Note: there really was an England vs Ireland match in 2015, which was the first one in Dublin in 2 decades. The score of the match was as indicated below

Story Blurb: Will and Elizabeth learn to blend love, marriage and family. A brief, Beautiful Friendship short story.




Beautiful Moments


I. Match Set


England vs. Ireland. It was the first 'friendly' football match between the neighbors on Dublin soil since the 90s. There'd already been lots of chatter about it on both sides of the water; fans were warned to behave.

Personally, Elizabeth thought anyone headed to the Dublin stadium to watch the match in person was mad. Any Irish event which involved collecting thousands of English passports, and had a history of concluding in a violent riot, was something worth steering clear of. Niall, a tried and true football fan, stalwartly refused to broadcast the match in his pub.

“I don't need fights breaking out," Niall had said, "—and they would break out. I don't need the bobbys here, and I don't need the clean up afterward. Especially if you and Poppy aren't on staff to help me clean it!”

Still, the world had changed in twenty years. No one really thought the match would get violent. The Gardai were working with the UK police. Precautions were in place. But that didn't mean she and Will were heading out to watch the match in public. They'd view it in the safety of their London flat, at home, together.

She'd never been truly nervous about a foolish football match before. Somehow she was a little bit nervous about this one. She switched on the television. He brought the pizza.

“I won't argue with you about this match,” Will warned. He slid the pizza box onto the kitchen counter, reaching deeper into his a shopping bag. “We both like our football, but I don't care who wins it.”

“Nor I. I just want a little peace out of it for everyone.” She popped the lid of the pizza box and grinned. "Pepperonis and extra cheese? You're a good man, Will Darcy."

"I have a good woman," he reminded her with a grin. There were a few items buried in the base of the bag. She noted the largest one, a case of beer. She watched him pull a glass bottle from the case. He reached for the bottle opener. "Fred recommended this."

"What is it?"

"A craft beer from Berlin. Want to try it?" He popped the lid, then took a swig as the drink foamed up.

"How's it taste?" She leaned forward as he drew the bottle down, breathing in the scent. Beneath the scent of malt and alcohol, it smelled like...toasted bread. Her nose twitched.

"Bitter. Want a sip?"

She took one, tentatively, before drawing away with a grimacing laugh. "Will, that's strong. It's not Seamus's red ale, but---wow."

"Yeah, I noticed. We'll only split one."

"Aye, and you can have most of it. It'd go straight to my head." She grabbed two plates from the cupboard, balancing them on her left palm. With her right palm, she picked up the pizza box. “You know, all my brothers are betting on this match. And my father, too. They'll all have to settle with each other when the day is done."

"Them and half the United Kingdom. All this lead up to the match and it'll probably be a draw. But I'm not a betting man."

"No, and I love you for that." Elizabeth bent, placing both plates and pizza box down on the coffee table with casual grace. When she looked behind her, she realized he was watching her from afar. "If I were a betting woman, though, I'd bet you're thinking---all those years of waitressing really did teach her something?"

He took a small swig of his beer. "Not what I'm thinking."

"No?" She straightened, rubbing her palms together.

"Nope. I was thinking how great you look in those jeans when you bend over."

"Oh mercy." She laughed. "That reminds me, I have to change my shirt. I have something for the occasion."

She slipped into the bedroom, pulling out a newly purchased kit from her workout bag. It was a football jersey: snow white, with an accent of blue. English colors. She abandoned her t-shirt, tugging the new jersey on. She'd wear English colors today, just for him.

When she returned to the living room and caught sight of him unbuttoning his shirt, she laughed.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she laughed, “Are you planning on giving new meaning to the term friendly match?”

He grinned, yanking his new purchase on over his head and tugging it over his frame. He was sporting a Paddy green jersey, the color of the Irish league.

“Nice outfit,” Will announced, meeting her at the at the couch. His gaze slid down her. He meant it. He really did like the outfit. But then, he had a weakness for her in a football kit. “You're cheering for England, then?”

“Nothing wrong with it. My own adopted country.” Elizabeth's green eyes sparkled as she looked up at the Englishman. “And you're for Ireland, are you?”

One of his hands settled at her hip. The other touched the curve of her cheek. “Of course I am.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth echoed softly.

His head dipped lower. His lips were warm as they touched hers. She swayed into the kiss, tiptoeing, drawing him closer. One warm kiss lead to another, more heated, and then another until they swayed toward the couch. They couldn't help it. They'd been married for a few months now, and these sorts of things just...happened.

