Of course, the inquiry was ludicrous considering they were both sitting at the pianoforte, but no one chose to mention the fact. To Lizzy's delight and astonishment, Mary smiled shyly and replied, “Yes indeed, Mr. Daniels, although Miss Darcy is far superior to me. I am improving under her kind instruction. Do you play?”

“Poorly, I am afraid. Too many hours passed with a book in my hands to practice, much to my mother's dismay.”

“Obviously your study has proven the wiser, as you are now a solicitor. Your mother surely is not overly dismayed.”

He smiled brightly. “You are correct, Miss Bennet. She has relinquished her distress in the happy knowledge that I will be residing close to home. Do you live here in Town?”

“I am from Hertfordshire, sir. Merely visiting my sister and Mr. Darcy for a month or so.”

“I see,” he spoke softly, pausing, and then abruptly remembered the other occupants of the room. Turning to Lizzy, he said, “Pardon me, Mrs. Darcy for disturbing your afternoon.” He bowed to all yet again and then, with a last glance to Mary, departed. Mary smiled benignly, and after a tarrying gaze at the empty doorway, attended to the music as if nothing has transpired.

Lizzy was thrilled at what the enchanted moment signified. She wrote a long, descriptive narrative of the flirtation to her husband in what would be her last letter, as he was due home in two days. When Darcy received the communiqué from his wife on the morning of his final day at Pemberley, his heart leapt with joy. The week had been endless and his endurance was depleted. He sat on the terrace reading her humorous, passion-inundated letter with a mixture of intense happiness and profound irritation. The perpetual suffering in his heart had grown to a torment and spread to every cell in his body. The yearning to see her face and brilliant smile, hear her voice and musical laugh, kiss her lips, and touch her soft skin had mutated into a torture of covetous need. He no longer slept for more than a few fitful hours, ate little, found no pleasure in his horses, and for the only time in his life, hated being at Pemberley.

He sighed deeply, reclined his head against the cool stone of the wall, closed his eyes, and readily conjured her face. They had finished their inspection and breeding program technicalities early yesterday and Darcy had urged for departure today, at first light preferably. Duke Grafton, however, was having a delightful vacation, adored Pemberley, and expressed the wish to remain longer. Darcy had grit his teeth, employed the frayed edges of his generally massive self-mastery, and compromised. Relaying a deep concern for his pregnant wife, an emotion the Duke seemed unable to comprehend, Darcy relented to one additional day only. The concession nearly killed him. He was so weary from lack of sleep and misery, the long ride to London was an agonizing contemplation, with only the vision of Elizabeth and the tiny bulge she wrote was now apparent lending him strength. Tomorrow evening, he incessantly chanted, you shall hold her and kiss her, eloquently tell her of your love and make love to her. He shifted on the bench uncomfortably, the wretchedness of his necessity manifesting physically. With a groan of despondency he lurched to his feet, kissed the scented letter before tucking it into a pocket, and headed toward the stables. As during their engagement, a hard and fast race on Parsifal was required.

He returned to the stable yard an hour later, heartache as acute, but at least his lust had cooled for the interim. Chaos reigned with Duke Grafton, who Darcy had ascertained was not the most proficient rider, despite his vast knowledge of horses, and who was currently desperately clinging to the back of a particularly spirited filly that Darcy had been training yesterday. With a harsh curse, Darcy flew off Parsifal's back and leapt over the fence to assist the frantic groomsmen. He grabbed a dangling rein with his left hand, uttering soothing vocalizations, and pulled with all his strength. The distraught animal began to calm, but Duke Grafton lost his balance and instinctively seized hold of the filly's mane, sending her into renewed fits of rage. She reared up, the precariously perched Duke flying off to land with an explosive grunt flat on his back in the soft sand. Darcy's left arm was jerked wrenchingly upwards, but he held on through the pain, mightily yanking downward. She responded with a wicked lash of her front hooves, sending the two grooms flying for cover. Darcy spun to the side but was not quick enough. One hoof forcefully impacted squarely on his upper left chest just below the clavicle. Instantaneous paralysis to his already injured shoulder ensued, with deadened fingers releasing the rein as he fell to the ground with a cry of agony.

Sharp-witted grooms, now storming the corral in great numbers, dragged Darcy and the Duke to safety while Mr. Thurber managed to finally control the poor beast. The Duke was unharmed except for a few bruises and aching muscles. Darcy was in extreme pain, his arm completely numb and breathing difficult.

