“I would insist upon it. Elizabeth Darcy will be your first ally in theton.Though not without her own obstacles, I have faith that there is one lady whose courage will rise to the challenge.” His brow clouded, and he tipped her chin to look into her eyes. “We have not yet settled where we will live. Is it your wish that I remain with you in Portugal? I would, if you desired it. Whom would you marry—the soldier, or the earl’s son? Neither will be an easy man to choose.”
“I choose Richard, whatever he is.” She drew back enough to gaze into the eyes she had dreamed of for so long, then lifted a possessive, loving hand to that square jaw she had thought never to caress again. “Euamo-te, Richard Fitzwilliam,meu amor. My heart and life are yours.”
The flesh around his eyes crinkled with delight. “And mine belong to you, my flower!”
No more words were spoken, for their tender expressions and sweet assurances found voice instead in gentle kisses and a secure, loving embrace. Amália clasped her love close to her heart, safe and cherished at last, and promising to never again let him go.
Chapter seventy-one
London
ThemarriageofFitzwilliamDarcy and Elizabeth Bennet drew a remarkable audience of notables back to London early that summer. While the couple had desired a simple, quick ceremony, the fascination of Mr Darcy of Pemberley, returned from the dead and engaged to a woman of no family, had drawn enough speculation that a formal courtship period, culminating in a full Society event, was deemed necessary.
The bride was instantly suspect for not wearing enough lace, but only laughed when this deficiency was pointed out to her by one Miss Caroline Bingley. The groom, it was noted, smiled more readily upon his wedding day than any had before known him to do, and not a few sage heads were shaken over Fitzwilliam Darcy’s questionable state of mind after the mysterious affairs of the previous winter.
Presiding at the auspicious occasion was the Earl of Matlock, a softer-spoken and less officious gentleman than he had been in former days. The hanging of his son’s murderer seemed to have depleted him, though he had become a tyrant in the House of Lords for certain religious causes of late. The countess, elegant in her mourning attire, demurely graced her husband’s arm and extended every courtesy to the new bride. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, however, frowned censure upon those impudent enough to express joy at the occasion, and was heard to comment once or twice about the great shade trees at Pemberley withering from some pollution.
Drawing the most attention, however, was the new Viscount Matlock. His name had been linked in whispers with both his fair cousins, and a number of hopeful debutantes looked with admiration on his fine person and generous prospects. The talk of him escalated to a tempest when it was noted that his gaze rested frequently upon a foreign widow; an honoured guest of the wedding party and an apparent intimate of the countess, as well as the bride.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped aside as the wedding breakfast drew to a close, sighing in relief that his official duties were nearly ended. He had not been long from the crush when his cousin found him out, and offered a coffee cup. “To keep you awake,” he teased. “I would imagine you have a long night ahead of you.”
Darcy refused to be provoked, merely accepting the cup and sipping it mildly. “I hope I shall.”
“Darcy!” Charles Bingley’s voice reached them a moment before the gentleman himself did. “Good heavens, I thought I would never have an opportunity to congratulate you before you departed. Welcome to the family, Brother!”
Darcy could not conceal the proud delight shining in his eyes when he thanked his new relation. “I have not yet had the honour of speaking with Mrs Bingley today. Has she recovered well from her recent fatigue?”
Bingley gestured toward a cluster of ladies surrounding the new Mrs Darcy. “I shall take her home soon, but I think nothing could dampen her spirits today. Her sister is very dear to her, and I think I have seldom seen her so happy as the day I told her you lived and wished to speak to Miss Elizabeth.”
Darcy made no answer, for his gaze too had fixed upon that same group of ladies—or, rather, the lady at the centre. All the room faded, and there was only her; her rich lips curved to speak his name, her hair softly framing her face. Fine dark eyes flashed with laughter, a brow quirked in invitation, and he resolved to make his excuses as soon as possible.
“Forget it, Bingley,” Richard was laughing, “he did not hear a word you just said.”
“I beg your pardon?” Darcy recalled himself.
“I was asking about Mrs Wickham,” Bingley repeated. “She looks to have recovered well from her confinement, but I have not spoken to her since we arrived in London. How has she borne motherhood and the sentencing of Mr Wickham?”
As it happened, there were a hundred other subjects on which Darcy might have preferred to speak, but the question was too plain for evasion. “She is a remarkably vigilant mother for one so young. As to her husband, I am certain that she could have wished for better, but she makes few enough protests. After all, a sentence of one year’s confinement is far better than what had been expected, and indeed far more lenient than the law dictates. I believe they trade frequent correspondence.”
“This is one year that will pass all too quickly for you, eh Darcy?” Bingley laughed.
“Not for me,” Richard put in with a nostalgic sigh. “I wish Wickham were already free and you had a strapping son to bounce on your knee.”
“When do you announce your engagement, Fitzwilliam?” Bingley asked.
“Not for at least six more months,” Richard frowned. “Meanwhile, I shall have to do as Darcy always did. Would you mind very much, Bingley, standing just at my right side? Yes, and Darcy, if you would walk before me as I attempt to leave the room, so that no fainting misses might fall into my path, I would be greatly obliged.”
“I may not be your wisest choice as a guard.” Bingley flicked a meaningful gaze to the refreshment table, where Caroline Bingley was stalking them with forced smiles and over-loud congratulations.
Richard shuddered. “Darcy, had you not better take your bride and bid your farewells? I would be eternally grateful if you moved in that direction at once.”
Darcy sought the eyes of his bride over the heads of the crowd. One glance, one sentiment, and their accord was fixed. He smiled. Elizabeth Darcy belonged to him.
Darcy House, London
ElizabethDarcyclosedhereyes and released a luxuriant breath. William’s strong fingers kneaded the back of her neck, releasing tension she had not known that she carried, and his lips caressed her ear. “William,” she sighed, “do you intend to lull me to sleep at once?”
The heat shivering over her neck intensified. “If so, I will be forced to carry you to the bed. After that, I make no promises that you will remain asleep.”