This activity was also how they completely missed the first five minutes of the event, including lengthy commentary, and the sight of the teams making their run onto the pitch.

It was only the sound of hisses during God Save the Queen that made them draw away from each other. His hands lingered under her shirt. She was on his lap.

"Did you hear that?" she murmured.

No, he hadn't heard anything much, except maybe his own moan. With her warm figure moving the way she did and her soft green eyes looking up at him, he'd already managed to block out everything that wasn't within arms reach of him.

They looked at the screen. The British national anthem was being sung. In the background, the microphone was picking up whistles from the crowd.

“Foolish lads...” Elizabeth slid gently from his lap and reaching for the remote. She turned the sound of the hissing down. “I grant I've more reason to be fond of England than most, but it's one song.”

“True. But it represents the whole of English history.”

"Sung by a peace choir. It's supposed to be a friendly match." She settled back on the couch, warm and docile beside him. He held back his sigh, stretched his arm around her, and reached for a bottle of beer. He loved Lizzie's interest in football. Nonetheless, it was hard for him to drag his focus back to the game.

“Maybe it'll be a tie,” he repeated, taking another sip of his drink.

“A tie would be fine.” She reached for a slice of pizza. “Although England had Rooney on their side.”

“Yeah, but the Irish have Murphy.”

She laughed, looking both pleased and impressed. “Aye, they do have Murphy. You've been doing your homework.”

“I got the shirt. I better have the knowledge to go with it.” As she relaxed against him, he guided her hand up, stealing a bite of her pizza. She let him have it, taking a small sip of his beer.

It took about twenty minutes into the match---and another two slices of pizza---before their loyalties started mixing.

“Come on, Murphy, you slow poke!” she sprang up, cheering for the Irishman. “You had him dead to rights!”

“No. Rooney's onto him,” Will interjected, dropping what remained of his crust into the pizza box. “His footwork's faster.”

“But---Murphy. I can't believe it,” she groaned, whirling on him. “And I thought you were for the boy's in green.”

“And I thought you were for England.”

She folded her arms. Her chin rose. “I am for England.”

“Alright, then.” He smothered his grin by taking another swig of beer. He was too smart to admit liking the sight of her getting worked up. “Anyway England's sleeping through this one. Ireland has the better possession.”

She plopped down beside him again with a sigh. “Well, I can't argue that. But where's the goal?”

The match proceeded. There was a lot of dribbling on both sides, some deft passes, loads of jumbles ones, some stalling, a few half-hearted attempts at scoring, and finally, in the last quarter, a bit of an effort from the English side. Ireland was finally remembering to keep up with them.

“That's right, chaps,” Will remarked. He stood, clapping. Time was running up the clock. “try to show that you care a little.”

“Walters, hurry up, won't you!?” Elizabeth spoke at the English player, springing up beside Will. “And Rooney, what happened?”

And that was it. The match had ended. Zero, zero. She switched off the tv, sighed, and turned to her husband. “Not a single score.”

“It was a poor showing on both sides, wasn't it?”

Her mouth quirked. “Aye, Will, you look heartbroken over it.”

“Hey,” Will laughed, “I wouldn't have bothered watching it if I hadn't wanted someone to win."

Her fingers linked with his. "Or if I hadn't roped you into it."

"I liked seeing that you weren't indifferent to England.”

“I am never, ever indifferent to England,” she whispered. His dark brown eyes were warming. “Though I'm fond of your Eire jersey. I might have to wear it.”

Will Darcy. Short of marrying into the monarchy, sometimes she felt she couldn't have married a man who was more English than he was, with his graceful movements, and his Oxbridge accent, the sharp planes of his face, and his dark, curling hair. She was so very Irish. She still had her accent. Her eyes were as green as a four-leaf clover. Her black hair was wavy and thick, typical of many of the people on the island. He was serious and succinct. She was emotional, artistic, and inclined to speak her own mind. And yet here they were, so deeply in love.

“I hoped you would. You look better in this color than I do. But then, it matches your eyes," he murmured in her ear. His hands slid around her hips. "I love your eyes."

A beautiful smile was gracing her mouth. "I love yours, too," she whispered, before letting her lips touch his.

They had the rest of the afternoon free. There was time enough to prove it.

