Sorry, guys... for some reason when I copy paste from my docs on my phone, all the typos and mashed text come to life. This a bit of a bipolar chapter for our lovebirds. I wrote in my profile that I had plenty in my real life to keep me from writing, but I wanted to update and keep it going. Thank you so much for following along, commenting, encouraging. I appreciate it very much and feel flattered to have some of your attention for a little while! 3

Worrying her teeth against the curve of her lower lip, she sat on the carpet of her bedchamber, willing her heart to cease in its wild fluttering as she mused on all that had happened in the space of an evening— not even an evening— mere moments, it seemed! Her mouth had not stopped tingling nor had her face regained its usual colour. A pleasant warmth suffused her from head to toe. All because of a kiss. Had her father known such a thing to discomfit her, he would have declared his most intelligent daughter to be as silly and romantic as her younger sisters. She found that the notion did not pain her as it once might have; it did not pain her at all! How strange to suddenly think of her father when her ruminations were for a man who was, in so many ways, his complete opposite.

A kiss. It had been certainly different than the kisses bestowed that first and only night she had spent with him as his wife and was certainly a great departure from the only other kiss he had attempted in the sickroom. She would not include the kiss that had united them in marriage. In any event, she could not have remembered it had she tried. The day of their wedding, unwelcome as it had been, she had been keen on forgetting it altogether or imagining it was nothing more than a bad dream. Duty to her family or not, she had not nursed even the slightest wish for the man to kiss her then or ever. How strange that their marriage had been consummated at all. A willing party and a lamb who felt rather like being led to slaughter.

Such a remembrance brought such a flush to her cheeks that she felt, at once, Missish and foolish and absolutely mortified. How strange to be a bride, to have been to a man's bed, undoubtedly the most intimate place a woman could be, and to know so very little about the man--to have known and seen that private side of him without wishing it! Would it have all been different had she entered into the marriage with some appreciation for his sentiments? At once, she felt the rush of sympathy she had not been capable of feeling before. With sympathy, it seemed, came greater shame and a fervent wish to reverse the damage she had inflicted.

She forced herself to think of something, anything else.

Jane. Had she not done all of this for Jane? And what of her dearest sister? She had not written to her in the last fortnight, at least nothing beyond cursory sentences describing her husband's accident and subsequent recovery. And in the last reply she had received there had been nothing of Jane's heart revealed, only the appropriate concern shown for a beloved sister's ailing husband. What had this marriage done to secure Jane's happiness, to provide security to the rest of her sisters and mother in the event her father should leave them all for his reward? She had no doubt that Mr. Darcy had been generous in his settlement. That he had married her alone, that he had elevated her at all— it was nothing short of extraordinary. Of course arrangements would be made. Of course the Bennet girls would not suffer. He was nothing but duty and honour. But would he seek to rebuild the foundation he had destroyed by his selfish interference should she allow hiM the chance?

She had not yet begun to work on Mr. Darcy in the way she had vowed to. The subject too painful to mention and certain to remind her husband of all the grief that had already befallen them, she had taken care to not revisit it when his feelings were already so volatile. How was she even to begin to rectify the many wrongs that had taken place? And how would she ever bring up her sister's heartache without wounding her husband anew and reminding him of the cruelty with which she had accepted his suit? It seemed an abysmal prospect and selfish to mention her desires for Jane's chances of happiness when they themselves were not yet on firm footing.

Dwelling on such questions seemed to only lead to more questions. Whether it was the time spent at his bedside in guilt and misery of the acutest sort or merely that she could not bear to let her natural cheerfulness be snuffed out, she could not say. She was utterly confused by it all. She certainly could not help but be confused by Fitzwilliam Darcy!

Fitzwilliam. Had she ever called him as such? She allowed the syllables to roll from her tongue into the silence of the room and giggled despite herself. Such an odd name, but she could not readily think of another that suited him quite so well. It was rather a mouthful, but it had a charming ring to it. And how might he take to her using it?

They were married, yes, but it seemed as if they would always be navigating the treacherous waters of courtship. And although she was unaccustomed to seeing marriage exhibited in such a way that mutual felicity was apparent, she seriously doubted that swinging back and forth on a pendulum was the best way to go about it.

