A good thing, yes, but perhaps not enough. Not for him. He had thought all he needed to do to gain her affection was ask for her hand. No woman would refuse him. Now, oddly, he found himself dissatisfied with what he had always expected. He was immensely happy with Elizabeth herself, but alone in his room, surrounded by darkness, he could admit that he wanted more than Elizabeth in his home and in his bed. He wanted more than to make her a Darcy and make children with her. He wanted more than her at his side and across his table.

He wanted her heart.

He wanted her to love him as he did her. To burn for him, yearn for him, long to be in his presence as he longed to be in hers.

Was such a thing even possible? Did women ever feel that way for men? He had never seen it. Could Elizabeth ever feel that way about him? Could he inspire such a fierce devotion in her?

He was terribly afraid he could not.

Chapter 20

The wedding was now less than three days away, a fact Mrs. Bennet reminded everyone of as she bustled about the Gardiners’ home in a flurry of activity. Gone was the tranquil woman of the last few weeks and in her place stood the Agnes Bennet her children had long grown accustomed to, though ever so slightly less voluble.

She insisted Mr. Darcy would have plenty of time to see Elizabeth after they were married and dragged her two eldest daughters from shop to warehouse to milliners all day Monday. By evening they were exhausted and collapsed in a heap across their shared bed.

Once everything was complete, Mrs. Bennet relaxed slightly, just in time for Darcy to call Tuesday morning. Elizabeth, Jane, and Mary quickly whisked him away to the park for a walk, barely taking the time to tell their mother where they were going.

Jane and Mary walked ahead toward a small pond while Elizabeth and Darcy lagged behind, strolling leisurely on the shady path.

“How are you, my dear?” he asked her gently. Her hand was on his arm and he placed his free hand over hers and held her as close to him as was possible without impeding their stride.

She sighed. “I am tired,” she said softly. She laid her head on his shoulder for a moment, the second time she had ever done so, and he found the action oddly endearing. He squeezed her hand, wishing he could do more, and directed them to a small alcove in the trees where they would be protected from view.

“Will you tell me your troubles, dearest?” he asked once they were secluded.

“I love when you do that,” she said.

“Do what?” he asked, trying to control his elation that she had said she loved something about him, even if it was an unnamed action.

“Understand when I am distressed and seek to comfort me.”