Page 63 of The Longbourn Bloodline

Her mouth was cold from the January air and warm underneath, and she tasted of cider and fruitcake and what might have been tears. He kissed her, or perhaps he kissed her back.

She pulled back. Not far—her fingers still twisted in his coat, her breath warm against his chin.

“Will you miss me?” she whispered, and answered it with another press of her lips over his, and this time, he kissed her deeper, pouring the hours he wished he was by her side into it. Her hand pressed against his chest, over his heart, and he wondered if she could feel it hammering, and he supposed she could, and he could not bring himself to mind.

“Will you not think too ill of what I confessed?” She was smiling now—a tremulous, brave, devastating smile. “Yes. I do not think ill of it at all.”

And then she kissed him—unmistakably Elizabeth, her mouth warm and insistent, her hands sliding over his shoulders, fingers curling into his cravat. His crown toppled, then hers, as his hands found her curls, and their lips answered every question, translated every silence, forgave every reproach. The kiss lingered, unhurried and unrepentant, for in this shadowed orchard, his future was contained entirely within her grasp and he did not mind it at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A SISTER’S QUESTIONS

The morning after Twelfth Night dawned grey and cold, and Elizabeth woke with the taste of cider still on her lips and the memory of three kisses warming her from the inside out. She lay in bed longer than was her habit, twirling the crinkled paper crown in her hands and remembering Darcy’s face when she had quoted the lines from his letter.

She had told Jane everything—well, almost everything, and the two sisters had talked until either one or both of them had drifted off to the land of dreams. Jane, however, was up already, but she hadn’t been kissed until she could scarcely breathe, as she and Bingley had stayed close to Mamma and Papa throughout the wassailing, the songs and the gunshots.

A knock on the door hurled Elizabeth out of her Darcy-inhabited dream world.

“Lizzy,” her sister’s voice was soft. “Are you still abed? The Netherfield party has sent word. They are coming to call this morning. All of them.”

Elizabeth sat up quickly, rubbing her eyes, her pulse leaping at the news. “They are all up so early.” She wondered if Darcy had dreamed about her, too. “And I suppose Mr. Bingley found it quite impossible to remain another hour at Netherfield without consulting you on the state of the roads, or perhaps the weather?”

Jane blushed, like she had been doing every quarter-hour since Bingley arrived. “Yes, and while Mamma wishes to set up the card tables and have another musicale, Georgiana expressed a wish to explore the grounds.”

“Will her brother come along?” Elizabeth felt a sudden, sharp swoop of anticipation. After last night’s orchard confessions, the thought of walking the frosty paths beneath his steady gaze made her breath catch, even as her mind raced with the sudden, delightful probability.

“You would ask about her brother,” Jane teased. “I do believe she intends to monopolize you so her brother can check up on the repairs. He has requested that Bingley come along, and well… I suppose he wished for Charles to learn Longbourn in case…”

“In case he marries you, Jane? Do you think he will propose?”

Jane’s cheeks flushed a brilliant pink. “Papa is in good health, and we have plenty of time. But Darcy likes to be prepared.”

Elizabeth supposed it was just as well. After last night’s adventures, she and Darcy would need to tread with the utmost delicacy, lest they provide the neighborhood with more entertainment than it deserved. Her father had already made sport of marriage by compromise, but Elizabeth had no intention of becoming the subject of every tea-table, even for the sake of a man who had, quite inconveniently, ceased to be either infuriating or insufferable.

The Netherfield party arrived promptly at eleven, and Georgiana immediately gravitated to Elizabeth’s side while Bingley flowed to Jane the way water ran down a channel. Darcy stood aside, sandwiched by Mr. Hurst and Mrs. Hurst, but his eyes found Elizabeth with an intensity that made her pulse stutter.

“Miss Elizabeth.” He bowed, perfectly correct.

“Mr. Darcy.” She curtsied, equally correct. Neither of them mentioned the orchard or the fact that the King and Queen had been misplaced amongst the wassail, songs, and revelry.

“Brother, you are blocking the door.” Georgiana appeared at Darcy’s elbow, her cheeks pink from the cold, her eyes bright with curiosity as they swept the hall and landed on Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth! I was hoping—that is, I wondered if you might show me the stiles you use to elevate yourself over the mudpits. Fitzwilliam has told me about the improvements you have been making, and I should so like to see them.”

“You mean to see the places where your brother got acquainted with Hertfordshire.” Elizabeth’s glance at Darcy was teasing.

“I wish to see everything.” Georgiana’s smile was disarming. “I have been trapped at Matlock for weeks with no one to talk to but my aunt, who believes young ladies should not have opinions, and my cousin Richard, who has too many. I am desperate for sensible conversation.”

“Then you have come to the wrong house,” Elizabeth said solemnly. “We have five sisters, a mother who believes volume is a substitute for reason, and a father who finds the commotion entertaining. Sensible conversation is in short supply.”

“Perfect.” Georgiana’s grin widened. “I shall feel right at home.”

Darcy’s mouth twitched. Elizabeth caught his eye, and a sentiment passed between them—amusement, warmth, and the shared recognition of a sister being welcomed into the fold.

“I should be happy to walk out with you, Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth said. “Though I warn you—the paths are muddy, and I intend to visit several tenants on the way. Mrs. Pratt is elderly and appreciates company, and I have been meaning to bring her some things from the stillroom.”

“May I help? I am quite good with baskets.” Georgiana’s eagerness was entirely without pretense. “And I should like to meet your tenants. Fitzwilliam says you know them all by name.”

“I have been managing the estate in practice for three years.” Elizabeth glanced at Darcy. “Will you join us, Mr. Darcy?”