II. Work Day


Elizabeth spent most of her morning feeling like a contortionist, stretching into an exaggerated arabesque or holding an unending attitude. Charlotte and Alistair were creating a new one-act. It involved long painful periods of rehearsal, bodies pushed and then held in strange balances. The last quarter of practice required her to balance on Mikhail's sturdy shoulder, keeping her core muscles tight. When time was finally called and she slid from his back and settled on her own two feet again, Mikhail winced. She couldn't blame him. He'd been balancing her on his back for most of the morning.

"Char---Mikhail and I need to stop for the day," Elizabeth called out to the choreographer. "I'm taking lunch, and Mikhail's booked for Swan Lake rehearsal this afternoon."

"Yes. Fine. See you tomorrow." Charlotte and Alistair still had their heads together. As usual, the pair were bickering. The pianist was packing up.

"Ach." The sturdy Russian stretched. He straightened, rubbing at his lower back.

"I'm sorry, Misha." she reached for her water bottle. "Those last few hours couldn't have been easy for you. My own muscles are screaming at me."

"No, Elizaveta, it is not only you. Poppy and I, we still remodel our spare room. I put up new cabinet. I have a knot in my back I cannot get out. Perhaps, later Poppy can..."

"Help you with it?" Elizabeth hoisted her workout back with a smile. Mikhail and Poppy. It was the first and only time in her life that Elizabeth played matchmaker, albeit indirectly. After a whirlwind romance, Mikhail and Poppy married and settled with Alfie in a new home. The pair, blissfully happy, were now expecting their first child together: a girl. "You're still remodeling the baby's room?"

"Yes, and we must be ready by the end of the month, if not before."

"Well, I hope your daughter arrives on cue." She pushed open the rehearsal room door. "Tell Poppy to text me, I'd like to have tea with her sometime."

"She will be here to visit me this afternoon. Perhaps later, you and she..." They turned the corner. His gaze fell on a tall figure in the hallway. Will Darcy, the only man frequenting the British Opera Ballet in a Seville row suit, was here waiting for his wife. The barrister leaned against the wall, rubbing his tense, troubled brow. Poppy could wait, Mikhail decided. "Perhaps another time."

"Yes, I--" Elizabeth nodded. "Another day. Soon."

She walked to her husband. "Will?"

His eyes opened.

"Hey," she whispered, greeting him with a soft kiss on the lips. "Bad day?"

The look on his face indicated this was a huge understatement. Not just a bad day. A terrible day. Linking hands with him, she gently tugged him down the hallway. "I'm on lunch. Come with me."

She could think of only one spot to bring him, a small, square rehearsal space so close to the basement that none of the choreographers ever wanted to use it. In winter, the space was as cold as an ice box. There were no chairs here. They had to settle on the floor.

“What happened?” she questioned, curling beside him and reaching for his hands.

"Do you remember--" he could barely get the words out, "the two men I'm trying to get consigned for trial. The trafficking charge?"

"Gunther and Tennfjord," she whispered. The story had yet to filter into the papers. "I remember."

She probably knew more about Will's case load than his own office assistants did. He trusted her implicitly, vented to her, confided in her. She certainly knew how he'd suffered over this case. At home, Will's small study was cluttered with papers about the case. He'd logged so many long hours on this project. He'd traveled abroad for it, filing motions with foreign courts. He'd spent hours reading over interviews. He'd worked and worked on it.

"What happened?"

"The charges were severed against Tennfjord," said Will, "he's been released. He'll be out of the country by nightfall."

"But---" she shook her head. “Why?”

"It's my fault."

She frowned, "I sincerely doubt that."

"I was the one recommending---pushing-- to have their cases combined. That way Tennfjord couldn't plead his way into a lesser charge and then walk. They were equally culpable. They held equal power. A joint charge, and they'd both go down."

“Yes, Will, and the whole of your team agreed with you. Everyone agreed it was the right path. If the judge couldn't see it--"

"Wouldn't. He said there wasn't evidence indicating Tennfjord had equal influence in the ring. One of our key contacts wouldn't testify, and--"

"Not your fault. The judge made a decision. His decision. Not yours."

"I shouldn't have lost this."

"It's not a loss. Not the way you mean it. You played every card you had, Will, and I'm proud of you. Do you hear me?"

He nodded. His hands reached for hers, squeezing them. "I didn't handle it well afterward. I snapped at Hayter. Argued with Blakeney."

"You were angry."

"Yeah, I was."

"I'm sure they were angry too.”

"It doesn't matter. They're my friends. They didn't deserve my reaction. My frustration."

