She let her mind drift to the events of the previous evening. Her body had forced her to acknowledge what she had denied for months. Lord Darcy was a beautiful man physically and Elizabeth, while naïve about many things, was sensible enough to accept that she was attracted to her husband. It certainly did not mean that she loved him. She was not even sure if she liked him, but she hadwantedhim, in particular, now that she had had a taste of him.
“I suppose you want me to release you?”
“If ye could let me move.” She rolled onto her back when his grip went lax upon her suggestion.
“How do you feel?”
“I am a little sore, but otherwise fine.” Her voice was soft.
He brushed a kiss over her cheek. “Are you still angry with me?”
“I shall probably be eternally angry with ye, my lord, but at present I can live with my ire and with ye.” Some of her teasing tone had returned.
His fingers traced delicate paths along her belly and her body stirred. Right now, with his long dark hair mussed and his midnight-coloured eyes relatively unguarded, Elizabeth asked herself what it would be like if they had married for love? He now appeared so like her painting. Her understanding had blossomed and allowed her the awareness that the likeness was the way she had wished him to be: a more genteel version of who he was, a Darcy who was not stingy with smiles or battle-hardened to the point of seeming like brittle ice.
“What time do ye think it is?”
He drew her close. “Early still. Not yet five.”
“And we have other people to receive today.” She muttered the words as she burrowed under the blanket and, inadvertently, against her husband, who was more than happy to oblige her.
“Not as many as yesterday, I should think, but royal weddings are always tedious events. When Richard and Jude married, their celebration lasted for days. Poor Jude's hands were as calloused as a smith.”
“So, I suppose I shall not have a moment to go into the atrium today then.”
Darcy stiffened for a moment.
“You may if you rise now,” he said in an odd tone, causing her to cast a questioning glance at him. “Why do you look at me so?”
“Thy voice sounds sad. Have ye regrets about marrying me?”
“Not yet,” he muttered dryly. “I just wish you would stop work on the painting of George.”
She sat up and stared down at him, struggling not to lose her temper. This was ridiculous. They lived in a state of constant irritation, but for now, she vowed to refrain from growing angry as much as possible. She simply did not have the energy to face every day in such a manner. Of course, in all logic, he would have no reason to suspect what she had painted in truth. Why would he? Without speaking, she left their bed and found her reception gown. Aware that he watched her every move, she took her time pulling the layers of silk over her head and twisting them into place. When she was dressed, Elizabeth gave her husband a steady gaze.
“Are ye coming?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are ye going to accompany me to the atrium?”
“Why?”
She stared at him until he got out of bed. He pulled on his breeches and linen shirt but neglected to acquire his stockings.
“Thy feet are going freeze.”
“Do not fret about my feet,” he replied, pushing at the small of her back to get her going.
They descended the staircase side by side, and Elizabeth grabbed his hand at the first landing and held tight all the way to the atrium door. It was dry and warm and enveloped hers completely.
She led him into the atrium and set him in a chair while she readied the surprise. Elizabeth unlocked the cabinet then scrutinized the painting. She had not put it away—Jane must have had it taken care of. The paint was still somewhat tacky, as oils tended to be, so she took extra care as she removed it. Gingerly, she placed the portrait on the easel, gave it a quick perusal, silently comparing it to her subject, and went to stand before her husband.
“Close thy eyes.”
He sighed in frustration.
“Close thy damn eyes, my lord.”
