Page 76 of The Widower of Pemberley

She groaned.

“What is it, my dear?”

“My dear—that sounds so strange,” Elizabeth replied. “So very strange.”

He smiled at her.

“I…um…my bedroom, the one Mama told us to sleep in…when I was younger, much younger, before Lydia was born, I um…it is right next to my mother’s bedroom. And on a few occasions, I, um, heard…um…”

“Ahem.” He nodded seriously. “Certain sounds.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth sighed in relief at his apparent understanding. “Certain sounds. I did not guessthenat what they meant. I only recalled them as Mama talked to me about the, um, marital, um, bed.”

They sat there, both blushing, for several minutes.

Elizabeth yawned. She had slept far less than usual since her father’s attack, and despite the situation, she found her eyes were heavy.

“You ought to go to your room,” Mr. Darcy said. “You should sleep. Tonight is an odd wedding night. We shall…tomorrow…” He looked down and swallowed. “You are so beautiful. So very, very beautiful. I can scarce think when you look me in the eye.”

Heat crept up Elizabeth’s neck, and it was impossible to meet his gaze after he said that.

There was a warm glow in her belly.

“Tomorrow, we shall leave for Pemberley,” he continued, “and then, at the first inn, when Mr. Bennet is far away, then…”

Elizabeth nodded.

But she wanted to beg him to let her stay at Longbourn for a few days longer. To accustom herself to the idea that she must leave, and to see a little more of her papa before he died.

My life is not my own.

It was what Mr. Darcy had kept saying since he had decided not to fight Mr. Wickham. It was true for her as well.

She had married him to secure the well-being of Jane and the rest of her family, and she had no right to ask for anything else.

Elizabeth had a duty, a duty she would fulfil: to be the best wife to him that she could be, to be the best mother for Emily, and then, later, the best possible mother for his heir.

She wanted to take his hand and press it against her cheek.

That would be too forward.

He took her hand. He caressed it and studied it, turning it over and examining the lines on her palm. He traced his finger down her wrist and over the sensitive skin there.

She jumped and shivered.

The smile that Mr. Darcy wore when he looked up at her had a smug air, and she could not help but openly grin at him.

“You need your sleep as well, just like Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

He shook his head. “I do not believe that I could sleep. I shall stay here and read.”

“I shall not leave you to sit awake on our wedding night,” Elizabeth replied. “No, if you are going to read, you should read to me.”

“What would you like me to read?”

“Macbeth,” Elizabeth replied after some thought. “I have meant to reread it of late.”

“NotRomeo and Juliet?” he replied. She shook her head. “No? But the Scottish play is not apt. It is known to be bad luck and does not fit the mood.”