"Will," she drew their joined hands closer, "things happen. People get frustrated. Frustrated people grow angry. I believe we both have a wee bit of experience when it comes to making amends."

She curled up against him, letting her head tuck against his chest. Will's head bowed. His lips buried into her hair.

"Amends. I'm better at them now," he murmured. "Since you."


III. Numbers


It wasn't long into their marriage—a few happy weeks—before Charles and Jane Bingley came to London for a long weekend. It was the first time the girls had spent time together since the wedding. As for Will and Bingley, they hadn't visited any popular London haunts in ages. Bingley was so busy with Netherfield Stables, and Will was constantly playing catch-up with work. There were plenty of spots worth visiting. The quartet stopped into bookstores and cafes, outdoor markets and parks...

Those weren't the only place they visited. One of the nicer nightclubs in London was a handful of blocks away from the Montgomery Victoria apartment. It was a universal truth that Elizabeth could coax Will into going pretty much anywhere, as long as she was going there with him. And if it was an excuse for him to admire his twenty-three year old wife in a particularly well fitted pair of jeans and a silvery, silk crop top, well, he wouldn't complain.

They found a booth in the club, and ordered all around. Will ordered a beer, Elizabeth had a glass of red wine. Jane ordered a cosmopolitan, which amused Bingley endlessly. Bingley ordered vodka. Will should have warned Bingley about that. Bingley didn't overindulge in his liquor. Vodka, though...when it came to Bingley, something about vodka made it take faster effect. Vodka loosened Bingley's tongue. A lot. In ways that weren't particularly useful at parties.

"Lizzie---Lizzie---you know what Janey and I saw the other day? You and Will might like this," Bingley laughed, “what movie did we see the other day, Janey? Only—only---wasn't it romantic?”

He turned to Jane, only to find Jane wasn't there beside him "Heya, Will?" Charles rubbed at his jaw, "where's my Janey?"

Jane had slipped from their booth minutes before for a trip to the bathroom to powder her nose. She wasn't unaffected by the cosmopolitan, either. She'd' looked a little wobbly. Elizabeth had offered to go with her only to get waved off. I'm fiiine, Jane had said with a merry wave. "I'll be back!"

"I should tell you, Jane never drinks," Elizabeth murmured. "I hope she finds her way back here."

"This is what I get for bringing your country relatives to the big city?" Will teased her.

She laughed. "My cousin is not the country bumpkin in the Bennet family."

"No?"

"No, Mo Chroí," she teased, "I am. Muddy and rain soaked."

He nipped at her ear. "I wouldn't complain."

Bingley was studying the pair with a dazed smile. "You and Will, Lizzie. I've never seen him this way."

"Oh?" she cuddled closer to Will.

"Nope. Not once. Never. And believe you and me---I've seen him with some beautiful---"

"Okay, I think that's enough of the hard stuff for you, Bing," Will warned his friend, dragging the vodka bottle to the opposite side of the booth.

Elizabeth smiled at Bingley. “Bingley, what movie were you going to mention? Will and I haven't been to the movies in ages.”

“Aah, ol' Darcy here's a stick in the mud,” Bingley teased loudly, “Anyway, maybe he wouldn't like this one. It has whatshername in it.”

Will should have been listening harder to what Bingley was saying. It was difficult for him to think about anything much, though, with Elizabeth this close. Her fingers were warming his knee. Was it hot in here, or was it him? He reached for his beer.

"That leggy blond actress was in it, the famous one, what's her name,” Bingley continued. Will's glass of beer froze halfway from his lips just as Bingley blurted out, “Cordelia Gariden. Well, she's the spitting image of one of Will's ex-girlfriends."

Oh, bloody hell...

“Bingley,” he warned, lowering his beer, “don't.”

Elizabeth's hand squeezed a little more tightly on Will's knee. "Will here dated a girl who looked like Cordelia Gariden.”

She'd heard of that actress. Of course she had. Cordelia Gariden was one of the most beautiful women in the movie industry.

“When---how---” Elizabeth cleared her throat, “when was Will dating a girl who looked just like Cordelia Gariden?”

"Don't worry about it Lizzie,” Bingley carried on brightly. “It's not like he dated the actual Cordelia Gariden. She just looked like her. What was her name, Will? The girl you dated in our first year at University? Do you remember---" he chuckled, "oh, you would not have liked her Lizzie. She'd be all over Will at a party. It was a little embarrassing for him. She was Finnish, wasn't she Will? Or maybe she was Danish..."

