Chapter Text
Despite the events that had occurred just last night, Elizabeth had found it quite easy to drift into a deep slumber, comforted by a lovely bed. She wondered if Darcy had chosen the curtains or the bedsheets – she wondered if her lovely fumbling husband had worried about this night just as she had.
A knock came lightly on the door, startling her awake, though she was sure morning could not have arrived with such haste. She peeked out the windows, darkness continuing to flood in, a sudden gust of wind fluttering the lovely curtains, which were much too flamboyant, but taught herself to appreciate the gesture regardless.
She shivered, contemplating whether to go back to sleep or attempt to close them. Against her better judgement, she pulled off the covers, exposing herself to the wind. Swiftly creeping along the carpet, she reached out an arm and pulled the windows along their hinges, shutting the casement with quite a deafening thud, closing sharply on her left hand.
She winced, nearly cursing, watching the bruising form along the back of her hand. A medium-sized cut caused by the sharper end of the metal began to bleed as well. She clutched onto hope that nobody had been awoken – that she could uphold Mr. Darcy’s request just for this night.
The knock resounded softly once more, and her gaze steadied on the door knob.
“Who is it?” she called softly, her voice still restrained from the shock of the pain, just loud enough for the person on the other side to hear.
She had grown accustomed to Mr. Darcy’s taste in refinery and his uncalled-for pride in himself, though she often still caught herself off guard at some things…like the overtly decorated room. It simply wasn’t livable. She pondered her telling him, but decided against it, under the pretense of not wanting to stampede over his thoughtfulness rather than the nervousness surrounded by inquiring about sharing his living quarters, which she assumed were more comfortable than this deliberately ostentatious room.
Her cheeks heated at the thought – of course, they would be in different rooms, but perhaps she would be nearer to him than she was now. “It is not so embarrassing,” she whispered to herself, “I can allow myself the luxury of being near my husband.”
“Miss Benn–” a voice on the other side of the door began, before catching himself over the formality. “Elizabeth?”
“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth called, nearly sighing with relief. Perhaps he could offer some assistance with the wound. “Please come in. I seem to have hurt myself.”
He opened the door lightly, noticing her exposed form, covered by a long, modest, nightgown – but still, much more vulnerable than he had ever been accustomed to. He would have blushed, but his concerns were elsewhere, eyes locked onto the hand she cradled against her chest.
“Are you quite alright?” he asked simply, eyes scanning the wound as he neared her, keeping enough distance in the case she did not wish to be touched. To his surprise, she neared him in response in order to show him the severity of her wound.
“It’s not terrible but I will admit that it hurts,” she said. “Would you mind showing me where the bandages are kept? I’m afraid this may happen often.”
Mr. Darcy stiffened, reminding himself of the professionalism that had always encompassed the rivalry between himself and his wife. It was something he had pondered over in the last few hours – Would she enjoy my company more if I was still her rival, the very thing that permitted us to be conscious of each other?
He was unsure whether to continue allowing the tension between the two to seethe, or to find reason to flow with his romantic endeavors naturally. Mr. Darcy, born wealthy enough to be noble, had never allowed himself to be natural in any form other than the art of insult.
Tonight, however, perhaps he could allow himself the pleasure of Elizabeth’s company: He mused over the idea of gazing at the stars while enjoying increasingly flirtatious conversation. Being entirely honest, Darcy could admit that her bold kiss from earlier had fueled his restlessness – he could not sleep nor get any work done. With the first knock on Elizabeth’s door, he contemplated whether “The windows were closed in my room, therefore I was sweating too much to sleep” was an acceptable explanation for remaining wide-awake right during the witching hour.
However tropical his bedroom had been with the windows closed, summer nights in July had once again proven themselves to be chilly – which had been the root of concern he felt for Elizabeth if they were to walk about the courtyard and estate for the first time as man and wife.
“Perhaps,” he coughed, respectfully nodding at her relaxed attire, “it would be more comfortable to go out…decent?”
Poor Mr. Darcy, never understanding that his play on words tends to shift in an offensive direction.
In return, Elizabeth stiffened, biting the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from lashing out. All in good humor, she told herself repeatedly, almost as though it were a mantra.
She smiled lightly, crossing her arms over her chest. Elizabeth was almost positively unsure over his intent with such a question – especially when she had accustomed herself to a man without a filter. “Decent? Is this nightgown a bit too revealing for you, Mr. Darcy?”
Mr. Darcy found his heart suffocating without a single intention to. Of course he had not meant it in such a sense, but he found himself pooling in embarrassment regardless.
There was no reason for Darcy to feel heart rising up his neck, the both of them were aware that the dress was quite modest. Elizabeth was unaware of Darcy’s miniature panic attack, but she was also unaware of how deeply smitten he was with her.
“I–” he stuttered, swallowing. “I meant that you may be cold in–”
“Cold?” Elizabeth teased, still failing to understand that he was terribly flustered at the moment. When they had been married long enough, perhaps then she would know him as well as she knew herself, could count the memories and habits that made Darcy tick. Young as she was now, she knew she loved him, that much at the very least. “Why would I be cold inside a building if we are just to find bandages?”
“I must’ve forgotten to ask you consciously,” Darcy began, blushing further than he already had. “Would you mind going for a walk afterwards?”
Elizabeth stared for a moment. “Dear lord, Fitzwilliam, are you red?”
The man reddened further, looking away, words spoken softly. “I would despise myself for calling you daft, love, but can you truly not see how you fluster me?”