Elizabeth had begun the troublesome business of falling in love with her husband; was that not true fortune? But she could not be sure which Mr. Darcy she felt more for, the strange gentleman of the sickroom or the one she had vowed to despise for eternity.

She began to dwell on the latter. For that was the true man, was it not? Having spent so much time thinking him to be devoid of feeling anything other than contempt for those not within his carefully crafted circles, she had been surprised to find him in possession of anything that recommended him beyond his w wealth nd handsome appearance.

He had offered for her out of love despite his many reservations at uniting himself to a family who, by all accounts, was entirely beneath his notice. She sighed heavily; that alone was sufficient proof of at least some sort of lasting devotion, that he was denying himself what was unquestionably owed to a man of his sort, a wife who was so much more, someone other than a country miss from Hertfordshire. She could be nothing more than a wife he would certainly grow to resent when the first flush of passion began to fade away.

She could not be pleased with the course of those thoughts and tried desperately to shake them away. The idea of him falling out of love with her was as disturbing as the notion that a man of his ilk could love her. She was too selfish a creature to pretend her pride would not be hurt if he did somehow find she was not worth the trouble and turn elsewhere. How many great men took mistresses? She did not know for certain. Other than her mother's brief speech on how she needed only provide him with an heir before he could make off to Town, she had not given it a second thought.

She suddenly found it made her stomach turn. It was best to meditate on how much he had esteemed her and to hope his devotion was steadfast and true, unbelievable as it continued to be.

How was she to have known he had nurtured such affection for so many months? His countenance had been sullen. He had hardly ever smiled, looked vexed by everything their society in Hertfordshire had offered, and, she was sure, had only looked her way to find fault. There was absolutely nothing in his bearing then that betrayed deep feelings of any sort, other than those of unrelenting disapproval.

And she, she owned, had only looked his way to wonder at why he was so preoccupied with those glaring faults that could have been of such little use to him. She had been hardly more than civil in their associations. Piqued by his insult at the small Meryton assembly that past September, she had not had to look far to dislike him more. He had apologised for that in the sickroom, albeit he probably could not remember a word of the apology if he tried.

And yet...she was now his wife. And he had, indeed, suffered much to make it so.

He had risked the very real displeasure of his relations. Lady Catherine would have been a formidable adversary on her own, but there was also his uncle the Earl of Matlock to contend with. What had he come to know of her and had he reacted as his sister had? Should she be preparing herself for an even larger tempest, more ridicule at the hands of someone so wholly unconnected to her?

She was sure she had not yet come to know of all the anger leveled at Mr. Darcy by tying himself to her. It made her flush in mortification to consider that she, always regarded as one of the principal beauties in Hertfordshire, was likely reduced to nothing when united with such a man as her husband. Perhaps he had whisked her off to Derbyshire because he was ashamed of her. She might be a good sort to warm his bed, but perhaps he did not think her fit for the drawing rooms and musical evenings of the Ton.

This caused the curious sensation of tears to prick in her eyes and she drew up her hand to catch them lest they were successful in their endeavor to roll down her cheeks. She forced her thoughts back to his relatives, determined to not let her injured feelings be the victor. Besides, it was she who had envisioned this. He had not confirmed or denied it. And did not most men wish to be with their wives so soon after their vows? Why should she attribute shame to him?

Lady Catherine had certainly been determined he feel shame for taking her for his bride. She could not have been more vocal with her searing disapproval.

In truth, ever since she had so hastily written a note to Rosings to relay that he had fallen his horse, the letters from that quarter had started to pour in rapidly. She was fortunate that Lady Catherine had chosen to apply her views on the match to paper rather than travel to Derbyshire and demand a private audience with her nephew while he was still unwell. What a sight that would have been, Mr. Darcy hardly sensible and his aunt making demands left and right, terrifying the servants and declaring them as unfit for their roles as she was for being their new mistress.

Another small and diverted giggle passed her lips at the thought. Thank goodness for small mercies. Mr. Darcy would have been fit to be tied had she imposed in such a manner. The very thought made her smile. He would not have been half as agreeable to her aunt as he had been to her.

