Bingley pushed a stool over to him. “Would you care to rest your leg on this?”
Darcy sighed. “I don’t need you to fuss over me.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, we are friends. Accept the kindness and stop being such a curmudgeon.”
Darcy set his leg on the stool. It was better. “Thank you.” He drank more of his port.
Bingley sat down next to him.
For several long moments, they sat in silence, staring into the fire.
“What you said before, about my chastising you, I have not, you know,” said Bingley. “I have not uttered one word of censure for your actions. I feel you’ve done well enough at that on your own. Anyone can see you regret what you did. I don’t blame you, Darcy.”
“Well, who else is to blame?”
“I think you might blame yourself overmuch,” said Bingley. “Whatever happened in the carriage accident—”
“I’ve asked you never to speak of that.”
“It was an accident, Darcy. It was not your fault. If you keep thinking of yourself as someone who makes grave mistakes, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Give yourself the gift of a good opinion of yourself.”
“Oh, stop it,” said Darcy. “If I could will myself into good cheer, I would, I promise. I know that my problems are an inconvenience for you. I’ll be married soon and out of the way.”
“It really isn’t about me, Darcy. I am your friend. I wish only the best for you.”
Darcy finished the rest of the port. Between the alcohol and the fire, he felt the pains in his body starting to dim.
“You will write to me, won’t you?” said Bingley. “Don’t go off to Pemberley and disappear again.”
“I never disappeared. I was there the entire time.”
“I will write to you. You must promise to write back.”
“Very well. I promise.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The wedding was held but three days hence, and despite the fact that it was a hastily organized event, it seemed that everyone in Hertfordshire was in attendance, probably because they had all seen the kiss at the ball, and now wanted to see the matter drawn to its proper conclusion.
The wedding breakfast was a boisterous affair, everyone talking and laughing and eating, wishing good health to the presumably happy couple.
Elizabeth discovered that Mr. Collins was engaged to Charlotte, and she could not believe her friend had decided to do such a thing. However, she was marrying Mr. Darcy, so perhaps she did not understand anything. She was not sure she understood herself.
Her new husband was starkly silent compared to the frivolity that surrounded them. He did not speak to her, and she did not speak to him either. But she was uncomfortably aware of him, as if he were a dark shadow at the edge of her eyesight, following her everywhere. She was inextricably tied to him now. What had she done?
By afternoon, they were off in a carriage, bound for his home of Pemberley.
They traveled into the evening and only stopped hours after night had fallen. Mr. Darcy traveled with his valet, but Elizabeth did not have a maid of her own, nor were any of the servants from Longbourn able to be spared to go along with her on the journey. Mr. Darcy had been concerned about this, but Elizabeth had assured him she was used to undressing and dressing herself on occasion. After all, with six women in the Bennet household and only a few servants to go round, it was only practical to acquire some of these skills herself.
Due to the number of rooms already taken in the inn, Mr. Darcy informed her they would need to share a room, which was only proper, she supposed, since it was technically their wedding night. But she could not help but feel apprehensive.
He ordered bread and stew brought to the room, and they sat at a table next to the fire and ate in silence.
When they were done, Elizabeth gazed at the bed in the room, trepidation filling her.
Mr. Darcy rang for someone to take away their dirty plates and bowls. When they were cleared, he shut the door behind the servant and turned to her. “It should go without saying that I would not expect any sort of consummation of these vows this evening, not after everything I have put you through.”
Elizabeth’s heart squeezed and relief coursed through her, hot and liquid. There was a tinge of something else mixed in, though. Disappointment? But that didn’t make sense.
Her discussion with her mother the night before had relied heavily on a time that Elizabeth had come upon two horses rutting in the field, and her mother had explained it was much the same with people, that the man must mount the woman in order to put his seed into her. Elizabeth had been horrified, because whatever had been happening between those horses had not looked comfortable in the least.
And then her mother had added the tidbit of information that it could also be done facing one another, that it was usually done that way, and Elizabeth was even more confused. She pictured lying on her back in bed, Mr. Darcy mounting her as if there was a saddle on her and then… well, what happened after that?
Anyway, maybe she was curious. She must be misunderstanding her mother in some way, and maybe she wanted to understand it all. Maybe that was the disappointment. That must be it.
She swallowed, looking at Mr. Darcy and feeling a jolt go through her when she did. She looked away immediately.
“We will have to share the bed,” said Mr. Darcy, “but only to sleep, I assure you.”
She licked her lips.
“Miss Benn—that is, Mrs. Darcy,” he said. “Is this acceptable to you?”
“Yes, of course.” She stood up.
Mr. Darcy nodded. “Very well, then. I shall retire to the room with my valet to undress and give you your privacy to do it alone. When you are finished, you extinguish the lamps and get into bed.”
“Of course, sir,” she said.
He left the room.
And that was when she realized that her dress had buttons going all up and down the back of it, and that it would be quite impossible for her to undo them on her own.
She tried.
She managed a few, at the top of her neck and at the base of her spine, but the ones in the middle, she could not reach.
