Page 126 of Mr. Darcy's Forgotten Heir
“He’s a good man,” I agree. “And you deserve nothing less.”
She folds my hand in hers—no speeches, no sermons, only sisterly warmth—and I find that joy, like sorrow, becomes larger when shared.
“And you, dear sister,” she says, “have found love, not once, but twice.”
“With the same dear man.” I watch as William and his father corral Spot safely into her pen.
Father and son race back toward me, similar countenances alight with joy, while contented sheep graze in the meadow below.
“I confess,” Darcy says when he reaches me. “Bellfield has a remarkable talent for reclaiming stray creatures.”
“Yes, the same can be said for storm-lashed coaching inns, where you first rescued me.” I give him an impertinent smirk.
“I would choose storms and sheep a thousand times over,” Darcy says, balancing his heir on his hip, “if it meant finding my way to you and William. And to this one.” His hand rests briefly on my rounded belly.
I tip my face up to his, remembering my words before we wed. “I once warned you I brought no portion at all, no dowry, no connections, only myself. I lied.”
His brows furrow before they rise with understanding. “You, my dear, are treasure enough.”
“Then, sir, count yourself indecently rich; my dowry remains myself—now inconveniently multiplied by a small gentleman, a winter babe, and perpetual opinions I cannot help but share with you, my dear love.”
THE END
