Page 81 of Elizabeth Bennet Says Yes to Mr. Darcy

“So I suffered for an hour over a fifteen-year-old floral surrender.”

“The grandest traditions are sometimes born of exhaustion.”

He brushed his fingers against the necklace.

“She would have loved you. Not because you resemble her, but because you don't try to.”

Emotion tightened my throat.

“How can you know that?”

“She said Pemberley needed living people, not museum keepers.”

I rested my forehead against his chest.

“I was ridiculous.”

“No. You were afraid, and you told me.”

“After first assuring you that nothing had happened.”

“So your perfection remains out of reach.”

I raised my face.

“And you love me despite this disappointment?”

“I love you in part because of it.”

He kissed me.

The tenderness of the kiss slowly transformed. His hands undid the pins in my hair, then the buttons down my back. My dress slipped to my waist.

“Fitzwilliam,” I murmured, “the servants haven't cleared the dishes yet.”

“They have a great deal of experience with discretion.”

“That's a troubling level of confidence.”

He kissed the curve of my neck.

“Do you wish me to stop?”

In that question, I found the whole journey we had traveled since Hunsford: his proud proposal, my consent dictated by fear, the freedom he had returned to me, every moment we had learned to trust each other.

“No.”

He lifted me and carried me to the bed.

Later, lying in his arms, I announced that the red roses would stay in the gallery.

“I would never have dared suggest otherwise,” he replied.

“You learn quickly.”

“I have an excellent mistress.”

“Of the house?”