Page 51 of His Dark Heart
“That is very sweet.”
“I suppose. It seemed a good way to thank them for their help and hospitality. We were rather rude if ye think about it.”
“For using their home as a house of ill repute?”
“If ye want to put it that way then I would be owed quite a few gold pieces, do ye not think?”
“Gold pieces? Do you know what a man pays a whore? She would have to be of divine coital origin to rate a single gold piece let alone several.”
Her eyebrow arched.
“But, you! You, my dear, are worth ten times more than that.”
“Well played, my lord.”
“Thank you.”
“How do you feel today?” He asked, suddenly turning serious. His hand was at the small of her back, rubbing gently with his thumb.
“Better. Not so frightened. I think it is good to be home. That should help.”
He nodded. “I think so also.”
“Are we to greet guests tomorrow still?”
“No, I left word that any wedding guests should go ahead and take their leave. Richard and Jude departed while we were away, and Finn has already dispatched a messenger to inform him of what occurred. We shall hold a regular business discussion in the morning, if you wish to sit in.”
“Thank ye.” She prepared her brush.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Ye may stay if ye want, but I assume it might be rather tedious for ye. I cannot imagine anything duller than watching me coax this canvas to life.”
Darcy settled in a chair behind her and well out of her way. The form on the canvas slowly began to take shape, a soft, pastel look made fuzzy by the watercolour paint she used. The house was set far back in the landscape. It took him some time to conclude she was painting her first visual of Nanningbrook. The stream that cut the property seemed to pulse and bubble in the foreground, and once again, Darcy was astounded by her talent.
Proud and not a little envious of her gift to create, he quietly slipped out of the atrium, leaving her to her craft. As he made his way, he offered up a prayer in hope that the plaguing terror that he might still lose her would eventually disappear.
* * *
Elizabeth’s head was jumbled, so she made the decision to avoid Darcy and Jane and the court in favour of some much-needed solitude. Due to Darcy’s nervous anxiety about her being alone, he had given her a guard, but Elizabeth had tasked Heather to flirt with Samuel, her keeper, and slipped away while the guard was distracted. She would likely need to step in to keep her hapless guard from being thrown in the stocks for her deception, but hopefully, her husband would understand.
Her boots made hollow sounds as she trekked over the frozen ground, the hem of her thick woollen skirts already damp. The evergreens were burdened with the fresh snow that had fallen the day before, and her breath created clouds of fog that dissipated with each step she took. Impenetrable, milky clouds still hung low, insulating the world around her, and the cold, biting air was exactly what she required to clear her head.
Her muddled up, silly brain.
Her confused, stupid heart.
How was she to reconcile the man she was coming to know with the man he had been and the awful way she had found herself tied to him? He had frightened and annoyed her the first few times they had met, but now she was having trouble remembering why she had disliked him so. He had been arrogant and smug, but now he had risked his life for her and was so protective. He was tender and kind to her now. And now, he held her so tightly when they slept at night. She was so safe in his arms, and he was so sweet and cautious. She could not help but find his ways endearing.
It was almost as if he was two separate men.
Neither of whom were George.
George.
Of course, she had not forgotten about George. She did love him but was aware that her youthful esteem for him was nothing compared to the possibilities with her husband. The feelings she had for George were sweet and innocent, and she could never imagine lying with George the same way she had with her husband.
The main difference between George and Darcy, Elizabeth had to admit, was passion. George was stolen kisses and dances and sunny days, but Darcy. . .
