and her heart racing as though she had been physically fighting for the child’s life. The guest chamber felt alien and oppressive, its unfamiliar shadows offering no comfort.
Unable to bear the confinement of her room a moment longer, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and ventured into the corridor. Perhaps a cup of tea and some time to compose herself would banish the lingering terror of her dreams.
The drawing room glowed with the warm light of a dying fire, and she was surprised to discover Darcy ensconced in a leather armchair with a book in his lap. He looked up as she hesitated in the doorway, his own sleeplessness evident in the weary lines around his eyes.
“I did not expect to encounter another wakeful soul at this hour,” she murmured, not wishing to disturb the house’s slumber.
“Sleep has proven remarkably elusive,” he replied, setting aside his book. “I trust you are not unwell?”
