Switched Page 15

  “My love,” he lowered his voice when impatience threatened to take its hold. The grasp he had on her white-clad arms tightened slightly. He did not know what caused her grief, though he knew he would move mountain and sea if he had but the chance to cease her sorrow.

  Elizabeth sniffed, laughed hollowly, and then sniffed again. Was she happy or sad, in happiness or agony? Were the events of the night so incredible and rapid that they had broken even the strongest woman he knew?

  He prayed in his heart that it was not the case.

  “Elizabeth.” He kissed her temple, equally anxious to relieve her pain and fearful of upsetting her further.

  She, thank goodness, placed her hands upon his – and threaded their fingers into two tight, secure grips upon her shoulders.

  He did not complain when she shifted herself to lie upon his chest. He let her be when the orientation of her body placed their combined weight awkwardly upon his lower back. He gladly let her wound her fingers around him – that he may do likewise to her.

  “I love you,” he said simply, before kissing her hair.

  “I love you,” she replied, muffled yet somehow clear.

  The embrace they shared – intimate and tight – was of a far different nature than any they had shared before. The desperation of their stolen kisses outside the meeting house tonight, the determination to drown together when they'd stood before the Constable, the heated grazes of wandering hands in their carriage – all could not replace the simplicity of their hold upon each other at this very hour.

  He did not know what ailed her. She did not speak of her pain.

  Yet, all the same, they were both certain of their desire to share it all.

  The crying stopped eventually, after his shirt had soaked so thoroughly he felt the teardrops on his skin. She pulled away slightly, just enough to see his face. His locked arms made sure that was as far as she withdrew.

  “I'm sorry,” said Elizabeth – spirited eyes heavy with guilt.

  “No, do not be,” he answered right away.

  Her face, so close to his, tempted and teased him – tasking every part of his self-control. He shook his head slightly, unhelpfully attempting to dissipate the draw. “I – I do not wish to see you sad.”

  “You are not to blame.”

  “I am your husband; of course I am.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. He quickly realized that he had no right to refer to himself so as of yet.

  “Elizabeth.” His subsequent thought brought him no pleasure. Yet love, not pleasure, was his calling tonight. “Do you fear completion? I – I do not demand anything of you, and I beg your forgiveness if I have communicated any assumption on my part that we ought to –”

  “Fitzwilliam.” Her voice and face lifted slightly at last. “I am not – nervous.”

  The small assurance was much appreciated.

  “I see.” He tried to hide his smile – tried very hard indeed.

  “Fitzwilliam,” she called gently when he looked askance rather than at her. “Fitzwilliam, it is I perhaps who should apologize. What kind of woman would –”

  “No!” His eyes flew quickly back to her bewitching ones. “I shall not have you apologizing when you have done nothing of blame.”

  She did not respond immediately, and he feared that he had rued his chances, after all. What sort of man was he to shout at a lady so? What sort of groom – or husband, as he preferred to be – addressed his bride so brashly on their completion night? He could not blame her if she –

  “Fitzwilliam,” her voice beckoned his thoughts to the present. Her smile illuminated the entire room. “I am not nervous – no.”

  He nodded – mutely, this time.

  “It is of Jane and Mr. Bingley that I worry.”

  The name of his friend and rival on her lips nearly spurred him to loosen his grip. Darcy lowered his gaze, suddenly angry. Why was she – why would she – did she still –

  “I fear our happiness is at the cost of theirs,” Elizabeth finished, and Darcy struggled to clear his mind.

  She was patient with him, as he had been with her, until he had successfully controlled his unwarranted grief – and once again met her eye.

  “Our happiness?” Darcy echoed, longing to see the affirmation that he needed.

  “Yes.” Her smile gave it freely. His heart relaxed once more. “I fear – I feel guilt that I can be married to the most wonderful man in the world – while my sister falls prey to our pursuits of joy.”