She recalled next how she had wished for him to recover, how keenly she had felt the pressing weight of her guilt and the role she had played, no matter how unwittingly, in his leaving the house so angrily. What would she have said to him after he returned to the house that night if he had come back able bodied and resentful? They likely would have only spoken in circles if they had spoken at all. His feelings so wounded, she did not know if she would have sought him out and she could not know if he would have been eager to return to her side. Would he have drank himself into a stupor and thundered about as some men did? Would he have resorted to violence? Certainly not. She shuddered at the thought. The man was many things, but he was decidedly not that, no matter how his temper sometimes reigned supreme.

She made to stand and smooth out the wrinkles of her night gown, curiosity motivating her to do something she might not have done before. She would ask him. Why should she not? What harm could there be in it? Just as she had risen from her place on the rug and was steeling herself to seek him out, she heard a soft rap on her door. Expecting to see one of the maids come to turn down the bed, she was shocked to see that it was instead the very object of her thoughts.

He looked just as surprised as she that he was there, and she could not stop the rise of laughter even if she had tried. His expression was one of severity and tenderness. If ever there were two states that warred with the other, they were these, but they somehow belonged to him, somehow amplifying already handsome features. How had she not thought so before? Perhaps it had everything to do with insulting remarks against her person and nothing to do with his. The fleeting wish to smooth out the line of his brow cane to her, but she resisted the urge and spoke instead.

"Are you well, sir? The mud has not harmed you?"

"I am very well. Thank you. Cartwright was displeased to not have the waistcoat laundered immediately , but it could not be helped…"

His voice was brusque. He had wished to say more—she was sure of it— but his voice had trailed off, the thought lingering between them. She could not help but feel some disappointment as he was, once again, so changed to what he had been just before. It was only then that she began to see that he knew not where to look. His eyes were valiantly struggling to remain on her face and to not drift. He was not unhappy with her. He was distracted.

Her cheeks flushed scarlet. What was his business in being there? They had only only just declared some sort of truce. Her mind gave way to every anxiety. Was he coming to claim what was due him? Did she wish to be with him in such a way, so soon? Could a kiss lead to this? Foolish girl! Of course it could; she should be in no doubt of it, having had her own wedding night. Thinking over it before was nothing to having the man, large as life, filling up her door frame and looking at her in such a way. She took a step back. As if that would be able to stop him! But he would not. Surely not! The uncharitable thought caused her to blush hotly.

This was not some ridiculous novel. And he was not some savage. Or was he? His eyes glittered so strangely that he looked as if he very well could be if given the chance.

He did not move. Rather, he appeared bemused. "Are you well, Mrs. Darcy? The mud has not harmed you?" When had his eyes gotten so warm? She felt her throat grow dry and she self consciously allowed her eyes to dart about the room before she lifted them to meet his. Having seen her reflection in the looking glass, she had no doubt which part of her had met with most of the mud.

"I am. I was just about to seek you out," she replied, certain that she sounded absolutely daft and not wishing to was eloquent in mud.

His astonishment was great; this, she could see.

"Oh?"

"Yes." She quickly added. "I wished to ask something of you."

"Alright then. Pray, ask."

"That day we argued, sir, I…"

A crease formed between his brows, but he remained silent as he urged her to continue with piercing eyes. When she did not speak, his mouth twitches upward.

"There has been more than one day, not least of all this one. Which day do you refer to?"

Breathlessly, she forged ahead, dismissing his attempt at levity, her distress mounting as he drew nearer to her.

"I know I injured you more with my words than perhaps your fall from the horse ever could. What would you have said to me if you had returned to the house in fine health and not…"

Merciful heavens. Were her hands actually shaking? His eyes had seemingly followed her own to them and she watched numbly as his larger hand enfolded her smaller ones. Warm and slightly calloused and quite lovely in their masculinity. Had she ever admired a man's hands before? How ridiculous!

"Unconscious?" He grinned, and she could not help but nod with what she felt must have been a silly sort of smile, finally ripping her eyes away from their joined hands to look away. How easy he was about such a somber day. It could not settle well with her. The memory of his dark hair splayed across his deathly pale face lanced her heart.

