Darcy turned toward Mr. Bennet with mock severity. “And you permit this?”
Mr. Bennet only sipped his drink. “Permit it? I encourage it. It is the closest I come to having my wits recognized.”
“Come along then,” Elizabeth said, gesturing toward the chessboard. “Your fate awaits.”
Darcy offered a hand to Mr. Bennet. “Shall we?”
“You are awfully eager to lose,” Mr. Bennet said.
“I am terribly fond of routine.”
Elizabethcarriedherdaughterup the narrow staircase with careful steps, Jane’s small arms looped around her neck, her breath warm against her collarbone. The little girl had fallen asleep curled beside the hearth, her head tipping to Elizabeth’s shoulder the moment she was lifted, one soft sigh escaping her lips before sleep reclaimed her.
The old guest room was waiting—cool, quiet, and filled with that peculiar mixture of lavender and beeswax that always marked Longbourn. Mrs. Hill had seen to everything. Fresh blankets were folded at the foot of the bed, a ceramic basin gleamed on the washstand, and a small oil lamp flickered in the corner, casting long golden shadows across the walls.
Elizabeth settled Jane down gently, brushing a kiss to her forehead before straightening. Four years ago, she had stumbled into this room half-intoxicated, disoriented, and running for her life. This very bed had held her while she had hidden from the world—now it held her daughter, blissfully unaware of the storms her mother had weathered to arrive here.
She lingered a moment longer, watching the steady rise and fall of Jane’s chest, her small hand fisted in the blanket. Then, with one last whispered goodnight, she turned down the lamp.
The hallway creaked beneath her feet as she padded toward the room Mrs. Hill had prepared for them. There had been no suggestion of separating her from her husband, nor would Elizabeth have accepted one. The room was simple, familiar. And it was the one she and Jane had shared that long-ago spring when the arrival of company necessitated it.
She undid her cuffs and stays by touch, the rhythm of it instinctive. A soft laugh escaped her lips as she considered returning downstairs. She could picture them now—Mr. Bennet leaning over the chessboard with one brow raised, her husband frowning at his own side as if he could still commandeer a victory. Unless Darcy had finally learned to cheat, which was unlikely, his defeat was as inevitable as the tide.
So she turned instead to the small dressing table and removed the pins from her hair, one by one, setting them in a little porcelain dish. Her curls fell into loose snarls about her shoulders, and she crossed to the window to draw back the curtain.
Netherfield shimmered faintly in the distance, its windows lit like stars against the dark. The years had changed so much. And yet—here she was. Heretheywere. Safe. Together.
She exhaled and leaned her forehead lightly against the cool glass, the night quiet but for the rustling hedgerow beyond the orchard. Some while passed like that, as she pondered the whims of fortune and the things that mattered.
At length, the soft creak of the door behind her drew her attention. She did not move, only smiled faintly as she watched her husband’s reflection in the darkened window.
Darcy entered quietly, his stride careful and almost impossibly light on the uneven floorboards. He removed his coat and laid it across the bench, then loosened the buttons of his waistcoat. His expression was thoughtful, content. He looked like a man who had, at last, come home.
He tugged at his cravat, pausing just long enough to glance toward the bed. He froze when he saw it empty, his brow tightening faintly. Then he looked toward the window and saw her there, haloed in moonlight.
“Still awake?” he asked softly.
Elizabeth turned, her smile deepening. “I was waiting for you.”
He crossed the room in a few long strides, but she met him halfway. Her fingers found his suspenders, sliding them from his shoulders with the ease of long practice. Her palms splayed across his chest, warm through the linen of his shirt, and she stroked over the planes of his muscles. Heavens, he feltgood… solid and strong and so veryhers. And since hewashers, she might as well pull him in for a kiss, just to make sure he remembered.
He chuckled low in his throat. “Careful,” he murmured against her lips. “The floorboards groan. The bed creaks. And if you are not cautious, you shall have a red face come morning… and perhaps another child come spring.”
She kissed him again, smiling against his mouth. Then she stood on her toes, her lips brushing his ear. “Too late for that,” she whispered.
He pulled back slightly, brow furrowing—until she caught his hand in hers and pressed it gently to her stomach.
His breath stilled. His gaze searched hers.
Then—slowly, wondrously—he smiled. “Truly?”
She laughed, blinking back tears. “I have suspected for about a month. I hope it is a boy.”
He touched her cheek, reverent. “I do not care what it is. The title can go hang. I am not anxious for an heir.”
She kissed his nose. “Neither am I. But our daughter is wild and headstrong and far too clever. She may need a brother to keep track of her.”
He grinned. “Ah. Am I no longer sufficient for that task?”