  “She will not,” Darcy found himself replying. His courage rose when Elizabeth's confidence in him did. He even smiled. “I may have been negligent, seeing only your presence at both Brigham Park and the Constable's when two others stood beside us. I promise, however, that I have seen Bingley many times besotted without having ever come close to the warmth and regard which he exhibits for your sister.”

  She listened intently, clearly seeking comfort in his words.

  He swallowed, and then he smiled.

  “We need not feel guilt for ascertaining our rights to happiness, Elizabeth. Your sister and Bingley, I am sure, feel much the same as we do.”

  Her face softened gradually, as if with deliberate understanding. He waited, arms still wound tight around her body.

  “I find it impossible,” her reply surprised him. The teasing spark he had always loved seemed at last to begin its return. “It is simply impossible, sir – for any creature in the entire universe – to be as certain of her happiness as I.”

  His own eyes, this time, threatened to mist.

  “Your confidence lends to mine.” Her dazzling smile nearly blinded him. “And I refuse to mourn in the face of immaculate joy.”

  He felt at last the liberty to grin.

  “But is it alright, sir,” she said when he moved to kiss her, “not to spend tonight in my sister's room?”

  • • •

  “But is it alright, sir – not to spend tonight in my sister's room?”

  She watched him startle despite her teasing tone, before his eyes began to roam around the room and locate the sparse possessions distributed all about with open contemplation. She knew then that he had not understood the source of her doubt – but had still comforted her, nonetheless.

  “Fitzwilliam –”

  “I apologize.” His tone poured out heavy with grief and self-incrimination. “I did not remember that there was, of course, little time to gather one's items for what must have felt like an inevitable confirmation. It is my neglect that –”

  “No,” she hushed him, fingers on his lips. His eyes, wide open, gazed directly into hers. She could drink of him forever. “You are not to blame.”

  She wondered if the words, stated yet again, left an impression on him at last. Had her doubts expelled any ardor he might have felt before this moment? Had she – in her stupidity and hesitation – tossed her chance at a wonderful new start with him directly into the depths of impossibility?

  “It is not your fault,” she began again.

  “I did not know,” came his reply before she even concluded her statement.

  She paused, unsure.

  “I have not entered this room – not even walked near its door – for months. The last I was here was to request – a preparation – for – you.” His words trailed off subtly, like the ebbing of a summer wave.

  She, for her part, felt the burning in her chest begin again.

  “I am sorry.” Her thumb soothed his lip.

  “I am happy you asked,” he answered.

  She had asked nothing with her words, of course – but perhaps he had heard her with his heart, after all.

  The smile on her face now was neither teasing nor frivolous.

  But it was genuine – euphoric and warm.

  “I speak every word in truth, Elizabeth.” His lips moved in an almost funny motion when speaking under her hand – but the informality of it all only blossomed the love in her heart even further. “This room, this life, this heart – sh
all have no master but you.”

  She did not want to cry again – though it was nearly inevitable.

  “Lizzy.” His hand on her cheek highlighted each whisper. She leaned willingly into his touch. “May I – take you, us – somewhere your sister has never been?”

  She was quite certain her eyes posed questions, but he seemed eager to proceed – and she nodded in acquiescence.

  With a squeal, she found herself lifted high into the air, balanced between his strong arms. She, smiling, clung upon his neck lest she fall. He, laughing, pulled her tautly against his chest.

  He crossed the insignificant sitting room with ease and speed – and nearly kicked open his door when they happened upon it. She both giggled and screamed when she slid two inches downwards, their clumsy combined pose barely weaving through the doorframe without harming them both. He smiled when he placed her upon the floor and kissed her at last – every meeting of the lips an ardent surrender.

  She closed her eyes happily, every nerve rejoicing. His large hands pressed her to him as if she occupied less space than a child. His passionate kisses lit blazing trails of fire on her lips, and neck, and chest.