"I do not know if I could have returned to the house in any way that would have improved matters. I likely would have made it worse. As you well know. Must we go down this path? Have we not decided to be friends?" He tugged her fingers gently until she looked to him again.

Her heart gave an odd sort of flutter, and she answered, "We have."

He edged closer to her and she moved away hastily, not understanding why she chose to do so.

"And have we not already wasted many days on all sorts of discord?"

"It is true, Mr. Darcy, that many days have passed between us that were decidedly unpleasant."

"Why ever did you think it a good idea to revisit that which we cannot change?"

"I simply wished to know. And I..," she looked about the room wildly, suddenly feeling the weight of foolishness as it made its steady descent. "I do not know. There is so much wisdom in remembering the past as it gives you pleasure. But there is so little of our past that has inspired those feelings, so very little of it. And while I have your forgiveness, I find I cannot be satisfied with only that."

"No? You seemed quite content to have it. I am gratified to have secured yours."

She shook her head, "You misunderstand me. Or no, I shall not put the blame on you. I do not express myself very well at all. Least of all now. I cannot be sure of what I am trying to say. It is all so vexing really… to not find words that convey that which I wish to tell you."

He laughed a trifle breathlessly. "I wish I could follow, but I fear I do not."

She felt treacherous tears once more as frustration mounted. Oh, what was she attempting to say? And why was it all so difficult? "I… I would seek to.."

He drew even closer. Impossibly close. Her hands were still gathered in his, cradled in his own, creating too much of a barrier between them. Shaking her hands free of his, she laughed mournfully as his brows knit in disappointment before she threw her arms about him in an embrace. She felt the warmth and security of his own arms tightening about her, and she relaxed against him, her cheek pressed into the fabric of his waistcoat where she was sure she felt his heart drumming steadily beneath, erratic in its beating, as erratic as her own disjointed and confounding thoughts.

She remained there, closing her eyes, finding that it was truly pleasant to be held so. He smelled of soap and something else she could not place. Having come from a house full of girls and having had little experience with gentlemen, she supposed his scent was uniquely male. Another soft laugh fluttered from her lips and she smiled against his chest as she felt the vibrations of his voice when he began to speak, the tears abating as quickly as they had come.

"Seek to… what? You must show some charity. I have never been good at riddles."

"Nor I," she owned, her voice muffled against his cravat.

"You speak a falsehood. Our very acquaintance has been a riddle."

She pulled back, her grin widening even in her exasperation. "You mustn't talk so, not when I am gathering my courage to tell you that I think I might like to be a worthwhile companion to you.

That had won the most beautiful smile from him. If a man could be described as such, he was that to her in that moment, and she could not help but relish how such an expression made her feel. Weightless. Esteemed to a degree that was likely sinful. Hopeful. Overflowing with an affection that she could not begin to name. It bubbled over and she half laugh and half sobbed into her hands when she wrenched them away, simultaneously diverted and overcome with frustration. But in the very next moment, his mien had changed, had lost its openness and was now bland and unreadable.

"Oh, Fitzwilliam! You must say something. I am not made for your silence. I cannot bear it. Have you not heard me?"

"Perfectly, but I do not comprehend." he murmured, the glorious appearance of his teeth vanishing as his brow furrowed, his confusion apparently supreme as she used his Christian name when she had not before. She began to use it again, but he had already taken the opportunity to speak, his tone stilted and pained.

"What was said in the tree that has changed your mind in such a way that you would be willing to say all this—? It does not have to be so hasty, Elizabeth. I do not expect it. We are to be man and wife for years and years, and you did not wish it.. and while I am thankful, beyond so, for reconciliation, I do not think you know of what you speak. I do not wish for you in half measures. I… wish for all of you. And only when you are quite certain of it. I owe you that. You have been dealt this hand, made to marry me. A man who offended and insulted you when he should have done no more than offered his hand and expressed his love. To think of how I spoke to you, to think of how I behaved in the days following your care for me. A spoiled child, content to wallow in my bitterness of spirit, pleased beyond reckoning to allow you to suffer as I believed you had wished me to. I… you had me thinking you had wed me out of spite. I did not wish to even apologise this evening. My sister brought it about.. you quite know she did."

