The third door along the upstairs corridor was to be theirs, the brass door handle sufficiently ostentatious in its size to become the focus of all of Elizabeth's attention as Darcy pushed at it to obtain their entry. He stood back a little to give her space to pass, his hand finding the small of her back as she crossed the threshold. She steeled herself so as not to flinch at his touch, knowing full well how gently and kindly the gesture was meant and how welcome it was to her.
An unseen maid had already visited as evidenced by the fire burning in the grate and lit candles illuminating the heavily patterned peacock blue wallpaper against which sat dark mahogany furniture. The combination would have been overpowering had it not been for the lightness in colour of the linens, the bed curtains draped in such an unceremonious manner to be anything but deliberately done, matched with the rug which softened underfoot. To one side, she spied a small dressing room, and stepping two paces further on discerned through its open door that her trunks had already been brought up. With everything seemingly in order she turned to face her husband.
"A lovely room," she said, confirming her contentment, "What's through that door?" she asked, her eyes darting over his shoulder to a door set into the wall.
"Another dressing room," he replied, adding with a brief frown, "Mine, I suppose."
Elizabeth breathed deeply and with feigned confidence stepped forward, reaching to take the hands that hung at his sides into her own.
"You don't wish to have a separate room in which to change?" she asked, a warmth to her cheeks at her belated realisation as to the implication of her enquiry.
"No, indeed," he blustered before slipping into a silent struggle to find the correct words, a state she was coming to recognise as his way of ensuring he spoke always with consideration. As she waited she kept her eyes locked onto his, suddenly very aware of their proximity to one another and how his thumb had begun to stroke against the back of hand.
"You speak of your anxiety," he said, "One that I comprehend perhaps more than I have allowed myself to acknowledge, that I find exists within my own heart." He looked down to where they were joined and, releasing one hand, proceeded to tenderly drift his fingers up along her forearm. "But I confess that I have dreamed of being finally alone with you, for us to discover what I hope is our adoration for one another, safe from any impropriety."
Elizabeth shuddered as his hand ran over her elbow and continued up across her back, her senses heightened as she realised where it might be headed.
"You have done this before?" she asked in a quiet voice that held a surprising strength within itself. Darcy gave a slight nod, his eyes darkening as she was forced to take half step closer to him, his hand warm against the bare skin of her neck. He let go of her other hand and brought it to her cheek, to brush his thumb against her lips and she felt a charge flood through her.
"Then you'll be my guide, Sir," she urged.
"No, wife," he murmured, his lips but an inch from hers, "You will be mine. For I do not wish to hasten you into something for which you are not yet ready."
Elizabeth daren't breath, daren't move, feeling herself wonderfully captive in the spell he cast upon her, but finding words formed and spoken before she knew how to halt them.
"It is a curious thing," she began, her hands which had found themselves redundant now finding a purpose in moving to find purchase against his waist, giving a small smile as his breath hitched, "The world expecting two people to indulge in that which is unspoken with only a few chaste kisses exchanged between them."
The spark in his eye was enough of a response as he pressed his lips to hers, his hand slipping from her neck to her waist, half catching her as she felt her knees give way at its intensity. But righting herself she returned his efforts with equal pressure, unknowingly allowing her mouth to part and finding herself gasping as his tongue began a quite unexpected exploration.
Darcy allowed himself the smallest of groans as she gave herself over to his ministrations, his heart beating loudly in his chest as he held back, delicately introducing her to how a kiss could be. It proved itself more, however, than he'd experienced, that he'd allowed himself to dream it might be. She'd honoured him with her trust, her modest declaration as to how overwhelming it was to find herself married, mistress to a great estate, sister to a girl in need of guidance and support, wife to a man equally in need of love and attention. The delicacy with which she'd shared these concerns merely confirmed what he'd already known, that she was not entering their partnership naively but with a far better understanding that he could have imagined had their roles been reversed. She'd let their love be her guide in accepting his proposal, but it was her mind that would shape their future happiness.
He pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against hers as he murmured her name in reverence, discerning her own joy from the blush to her face and neck.
"Fitzwilliam," she whispered, a thrill of excitement barely contained within him as she boldly moved her arms up to wrap around his neck, her body pressing into his own. "Again, please."
He needed no further encouragement, her forwardness spurring him on to gather her up and lift her gently from her feet, their lips colliding as they themselves half collapsed onto a chaise set in front of the fire. Their clumsiness in settling together, her seated across his lap, was acknowledged with a small chuckle, their lips not parting before seriousness descending once more. For some minutes they were lost, the sound of their quiet hums of delight providing the only backdrop until a violent pop from the grate, and then the audible shifting of logs required them to break apart to ensure all was well.
Darcy carefully encouraged her to slide onto the cushions and stood, reaching for the iron poker to tend the flames. Elizabeth looked on, his movements issues with such poise, such elegance as to reach a part of her that his actions had ignited. It was not lost on her, in the instant, how fortunate a position she found herself in; wedded to a man who's affection for her was as deep as any ocean, who acted with the utmost assurity borne of a morality that had been shown to be above reproach. Her doubts, too numerous to list, pertaining to all elements of her life from this point hence, but not to him. Never to him.
He shifted his stance, replacing the poker to its stand and turned, her moving to stand at that very same moment and they shared an awkward encounter as they hovered in front of one another.
"Chestnut," he stuttered, his face flushed from the heat.
"Chestnut?" she frowned confusedly.
"Sweet chestnut. In the fire," he explained, his eyes flicking to the basket of logs set to one side of the hearth. "It's prone to spitting if not sufficiently seasoned."
"Ah," she acknowledged, her eyes dancing as a thought came to her, "Much like a woman then."
She watched carefully for his reaction. If he'd indicated theirs would be a marriage of equals she was yet to be convinced as to the veracity of the sentiment. Every indication had been given as such but she could not help but continue to probe and to test. His brow darkened but then seemed to lift.
"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned," he quoted.
"Nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned," she replied with chuckling ease.
The eyes of her husband burned into her as they continued to stand, close together still but separate. Elizabeth braced herself against the impending chastisement, her surprise plain as he leant in and began to speak in a low tone.
"You tease me yet again, madam," the gruffness of his voice having quite an alarming effect on her being, "And in our bed chamber of all places, and on our wedding night of all times." He paused but briefly as his eyes shone and continued, "But you should know that you shall never feel my scorn, my hate, nor any sentiment in their vicinity. Your every effort to lure me into disagreement, your every joke and jest only further deepens my regard. That you do not temper yourself for me is what I admire and love most of all."
"Well then," she managed with a serenity that she hoped belied her inward struggle to keep reign on her juddering emotions, such was his declaration. "Perhaps now is the time that we should part, to wash and to change." She took a step backwards, dropping her chin to then look up at him demurely, "For if I am not to be scorned by you, my husband, then I am to feel only encouraged. Encouraged that I am not found wanting. Encouraged to dream, to speak, to act. Perhaps," her tone lowering to that of implied innocence, "Even encouraged beyond your wildest imaginings."
She took another step back, her confidence unfathomably soaring as she saw his mouth drop open but heard no words spoken. She turned with resolution and strode across the room to her dressing room. And as she closed the door behind her, noticing for the first time how her hands were shaking, she saw him slip quietly into his own.
The quote, "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned," is from William Congreve's play, 'The Mourning Bride' (1697).