The following hours were torture. The physician was called for, determining that miraculously no bones were broken and the obtunded flesh was temporary. He ordered Darcy to rest for several days, but Darcy flatly refused, declaring in a voice that brooked no argument that he intended to depart for Town on the morrow. His only concession was to stage the trip over two days, but even that was for the benefit of the Duke, whose backside was sore, rather than for himself. An express message was dictated and sent by courier to Mrs. Darcy informing her of the delay, after which Darcy demanded solitude. Once alone, he released his anguish of combined physical and spiritual woe with a shuddering sob.

His grief was compounded that afternoon when a letter arrived from his uncle. With a frown and intense stab of fear, Darcy broke the seal and began to read. Lord Matlock's initial sentence of assurance that Elizabeth was well allayed the worst of his anxiety, but it was short lived. A string of foul curses rent the silence as he absorbed his uncle's recounting of Lady Catherine's abuse to his wife and the Earl's confrontation with her. Darcy, as Lady Matlock had predicted, was overwhelmed with crushing guilt. He was proud of Elizabeth's reported handling of his obnoxious aunt, but nearly prostrate with self-condemnation for what he perceived as a failure to safeguard his family.

Lizzy woke on the day she expected her husband's return with an instantly joyous grin. Her heart fluttered rapidly, matching the rhythm set by their tiny passenger in her womb. She did not anticipate his arrival until late, but simply imagining him on his horse and heading her way filled her soul with a rapturous bliss. Her own need for him in all the various ways their love manifested was consuming her. She, too, had slept poorly all week, and the unrelenting emptiness in her heart was wearing on her. Luckily, the baby's demanding appetite prevented her not eating well and the muscle spasms had ceased, so physically she was strong. All morning she walked about with a ridiculous grin and her feet barely touching the floor. When Darcy's hastily dictated note arrived, Lizzy burst into tears and fled to her room, collapsing in a puddle of dejected misery on their bed. She was inconsolable. The only positive was that her depression precipitated a deep, much needed sleep.

Darcy's journey was tortuous. His pain was severe, a massive bruise spreading over the entire left chest and shoulder, and the decreased sensation to his left arm slow to resolve. Gripping the reins was problematic, and he was incredibly fatigued. By mid-afternoon he was in a haze of suffering, unsure whether it was his physical or emotional pain that vied for supremacy. At the inn, he choked down a hasty dinner then fell into an exhaustive, nearly comatose sleep for close to ten hours.

At four in the morning he woke lying in the exact position, stiff but rejuvenated. The pain had dimmed to a dull ache with the feeling predominately restored to his arm. An hour later, the sun a faint smudge of brightness on the horizon, he was washed and dressed. He hurriedly scribbled a note that he slipped under Gerald's door, and roused the stable boy to saddle his horse. Some four hours later he turned onto Grosvenor Square, windblown, dusty, saddle-sore, and aching, yet jubilant. Never in all his life had the shining white bricks of Darcy House filled him with such exultation. He rather prayed his wife was yet abed, but any room would suffice as long as he was embracing her. With a skip to his step, he mounted the front stairs.

Chapter Twelve

Reunion

The foyer was empty. The soft tinkling of piano keys and laughter sailed on the air from the music room. Wincing slightly, Darcy carefully removed his overcoat and the moist, grimy cravat as a footman rounded the corner, halting in surprise at the sight of his Master.

“Mr. Darcy! We did not expect you until this afternoon.”

“No apology is necessary, Peters. Is Mrs. Darcy in our chambers?”

“No sir. She is yet in the garden, I believe.”

“Thank you.” Thrusting his garments into the servant's hands, he strode rapidly down the hall to the rear of the house with heart pounding and grin spreading. Elizabeth stood amongst a plot of lilacs taller than she was, snipping fragrant blooms with her new shears to join the array of colorful flowers already lying in her new basket. Darcy paused on the threshold, the ache to envelop his wife momentarily offset by the vision she unwittingly presented. She wore a thin, simple-muslin morning gown of pale lavender, hair unbound with only the sides unevenly secured with a loose tie in back. The sun shone brightly, highlighting the multiple hues in her hair and accenting the flush on her cheeks. She was smiling slightly as she smelled the lilacs, and he thought he detected a faint humming.