Darcy sat in one corner of the sofa with a book in his lap propped on a pillow and a tumbler of brandy in his other hand. Elizabeth sat next to him, close enough to feel her warmth and catch an occasional whiff of perfume, yet not actually touching him. She bent diligently over her embroidery, luscious neck arched and oh so very tantalizing.

He shifted uncomfortably, sensuous musings again assaulting his self-control, and forced bedazzled eyes to the page in front of him. He momentarily could not remember his place and, when he did, realized that he had read the same paragraph at least a dozen times and had no idea what it said. In fact, he who could normally devour a book in a handful of days had been attempting to read this one for some two months! To make matters worse, the truth was he had absolutely no clue what the book was even about. He sighed. In point of fact, he had not managed to complete a book since the horrid events at Rosings in April. He kept picking up a different one, telling himself that the book was at fault when he patently knew that was not the root cause of his distraction.

He managed to focus attention enough to finish the current page, but he was again distracted when Elizabeth stretched her neck and brought one delicate hand up to rub her muscles. How he yearned to be the one massaging her aching shoulders! The mental image caused him to grip his glass so tightly that fingers turned white. The all too familiar clench in his groin made him abundantly thankful he had a pillow on his lap. To his increased mortification, he glanced up to see Mr. Bennet staring at him over the top of his book with a wise smile. Darcy flushed and quickly turned his eyes to the book.

He wondered if Elizabeth experienced any of the same discomfort he did. The few chaste kisses they had indulged in had been welcomed by her and—he was convinced—enjoyed. Additionally, he could not erase the passion that had flared between them upon the occasion of their first kiss in Longbourn's garden barely an hour after their engagement. He was confident of her love for him, but remained unsure of its depth. He chided himself for doubting her or for expecting too much too soon. His love, his passionate ardor for her, was of long standing. It often seemed as if he could hardly remember a time when she had not lived in his heart and soul. He understood that her affection for him was more recent and, therefore, perhaps not as profound. He was willing to give her time.

He would have been quite surprised, therefore, to discover the train of her thoughts. His nearness was frankly driving her mad. She was vividly cognizant of every breath he took and every glance sent her direction. His heat radiated and oozed under her skin; his cologne, a mix of cardamom, something vaguely woodsy, and a musky aroma that she rightfully believed was his natural scent, assaulted her senses; and the long-fingered, elegant hands resting on firm thighs elicited graphic images and memories of each time he had touched her. Strange sensations threatened to overwhelm her. Every time he took a sip of brandy she felt a stab of emotion not unlike jealousy! The memory of each and every time his lips had touched hers was etched in her mind and felt deep in her veins. The five weeks remaining of their engagement seemed an eternity.

“Mr. Darcy,” she asked abruptly, hoping to dispel the visions and halt the shivers, “the book you are reading, is it an interesting one?”

Darcy jumped slightly when she spoke. He looked up into her amazing eyes and time stopped. He had no idea what she had said. “I beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth. What did you say?”

She smiled. “I asked if the book you are reading is interesting.”

“Oh! Yes. Quite interesting,” he answered lamely.

“Do you think it would be of interest to me? You know how I enjoy reading. Improves the mind, you understand.”

Darcy laughed softly. “Yes, it does.”

“So, then you believe I may glean value from reading your book? When you are finished, naturally.”

“If you wish, Miss Elizabeth. I would be delighted to lend it to you.”

“I assume it must be a particularly fascinating story. Or possibly it may be too deep for my young mind to comprehend.”

He was puzzled. “I am positive your mind is adept enough to comprehend any topic, Miss Elizabeth.”

“I was concerned, you see, Mr. Darcy, as it has taken you more than an hour to study this one page. In point of fact, you have been reading this book for the past two weeks and are only on page fifteen. I can only speculate, but considering how intelligent you are, the only feasible conclusion is that the story is so extraordinary that you are rereading each paragraph several times for sheer pleasure, or it is necessary to do so in order to decipher the author's intent.” She was smiling impishly and he could not resist laughing.

“You have caught me, my dear.” He glanced quickly around the room, relieved to note that no one was paying them any attention. “The truth is, if you must know, I find myself terribly unfocused whenever I am near you and cannot concentrate. I may be on page fifteen; however, I would be unable to render an accounting of the content thus far.” He blushed faintly but met her dancing eyes. “Does this shock you, Miss Elizabeth?”

“You see this sampler?” She held up her embroidery.

“Yes, of course,” he answered in confusion.

“I have been working on this for a month and should have completed it in a week. These stitches here are all wrong, and I have had to rip this section out three times! And I cannot tell you how many times I have stabbed my fingers. I judge you and I are suffering from the same disease.” She, too, was blushing, but she held his penetrating gaze.

He reached down and squeezed her hand, then brought her fingers to his lips for a tender kiss. His eyes captivated her, crystalline blue orbs darkening slightly in what she now recognized was ardor. “I am very pleased to hear you say that, Elizabeth. You have no idea how pleased.” His voice was muted and husky, imbued with emotion, and her breath caught in her throat. Look away from his eyes, Lizzy! she thought desperately, but could not comply.

In a desperate attempt at levity, she teased, “Pleased, Mr. Darcy, that I have pricked my fingers?”

Darcy, however, was wholly absorbed in her fine chocolate eyes and only smiled. “I am William to you, and my mother used to kiss my wounds to make them better. Should I kiss your aching fingers? Will that relieve your pain?” He proceeded to give the tips of each finger a tiny kiss with full lips soft and warm. Lizzy released a shaky laugh and managed to pull her hand from his grasp, resuming her embroidery with rosy cheeks.

Darcy seemed immeasurably pleased with himself.

“I received a letter from Georgiana today,” she said, needing to change the subject.

“Did you? My sister seems to have forgone writing to me these past weeks in favor of writing to you.”

Lizzy looked quickly at his face. “I am sorry, William! I have no wish to keep her from writing to you.”

Darcy laughed. “I am joking Elizabeth. You know how pleased I am that you and Georgiana are friends.” And it was true. Two days after their engagement, Lizzy had asked him for permission to write to Georgiana. He had lightly scolded, reminding her that Georgiana would soon be her sister. Therefore, he stated emphatically, it was important that they establish a relationship and he, frankly, no longer had any authority over the situation. She had been deeply moved by his assurances, well aware of how dear his sister was to him. It was another of the dozens of ways he daily showed his love for her.

Now he asked, “So what did my sister have to say?”

“Nothing of consequence. Just girl talk.” There it was: the two most effective words in the English language to render any man mute. In actuality, Georgiana had imparted information of extreme significance. It was revealed that Mr. Darcy's twenty-ninth birthday was on November the tenth, less than a month away. Elizabeth was unclear on what she would do with this knowledge, but it assuredly was too important to ignore.

Later that night, as she and Jane were readying for bed, Lizzy told her about Mr. Darcy's approaching birthday. “You must help me think of something special, Jane. This is our first celebration together so it must be memorable.”

“Of course! We have time to plan, and I am sure Mr. Bingley will assist us. Fret not, Lizzy, we shall make it memorable.”

November the tenth, Darcy's birthday and precisely eighteen days before their nuptials, dawned clear but extremely cold with a dusting of snow having fallen in the night. Aware that the weather was unpredictable this time of the year, Lizzy and her cohorts had planned the birthday festivities to take place inside Netherfield. Mr. Bingley had been as giddy as a child at the idea of surprising his friend. In fact, his enthusiasm was so infectious that Lizzy was afraid that he would be unable to keep the secret. Luckily for her, Darcy was so engrossed in his own happiness that he hardly noticed anything Bingley said or did.