Elizabeth shook her head then, wishing forlornly for another occupation for her hands, despising the gulf that had formed in hardly a moment, confounded that he seemed so dreadfully disappointed by what was a grand revelation.

"Mr. Darcy... I meant what I said before. I would not allow you to labor under the belief that I had forgiven you if I had not. We must agree to believe the best of each other. It will not do to say I love you and have you question me. When and if I speak my love for you, sir, I wish, at the very least, to be believed!"

She gasped, her eyes widening. What had she just uttered? But what was love? Love, she supposed, was what she felt for her family, wishing the best for them in all things, a willingness to take their place if trouble came about. Love was championing another, setting aside one's selfishness. And love must be the way he was looking at her, a whirlwind of feeling in that dark gaze, muddled somewhere betwixt hope and uncertainty and an abundance of feelings— the very deepest and private of feelings on display and not hiding beneath that artful and practiced stare of a London drawing room. How had she ever misinterpreted such a look?

Her earlier secret indignation of him coming to her was abandoned entirely when she realised it had been what she had wanted. Had she not wished him near in those lonely moments upon him waking those many weeks ago? She looked to the floor between them, suddenly too frightened to meet his gaze when it burned so brightly and with such great expectation. His eyes, so warm before, held the heat of pained rejection when she summoned her courage to finally lift her own to his.

"How fortunate for you, then, that I would also wish you to be believed when and if the time comes. At present, it would be too much, too soon. Let us not speak of it. I had only come to wish you a good night and enquirer to your health, Mrs. Darcy, not beg your devotion, though you are kind and dutiful to speak so. You might regret your haste, and I could not bear your resentment. For it would surely come…"

She had felt it before, the sensation of her heart falling to her feet, but it had never ached so acutely as it did then. His reply had been the opposite of what she had expected from him, and it felt as if something was on the verge of failing within her. She drew a faltering breath and blinked frantically, willing away the tears that spiked her lashes and robbed her of speech. How could he be so severe, a man who she was sure was capable of such gentleness?

When she could, at last, speak, she murmured softly, "I would have you know I was never made to marry you. You asked and I accepted. But we have been through that already, and I would not have history repeat itself. I did not seek to argue. You may remember we parted as friends, to put all of it quite behind us.."

She supposed he could not help the way his brow fell into another line and she sighed, "What has changed? What has happened between now and our time outside?" She gave into the desire that time, to smooth it away with a light touch, and gave a small and disbelieving laugh when he stepped back as if scalded.

"Don't."

She took a step forward. "Why ever not? You are distressed."

"Yes, but it is of my own making. I am ashamed of how unsteady I have been. If you continue to touch me as such, I would later be hateful as I dwelt on it. I would revisit every instance and think of how it might be if you really loved me, if you had not once despised me…"

"Fitzwilliam," she spoke again, the thoughts of the past hour catching up to her and making her braver than she might have been."I would wish to be happy with you. Of course I have come to love you in some way, only it is not easy to speak it when you look as if you really do not wish to hear it. You appear in this moment as you did in that Meryton Assembly room those many months ago. And I so wish you would not, for it was rather agreeable to have been kissed this evening. And if you continue in this fashion, sir, we may never kiss again and then I shall be cross at you for not taking the path of our mutual happiness. You must abandon your stubborn notions of how you would have it and accept it for what it is, sir!"

He looked as shocked by her words as she did by speaking them, but, to her mixed delight and anticipation, she was not waiting long. She was nearly dragged into his embrace as his lips found hers with a great deal more passion than she had previously thought him capable of feeling. If she had pondered overmuch the kiss from the tree, she would not have the time to think of the ones he so eagerly bestowed then.

She felt her knees grow unsteady and found herself clinging to his lapels. She would have laughed had she been able, but she found her lips more agreeably engaged.

When they did part for breath, it was not a laugh that escaped her lips as he pulled away— more a soft plea—"Fitzwilliam, do stay. I would have you here if you would wish it. "