After trying and failing to unbutton them for some time, wrenching her arm in a quite painful way, she gave up and sat down at the table to await Mr. Darcy’s return.
He was gone for quite some time, nearly a half hour.
When he did return, he pushed the door open slowly, carrying a candle. He was quite surprised to see the lights still on and his new bride still dressed.
He was wearing only a loose shirt and his smalls, and the shirt he wore was open at his chest. She could see his skin, a hint of dark hair that grew there. Her body tightened against her will.
She stood up. “I could not reach my buttons, I’m afraid.” She blushed. “Would you mind…?”
“Oh certainly,” said Mr. Darcy, setting down the candle. “I should have realized.”
“No, I should have,” said Elizabeth. “I don’t know why it slipped my mind.” She turned around.
His fingers were warm and deft and strong. She shivered as they made quick work of her buttons.
“There,” he said, and his voice had gotten quite deep.
“Finished?”
“Yes.” His voice caught.
“Thank you.” She turned around, starting to slide her dress off her shoulders.
He gazed at her, his dark eyes ravenous.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He shook himself. “My apologies, madam. I shall quit the room again—”
“It’s all right,” she said. “Simply turn your back, I suppose.”
“Yes, that will do.” He turned.
She peered at him from behind. His sleeping shirt was a little bit translucent. She could see the lines of his back through it. They were strong and firm. And then, at the base of his spine, one one side, more ropes of scar tissue. She looked away.
Quickly, she divested herself of he
r dress and climbed into the bed in her shift. “All right, you may turn around.” Why was her voice so high pitched?
He did.
She picked up the lamp on the bedside table. “I’ll turn this down.”
“Yes,” he said.
She did, and the room was now only lit by Mr. Darcy’s candle. She watched as he carried it over to the bed, and all that was illuminated was the scarred side of his face.
She went rigid, waiting for that visage to join her in bed, feeling like an ancient woman sacrificed to a monstrous god so that crops would grow.
She drew in a shaky breath.
He climbed into the bed next to her and blew out the candle.
Darkness.
* * *
The next morning, Elizabeth woke to lovely warmth, and she snuggled into it, relishing the feeling. Jane was sometimes rather bad about pulling the covers off the bed in her sleep and Elizabeth often woke shivering. But this morning, she was toasty and perfect, so warm that she did not wish to get out of bed at all.
The warmth shifted, pressing into her, and her eyes fluttered open, because she had not expected movement.
That was when she realized that she was somehow in Mr. Darcy’s arms. He was wrapped around her, and her face was pressed into his chest. Their legs were entangled.
She did not move. She was not sure how this had occurred. When they had gone to sleep the night before, they had been on opposite sides of the bed, not touching at all. Somehow, sleep had drawn them together, though, and she could not say it was unpleasant.
He sighed in his sleep, tightening one arm around her.
Her instinct was to get even closer, to rub herself against him like a satisfied cat.
Instead, she carefully extricated herself from Mr. Darcy and his body. She found her trunk and dressed in a simple morning dress and set about putting a few more logs on the fire, because it had burned down and had obviously not been attended by servants at the inn.
“What are you doing?” came a sleep ravaged voice.
She turned. “Nothing, just seeing to the fire.”
“That’s not your job,” said Mr. Darcy, sitting up in bed. “You’re Mrs. Darcy. You’re my wife. We have people for that.”
“Yes, I know, but we are at an inn, and there was nothing else to do so…” She clasped her hands in front of her.
Mr. Darcy grunted. He thrust his leg out of the bed and began to knead it above the knee, grimacing.
“Oh!” she said. “Are you in pain?”
“I’m always in pain,” said Mr. Darcy. “Give me a moment and I will be able to go to my valet.”
“Perhaps I should go and fetch him?” said Elizabeth.
“No, no,” said Mr. Darcy, grimacing again, deeper, and then vaulting out of the bed. He hobbled across the room, yawning. He scratched his flat stomach through his shirt, and a dark thrill went through Elizabeth.
She twisted her fingers together.
“We’ll be on our way as soon as possible,” said Darcy. “I want to reach Pemberley in time for dinner.”
Elizabeth turned away, her heart pattering inside her ribs. There was something about the way Mr. Darcy looked, something that was most unsettling. He was so damaged, yes—the scars, the limp—but then there was something else in the way he was shaped—his strength, his… oh, she did not know, his maleness? It was most… why, she could not say appealing, could she?
Lord, she remembered being in bed with him, pressed up against the solid warmth of his body and she flushed.
They did not pause long to break their fast, having only some tea, eggs, and toast before setting out into the cold morning. The air was quite cold indeed, hovering just above the temperature when everything would freeze, and it was drizzling rain. There was a white mist in the air and the sky was gray.
Mr. Darcy muttered to himself about the dreadfulness of the weather and the effect on his injuries. Once they were jostling along in the carriage, he shifted position often, contorting his face into frightful expressions, which were only made worse by his scarred visage.
He payed Elizabeth no mind, only seethed, and seemed even more beastlike the longer that they drove.
When they did arrive at Pemberley, it was late.
