Clarice set down the hairbrush and met Elizabeth’s eyes in the glass. The professional reserve softened into the expression of an experienced woman offering guidance to a younger one on a matter that required honest conversation.
“It can be a source of considerable pleasure,” she said. “For women as well as men, provided the man is careful for your comfort. I would advise you to trust him, madam. Allow yourself to experience whatever sensations arise without shame. The body often possesses wisdom that the mind fails to acknowledge.”
Elizabeth’s blush deepened. “That is… rather more forthright than I anticipated.”
“You did inquire, madam.” Clarice resumed her professional countenance, though her eyes retained their kindness. “Shall Isend for anything else to help fortify your courage? Perhaps a glass of wine?”
“I believe Mr. Darcy has arranged refreshments.”
“Then you are suitably prepared.” Clarice stepped back, surveying her work. “You look quite well, madam. The master will be most pleased. While you dine, I will prepare your night clothes.”
Clarice departed, and Elizabeth was left alone with her reflection—a companion only slightly less unsettling than her thoughts.Trust him. Let yourself feel.
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted to the connecting door between their chambers. Ought she to knock? There was no one to announce her, and her heart, ungovernable as an unruly pony, seemed determined to make a spectacle of itself.
He had invited her; all that remained was to cross the threshold. She drew a breath—whether for courage or composure, she could not say—and let her hand settle on the cool brass handle.
Darcy rose from his chair as she entered, and as was his custom, he bowed formally—though his appearance was anything but formal. His cravat had been removed entirely, his collar open at the throat in a manner that drew her eye to the hollow there. His waistcoat remained, charcoal grey over snowy linen, but his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms whose strength she had felt but had not known she wished to see until this moment.
She felt ridiculous as she dropped into a curtsy, her mouth suddenly going dry. He was devastatingly handsome like this—the severity of his usual dress stripped away, leaving a raw magnetism beneath. The candlelight caught the angles of his face, softened the set of his jaw, and she found herself wetting her lips.
His eyes followed the movement with a focus that unsettled her entirely. She watched him watching her, and something warm and unfamiliar unfurled low in her belly.
“Elizabeth.” He moved toward her, then stopped as though uncertain of the protocols governing private dinners with one’s wife. “You came.”
“You extended the invitation,” she replied, allowing a smile to touch her lips in hopes of conveying an ease she did not entirely feel. “Did you imagine I might have refused?”
“The choice is always yours.” He took her hand—properly, correctly, the gesture of a gentleman escorting a lady—but his fingers trembled slightly against hers, and Elizabeth felt a small triumph at the evidence that she was not the only nervous party in the room. “Come. Sit. Mrs. Reynolds has outdone herself.”
The preparations were indeed elegant. The small table was arranged before the fireplace, set with crystal and silver and covered dishes that made her mouth water. The candelabra held enough light to see by, but not so much as to dispel the intimacy of flickering shadows.
“You were troubled today,” she began, accepting the wine he poured. “When I came to your study, you were holding a letter.”
Darcy’s hand stilled on the decanter. “You noticed.”
“I am an inveterate observer, Fitzwilliam. It is one of my chief accomplishments, along with conversation and a barely tolerable pianoforte. You said family difficulties. Has something happened to George?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. “George is… not present at the moment.”
“That is a relief.” She took a sip of the sweet wine. “I confess the prospect of his returning to claim a child he abandoned has troubled my sleep of late.”
“I should rather doubt he would.” Darcy’s tone was wry. “George loves his freedom, as long as it is fueled with plenty of coin.”
Elizabeth raised her wineglass to acknowledge his point. “You purchased his latest commission. Shouldn’t that last at least a few years?”
“One would think.” Darcy averted his gaze, shifting uneasily in his seat.
“I consider myself well-versed with family complexities,” Elizabeth offered. “Four sisters and a mother with nerves. So, if it is not George, and certainly not Georgiana, who is elated with Harley and our literary pursuits—Miss Duntze, Miss Entwhistle, and surprisingly, even Lady Cathcart’s commentary—then it must be that letter with the distinctive seal. Crimson wax with an ‘A’—for Apethorpe, perhaps?”
“They have… concerns.” Darcy’s jaw tightened, and he set down the decanter.
“Regarding the guardianship?”
“They believe they have a claim. Lady Amelia was their daughter, whatever estrangement occurred during her life, and Thomas is their grandson.”
“A grandson they ignored for two years.” Elizabeth felt a flare of protective anger. “Prue told me they disowned Lady Amelia for her choices, refused to acknowledge Thomas’s existence, and now they appear with concerns?”
“The law does not always account for moral consistency.”