  It was not difficult to untie each loose knot and tug each corner of fabric until their clothes fell upon the floor. It was no trouble to twirl, and gasp, and kiss until their bodies tumbled upon his clean, expansive bed. It was easy – yet breathtaking – to explore every inch of each other's skin with lips and tongue and hands and teeth.

  He did not wait long to enter her – nor she to welcome him. The pain of the morning, distant and dull, was quickly chased away by this moment's rush of ecstasy. Elizabeth almost laughed at the passing thought that the system was right to disallow revocation after such activities had taken place.

  Such touches, sighs, and ardor – were for two souls to share alone.

  They did not rush tonight, every moment savored and indulged to their hearts' content. Curiosity and awe mingled with every novel discovery. Devotion swelled with every new kiss they shared.

  Elizabeth's last thought before drifting to sleep was of indescribable happiness alone. Bliss – she found – was a word aptly applied.

  • • •

  The kiss of the dawn was something she had always accepted in sleep. Elizabeth had been born the morning lark, Lydia the night owl, and she the modest middle – as she often was in so many things. The early morning hours seldom had its romance with her.

  Today, a gently waking Jane happily found that the sun's kiss was merely the backdrop to a kiss of an entirely different kind.

  “Good morning.” Charles – handsome and glad – hovered right above her.

  “Good morning,” she whispered back, heart and soul aglow.

  She had felt his kisses before – in passion and pain, in secrecy and desperation. Today's were light and airy, tender and simply right.

  “Do you feel alright?” His breath caressed her nose, his hand her cheek.

  “Yes.” She smiled to her very toes.

  She had roused twice in the night – once in chills, the other in a suffocating coughing fit. Both times, Charles' arms had eased her nightmares – and his patient ministrations her suffering. He attended to her patiently – with tender wipes of her perspiring forehead and gentlemanly fumbling with her buttons and hair – until she fell back asleep.

  Her fever broke soon after, she supposed – providing her with this much more glorious morning.

  “You were ill,” her groom said gently. The sunbeams enhanced his features, the breeze his words. He looked different in his shirtsleeves, with his hair disheveled and young.

  “No longer.” She smiled and kissed him.

  He seemed to find her kisses pleasing, since he kissed her back so quickly. The stillness of the morning echoed the serenity in her heart. They kissed and smiled, and touched and teased at utter leisure – cocooned in happiness and peace.

  “Do you remember?” He asked when their third round of kisses took a particularly heated turn.

  She blinked wordlessly, refocusing on his worried face. Her gown, unbuttoned, remained on her still.

  “Remember what?”

  “Last night.” His eyes were trained intently on her face. His fingers tensed on her jaw.

  “Yes, of course.” She smiled. “Thank you – you were ever so attentive.”

  He began to smile – until he did not.

  “Charles –”

  “The – meeting.” He looked down at nowhere in particular. She nudged his eyes back to hers. “Do you – you were weak. Did you know?”

  “Of the restoration?” She asked, a lifetime in one word.

  “Of the – yes, the restoration. Yes.” He smiled now, the color returning to his face. “Your Aunt Gardiner and the Constable – the proposals and arrangement.”

  “Yes, Charles.” Even with half his face obscured by the pillow, he was the only object of her smiles. “Thank you – for knowing my heart.”

  His smile grew gradually, the eventual cranking of a stubborn lever until it lifted completely. The grin, once there, stayed beautifully on his face.

  She was married, at long last, to the man of her dearest hopes and dreams.

  “Charles –”

  “Jane –”

  Kisses replaced words; hands replaced clothing. Delicate touches and soothing lips accompanied every item unraveled. Their union was heartfelt – gentle yet delightful. She was his, and he was hers.

  Everything in the world was as it should be.

  • • •

  The grand staircase leading to Pemberley's entrance was every bit as Bingley had remembered it to be. The familiar way with which his carriage drew close reminded him, quite poignantly, how often he used to call upon this place. With Caroline at home, Pemberley had always promised refuge – a citadel uncorrupted by whining women. The past two months of wordless estrangement had been his longest separation from this estate to date since he had first taken possession of Brigham Park himself.

