He went slowly, driving the crowd below mad with want. An instant before he reached her lips, he paused, forgetting they were being watched.
“I am not pretending. This is the first time I am kissing my wife. I intend to make it memorable.”
She opened her mouth to reply, and he pressed his lips to hers, and at that moment, they were the only two people in existence. Her soft mouth beneath his was nothing short of ambrosia, and he tasted her like a man who had been deprived of sustenance for weeks. He pulled her closer, aware of faint cheers from somewhere far away as he pressed his mouth harder against hers.
Elizabeth's arms slipped around his neck, and her feet left the ground when he lifted her. She had begun to shiver, so he held fast and led her as he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue along hers.
Finally, his mouth left hers, and they stared at each other for a long, heavy moment before he stole another quick kiss and set her back on the stone floor. She licked her lips, perhaps to catch his taste there. He imagined her thoughts after being so thoroughly kissed: how could she hate him so much and still want him to do that to her again?
The crowd below them was mad with excitement and happiness. He was unwilling to let his people down and somehow believed she had to have felt the same since she seemed eager to join in when they kissed once more when it was demanded of them. Finally, Darcy raised his arms in the air. “If you keep requesting kisses, I am afraid there will be no celebration! So, ladies and gentlemen, let us begin!”
Once inside, they were alone. He stared at her for a moment, his hands behind his back.
“I meant what I said earlier. You are beautiful. I wanted you to know that.”
“I thank ye. I must change.”
“Of course. Let me accompany you.”
They went down the passage to the temporary dressing room where Heather waited to assist Elizabeth. Several minutes later, she emerged in a new mulberry silk reception gown. She took his breath away. Darcy offered his arm, and she laid her hand upon it.
“Shall we go?” she asked, staring ahead.
“Aye.”
When they entered, the room fell silent, and people bowed and curtseyed as they made their way to the dais where the High King and Queen were already stationed. The Darcys paid their respects to the ranking couple and took their places on a different platform to receive their guests. A long time later, they were able to dance their first dance, drink their first wine, and partake of their first meal. Finally, with children falling asleep in corners and drunkards tripping over the cracks in the stone floor, they excused themselves to retire for the evening.
Because of the cold, they had a closed carriage rather than the traditional open carriage to take them the half mile to the Great House, and they rode in silence, exhaustion permeating the air. Elizabeth's confusion and melancholy, made worse by her fatigue, was palpable to him by the time they reached Pemberley proper. Darcy handed her down from the carriage, impatient with her lack of understanding and forgiveness. His irritation bubbled up in retaliation.
“Our new apartment has been already set up. It is in the west wing. Your possessions have been moved in.”
“Of course. I expected nothing less,” she said. Her voice was quiet.
At first, Darcy remained to watch her form ascend the stairs from behind, his heart racing in anticipation at the thought of finally possessing his longed-for prize. Her steps were agonizingly slow and heavy, though, and the stench of sorrow emanated from her. More than a little annoyed by her stalling, he skipped the few steps separating them to draw alongside her, their arms pressing together as he crowded her on the staircase. He glared.
“You could at least feign happiness, my lady. This is, after all, your wedding night.”
“And ye are not the husband of my heart. He is in mourning, as is my Papa. Ye are a cruel man to covet that which does not belong to ye.”
“If I did not covet you, then you would not be a princess.”
“I was quite content with my future as a shepherd's wife, my lord, lest ye forget.”
“Then you are a fool.”
“No more than ye.”
He grabbed her hand, hauled her up the remaining stairs and along the candle-lit passage. With a snap of his wrist, she was inside the refurbished apartment. As he took his place before the closed door, he considered whether she would run if given the chance. Unfortunately, the answer that came easily to him was “probably.”
She sighed. “Ye may move away from the door, my lord. I shall make no attempt to flee.” She gave the room a quick perusal then began to walk towards the bed chamber.
He followed.
His shoulders eased once that door was also closed, and he began to loosen his belt, pausing long enough to look at her expectantly. At first, she stood dumb as she watched him begin to disrobe.
“Forgive me,” she said softly. Silently, she assisted him in the removal of the sword that hung at his side and carefully placed the sheathed weapon on the round table near the fire. It was heavy and long; the kind of sword that took great strength to wield. “Have ye seen many battles?”
“Enough, and likely more still,” he replied, his voice suddenly tired as he joined her to gaze down at the weapon while he unbuttoned and removed his shirt.
