“Of course, you are correct, Mrs. Reynolds. Mr. Darcy would never ignore a possible danger to anyone at Pemberley.”

Mrs. Reynolds chimed in, “Mr. Darcy is the best landlord and the best master that ever lived.There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will give him a good name. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a better.”

The very man of whom they spoke strolled through the doorway. “There you are, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth offered up a bright smile: Her husband’s masculine appearance always made her heart catch in her throat. Broad shoulders—slim waist—muscular chest and back—well defined legs and buttocks—no extra padding found on the man. And Elizabeth relished the idea that he chose her. “I apologize, Fitzwilliam; I was unaware that you sought me out.”

Darcy’s steel gray eyes caught hers. “I thought we might spend some time in the conservatory; the temperature turns bitter.We are in for a spell of bad weather.”

“Really?” Elizabeth stood to join him.“My first winter in Derbyshire was quite mild. Should I expect lots of snow? We normally received some snow in Hertfordshire, but I was sadly disappointed with Derby last season. I had hoped for sledding and skating.”

“Well, Mrs. Darcy, I do believe you will receive your wish.” He placed her on his arm and led her away from the kitchen and toward the main part of the house.

However, when he turned to the main staircase and their private quarters, Elizabeth leaned into his shoulder. “I thought we were to enjoy the conservatory, Mr. Darcy,” she reminded him.

Darcy tilted his head in her direction to speak to her privately. “Do you object to a change in our destination, my Love?”

“Not even in the least, Fitzwilliam.” A blush betrayed her anticipation.

“I enjoy the flush of color on your cheeks, Sweetling.” He brought her hand to his lips. From the beginning, she had driven him crazy—creating a powerful yearning he controlled only with great determination.

Elizabeth tightened her hold on his arm, but she could not respond. Darcy had that effect on her. Even when she had thought that she despised him, in reality, she sought his attention—his regard—his approval.They made the perfect pair. Darcy gave her the freedom to have her own thoughts and opinions, something she treasured; and Elizabeth showed him how insufficient were all his pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased. She truly esteemed her husband, looked up to him as a superior. Yet, theirs was a marriage of equals in all the essentials, those that made people happy. He was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, most suited her. “I love you, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered.

“And I love you, Elizabeth.”


“Did you hear that?” Elizabeth sat up suddenly in the bed.

“Hear what?” Darcy groggily sat up and looked around for something out of place.

Elizabeth clutched the sheet to her. “I do not know. It was a click—like a latch or a lock being engaged.”

Darcy pulled on his breeches and began to check the room. They had locked the door when they entered their shared chambers, and it remained secure so he checked the windows and the folding screens, but found nothing.

Elizabeth’s eyes followed his progress.

Darcy released the door lock. Peering out, he nodded to someone in the hall and then closed the door again. Sliding the bolt in place, he turned toward the bed. “Murray is changing the candles in the hall sconces. Perhaps that is what you heard.”

“Perhaps,” she mumbled as she relaxed against the pillows.“It just sounded closer—as if it were in the room, not out in the hallway.”

Darcy returned to the bed and followed her down. “I believe your fright earlier today with Pandora has colored your thoughts.” He kissed Elizabeth behind her ear and down her neck to the spot where he could easily feel her pulse throbbing under her skin.“Let me give you something else upon which to dwell.”

Her moan signaled her agreement. Lost to his ministrations, neither of them heard the second click echo softly through the room.

Seventeen-year-old Lydia Bennet Wickham traveled by public conveyance to her sister Elizabeth’s Derbyshire home. It was her first trip to Pemberley, which even her husband reported to be one of the finest estates. She would rather this visit included her husband, Lieutenant George Wickham, but as Elizabeth’s husband, Mr. Darcy, refused to accept Wickham in his home, that was not possible. The men had a long-standing disagreement, of which Lydia generally made no acknowledgment. In Lydia’s estimation, Mr. Darcy should do as the Good Book says and forgive. However, men were stubborn creatures who neither forgave nor forgot, and Mr. Darcy and her husband continued their feud.

Lydia found the whole situation disheartening. Even Elizabeth had taken offense at her congratulatory letter, although Lydia did not know why. She had spoken the truth, and she had lowered herself to ask for Elizabeth’s help. All that she had asked was a place at court for Wickham and three to four hundred a year to make ends meet. She had even told her older sister not to mention it to Mr. Darcy if Elizabeth thought it might upset him.

To Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, it seemed that Mr. Wickham held out some hope that Darcy might be prevailed on to make his fortune; and in Lydia’s mind, this all made perfect sense. Darcy had the means to help Wickham. She hoped on this visit to soften Mr. Darcy’s feelings about her husband. Lydia recognized her strength: She could charm any man. Of course, she hated wasting her talents on such a prideful and conceited man as Fitzwilliam Darcy, but she would prevail on him in order to help her husband. Maybe then, their marriage might be saved. Wickham would stop thinking her such a poor choice if somehow she could sway the great Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Not many young women—married or not—traveled alone. But Wickham had bought her the ticket to visit Elizabeth because he had been ordered to Bath for the following month. He had seen her to Nottingham before they parted. Now, she traveled unaccompanied.

“What is a fine young lady such as yourself doing traveling alone?” A man in his thirties, who smelled of stale cigars and boiled turnips, leered at Lydia. He glanced quickly at the matronly woman riding beside her. The woman’s eyes remained closed, and she breathed deeply.

Lydia recognized the man’s intentions, and although she would never consider such an alliance, she welcomed the conversation. Sitting quietly for long periods was not part of her makeup. Most acquaintances thought her chatty—boisterous even. Her husband often ordered her silence, claiming that she chattered on like a magpie. “I am going to visit my sister, who is near Lambton.”

“I know Lambton well, Miss. Your sister is well placed, I assume.” He noted Lydia’s stylish traveling frock, one of three new pieces she had insisted she needed for this trip, despite her husband’s declaration that they could not afford the additional expense.

“Very well placed.” Lydia puffed up with his notice. “Do you know Pemberley?”

The man’s initial tone changed immediately. “Pemberley? Everyone for miles around knows Pemberley,” he asserted. “Might your sister be associated with such a great estate?”

His words brought satisfaction to Lydia; she liked the idea of people admiring her, even if by association. In that way, she and Wickham were very much alike. Sometimes she dreamed of what it might be to have her own home—her own estate. And sometimes she regretted having not set her sights on Mr. Darcy herself, although Lydia supposed the man preferred Elizabeth because her older sister devoured books—just like their father. Lydia preferred fashion to Faust and society to Shakespeare. In all considerations, Elizabeth definitely better suited the man. If Mr. Darcy treated everyone as he did her Wickham, she would disdain his company in a heartbeat.“My sister is Mrs. Darcy; she is the mistress of Pemberley.”