“Fitzwilliam Darcy, you are a wretched man!” she chastised him.

“I know you, Elizabeth Bennet Darcy,” he scolded. “You take as much pleasure as I in observing the foibles of our neighbors and family.”

Elizabeth chuckled as her arms encircled his neck. “You may be right, my Love. I just wish we had married sooner, so that we could compare our appraisals of those we found most entertaining.” She judiciously omitted the fact that for a time, he had been among those she found amusing.

Darcy drank slowly from her lips. Breaking contact, he inquired, “And who might that be?”

Elizabeth pressed herself closer to him and rained kisses across his face as she recited the names. “Caroline Bingley.” Kiss. “Louisa Hurst.” Kiss. “Mr. Hurst.” Kiss. “Mr. Collins.” Kiss. “Sir William Lucas.” Kiss. Kiss. By then, Darcy had forgotten both the question and Lydia’s impending arrival. All he wanted was her—his Elizabeth. “Do we have time?” she whispered as he edged her toward a nearby chaise.

“Not to sleep in each other’s arms,” he groaned, “but enough for me to show how much I desire you, my darling Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth lowered herself to the sofa, taking Darcy down with her. She knew him—knew the true Fitzwilliam Darcy, a man who would move heaven and earth for those he loved, but also a man one did not want to cross. He passionately protected those he loved. And he loved Elizabeth most of all.

Thirty minutes later, Elizabeth rushed through their private quarters, knowing that Darcy waited for her in the main foyer. She slid her arms into the sleeves of her new fur-lined pelisse, one of Darcy’s Christmas gifts. As she walked, she tried adjusting the fit without tripping on the hem. She had descended the first two steps when she heard one of the maids call out to her.

“What is it, Megs?” she asked, a bit annoyed. Darcy disliked being kept waiting.