Because of the gray weather, darkness was approaching even earlier than usual, although this was the time of year when darkness encroached on the afternoon as it was.
Mr. Darcy pointed out Pemberley to her. “Your new home,” he said in a rasping voice, the pain seeming to have robbed him of his ability to speak with strength.
At first, she could not make anything out. There was still a heavy mist over everything, and it seemed to have grown worse as night began to fall.
But then, she did see the house, high up on the hill.
Calling it a house was rather inaccurate. A castle was almost more like it. It had no turrets or towers, but it was massive, gray stone rising out of the mists and reaching for the heavens. It looked like something out of a book she might read, and in those sorts of books, whatever waited for the heroine in the high house on the hill was never good.
She tried to scold herself out of such a silly thought. She must keep up her spirits, after all. She would arrive and settle in and have some time before dinner to write her first letter to Jane.
How should she describe Pemberley to her sister?
I arrived today at the hall of the goblin king, she thought, trying to make a joke. But it did not make her feel like smiling. It twisted her insides into knots, and dread cut through her.
Darcy shifted position again, crying out sharply when he tried to move his leg.
“Sir, is there anything that I can do for—”
“Leave it,” Darcy snarled, his eyes flashing.
She retreated into the back of the seat of the carriage. Goblin king, indeed.
The rest of the short journey she spent staring out the window at a row of twisting, gnarled trees, their limbs bare in the winter. They went all the way up and down the drive, and they seemed to close them in from the rest of the world, their dark branches still and skeletal.
Eventually, they arrived and Mr. Darcy could not make it out of the carriage on his own, so great was his pain.
His valet and the driver attempted to help, but Darcy growled at them to leave him alone and would not take their assistance.
Elizabeth stood outside the carriage, rain mixed with sleet and snow falling on her head, chilling her. Her nose was cold, and so were her fingers and toes.
It took nearly ten minutes, but eventually Darcy managed to stand on his own. Then he made his slow and painstaking way up the steps to the front door of Pemberley, putting nearly all his weight on his cane. With each step, he growled in pain.
Elizabeth trailed behind him, now soaked and frozen.
She hoped that it would be warm inside, but it was not.
The massive doors opened onto a great room with a massive fire place, but the fire did not seem to bring any heat to the room. There were three large dogs lying in front of the fire, their tongues hanging out.
A plump woman scampered down the staircase, which stretched upward to the higher levels of the house. She was wringing her hands. “Mr. Darcy! Can you not send word when you are coming home?”
Darcy looked up at her, his nostrils flaring. “Is that Lady there by the fire?” He lifted his cane and pointed in the direction of the dogs.
Snow was swirling in from outside. Mr. Darcy’s valet shut the door. “Mrs. Peters, I did send on a letter. Must have gotten lost between there and here,” said the valet.
Darcy put his cane down and moved deliberately across the floor toward the dogs. His cane echoed in the massive room every time it touched the ground. “I believe it is Lady. Yes, I am quite sure.” He poked the dog with his cane.
“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth couldn’t help but exclaiming. There was no call to be cruel to a dog.
Now Mr. Darcy was close to the fire, and the flames stained his face and cravat
red and orange. The light danced a reflection in his dark eyes. “I told you I wanted another home found for that dog!” he roared.
Mrs. Peters was at the bottom of the steps. She scurried over to Mr. Darcy. “Now, now, we didn’t know you were coming, did we?” She bent down and caught the dog by the collar. She tugged. The dog resisted.
“Mrs. Peters,” said the valet. “Come away from there. You do not have the strength to fight that dog.”
Mr. Darcy was trembling. His teeth were bared. “So, you only hide her from me when I am in residence, is that how it is? I want someone else to care for that dog. I have made my position on this matter quite plain, and to have it completely ignored is vexing.” Spit was flying from his mouth. He was in quite a state.
Elizabeth backed away, even though she was not anywhere near him. He was frightful. What was the matter with him?
Mrs. Peters gave another tug on the dog’s collar. “Now, if you please, it is not the dog’s fault who owned her. She never asked for that, did she? She and the others are littermates. It seems a great cruelty to separate them when they’ve all grown up—”
“I want that dog out of here!” Darcy cried. “I will have nothing of his in my house.”
Mrs. Peters shrank from him.
“Sir,” said the valet, who was now standing behind Mrs. Peters. “Perhaps we should get you upstairs, settled near a fire with a drink? Wouldn’t that be better? The staff was not expecting you. Give them time to do something with the dog.”
“I daresay it’s snow and ice out there,” said Mrs. Peters. “You wouldn’t turn a poor beast out into the cold, would you?”
Mr. Darcy slammed his cane on the floor. “I believe I have already answered that question.”
“The dog is not Georgie, sir, and Georgie himself left her behind all those years ago!” protested Mrs. Peters.
“Get rid of her,” said Mr. Darcy in a low voice, and he nodded at his valet. “A drink, yes. I would have a drink.”
“Come, sir,” said the valet, offering Darcy his arm.
Darcy glowered at it, and then seemed to crumple into the other man. Together, they made their way slowly to the steps and began to ascend.
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