  It was funny, almost, that the sister he'd always tried to escape when requesting Darcy's company was in his carriage tonight – ushered to Pemberley's hallowed grounds by him.

  Jane's serene smile and tender clasping of his hand were enough to chase away any uncharitable thoughts he had almost harbored against his sister. Caroline had calmed when the second meeting resulted in a Mrs. Jane Bingley rather than a Mrs. Elizabeth – and there had been an air of intangible gratefulness emanating from Caroline since then.

  Perhaps it was for the best.

  “How wonderfully kind for Mr. Darcy to invite us for dinner,” Caroline cooed before their carriage stopped completely. “I dare say he's the nicest man in the world.”

  Bingley chuckled under his breath. A small shifting beside him made him think that Jane might had done so as well.

  “It was not Darcy who invited us, I believe.” Bingley smiled as the carriage door opened. “It was Mrs. Darcy whose name and writing appeared upon our invitation.”

  Caroline was not pleased, of course – though she proved civilized enough to only roll her eyes once.

  Bingley was a man who had reveled and indulged and tasted of the wonders of true marriage for the past six nights. He was blessed – and there was little that could spoil his moods.

  “Mr. Bingley, Mrs. Bingley, Miss Bingley,” the footman announced, rather formally, when their party of three passed upon the threshold. Jane was dazzling tonight, so much so that he, upon seeing her, had almost decided to lock her up with him in his room for the rest of the evening rather than parade her before Pemberley's servants.

  But she, as always, had been right to insist on their duty.

  This was an olive branch they could not ignore.

  This was the night to make amends for what should have been discussed much earlier. This was the night to put all things where they truly ought to be.

  “Jane!” Mrs. Darcy appeared before them – face bright and gown simple. She ran quickly towards them and pulled
Jane into a large, warm hug. Jane, smiling, reciprocated – and the sisters' embrace moved him more than he had thought it would.

  “Bingley.” Darcy, tall and commanding, approached with an uncharacteristic smile. This grin was not the sarcastic smirk of his bachelorhood – nor the caustic sneers he had occasionally let slip at the meeting house. His smile tonight was honest – open and happy.

  Bingley smiled himself when his hand met Darcy's in a strong, manly shake. The camaraderie they had always shared, lost in one unfortunate exchange, had seemed to return at last with its reversal. Their friendship had passed through the hottest of purifying kilns, and it had survived.

  “Thank you for the invitation,” said Bingley, with utmost sincerity.

  “Thank you for accepting.” Darcy smiled back.

  Caroline said something then – something about the room, the gowns, or the food. Miss Darcy came along soon after with her own shy greetings and girlish curtsies. The details did not matter. The sisters, the decor, or the dishes could not matter less.

  He escorted Jane to dinner tonight, Darcy and his bride on his arm before them. The awkward stares and subtle glances were no more. Every hand was held affectionately, every whisper made in full view of all other hosts and guests. Compliments were given, as was proper. Queries were exchanged. Bows and all other forms of standard greetings were ascribed to at some point during the evening.

  Miss Darcy mentioned more than once of how happy she was that her brother had finally taken a wife. Darcy corrected her gently on each occasion, his propriety disallowing such outbursts. Mrs. Darcy, on the other hand, seemed to only indulge her new sister with knowing glances of her own.

  Even Caroline seemed determined to be agreeable – and only once complained aloud about Mrs. Darcy's gown. Jane intercepted, of course, to praise her sister's modest tastes. Bingley, in turn, praised his own wife.

  His wife – could any words be sweeter?

  No one faulted him or Jane for their acts of mutual adoration – not even the two soft kisses with which he bid her goodbye when the sexes parted after the meal. He thought, for one spare moment, that he saw Darcy doing likewise to his wife in the corner. His hosts were not prone to hypocrisy, he supposed.