“Interesting.” Elizabeth drew back slightly, glancing up at Will. "Which was it, darling? Finnish or Danish?"

He hadn't thought about this in years. Years. He cleared his throat, glowering at Bingley. "Swedish. Wilhelmina was Swedish."

"Oh, Lizzie, don't worry about it. She and Will were never serious. It was one of those stupid things you do at Uni when you're eighteen." Bingley continued. "Besides, Will and Wilhelmina---those names just sounded weird together. Now Will and Elizabeth, that sounds just--"

"And, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth continued, “how long was it before you broke up with her?"

"--just perfect," Bingley concluded.

"Elizabeth, it was a long time ago. Years before I met you. I really don't think we need to--"

"No, I would like to know."

Will rubbed anxiously at his neck. He could deny Elizabeth nothing. She knew it. "Wilhelmina and I were together for three or four months, I think. I'd just turned nineteen when we broke up."

“And there were others. What was the phrase Bingley used at Killian's wedding? Countless gorgeous girls at university? The ones who could never get you to dance?”

“Yeah, Will always liked the pretty ones,” Bingley sighed happily. “Of course none of them compare to you, Lizzie. You have the Bennet beauty, just like my Janey does. Will falls all over himself with you. He was never like that with any of the others.”

Elizabeth wasn't looking at Bingley. She was looking right at Will. Her green eyes narrowed. “Of course not. How many was it, Will?"

“It's not as many as he makes it sound like. Bingley exaggerates,” Will said. “Lizzie, I was studying most of the time. I didn't have time to go around with a lot of---”

“It sounds like you had time enough."

"I tell you one thing," Bingley lifted his finger, pointing unsteadily, "School or no school, Will would have made plenty of time for you, if you'd been around back in our university days. The way he looks at you, Lizzie, I swear I never woulda been able to drag him out of his dorm room."

"How many women were there for you, Will?”

“Three,” Will said crisply. "Three girlfriends. All during university."

“And---" she tilted her head, "I'm just curious, of course---based on the description of...Wilhelmina...were the other girls blond like she was?"

"Oh, yeah, Will always went for the blondes before you caught his eyes, Lizzie," Bingley pipped up. "He was so predictable. My sister Caro used to buy bottles of peroxide and cross her fingers. I used to feel bad for her. But anyhow...Will, do you remember the Italian girl, Dafne?"

"Dafne?" Elizabeth repeated.

"Right," Bingley continued, "now Will and Dafne were together for a few months during his second year of school. She was a knockout, too. Then, in the third year of school, there was sweet Senta, she was German. Wasn't Senta a catalog model, right, Will? I remember when you broke up with her. She just sat in the New College quad and cried and cried after you gave her the boot. It was exhausting. After Senta, I think Will gave up on dating."

“Bingley, shut up.” Will let out a swift breath.

Elizabeth ran her finger along the edge of her wine glass. "A Swede, a German, and an Italian. Fitzwilliam, you were just a regular United Nations."

“Elizabeth--” Will said.

"A bit ironic you ended up with an Irish girl.” She squared her shoulders, her posture straightening with unthinking grace. “Ireland was right beside you all along."

"Can we just---" Will winced. He reached for her hand. "Bingley needs to dry out. You and I need to talk. Dance with me, will you?"

"Don't forget none of em could talk him into dancing, Lizzie," Bingley added. "You don't even have to ask him. He asks you!"

Elizabeth sighed.

"Will, of course I'll dance with you." She slid from the booth. "I mean, I know I'm not a leggy catalog model--"

"Elizabeth..." he warned, guiding her to the crowded dance floor.

"And I know I don't have shining blond hair and sky blue eyes. Did the Italian and the Swede both model in their spare time, too? Or was that just the German?"

Only Senta had modeled in her spare time. She'd been a marketing major. She'd done the modeling stint as a favor to her mother, the managing director of one of Germany's most expensive fashion lines. None of these were details he was foolish enough to share with Elizabeth. He could, however, tell the one detail that mattered: he'd broken up with Senta, and Dafne, and Willa, for one and the same reason. He hadn't loved them.

"Elizabeth," he said softly, "that isn't funny."

"I suppose I'm not surprised to hear you had a taste for models. I did honestly wonder when I met you, Will, why you never set your cap on Emma. But I just thought--"

He leaned down and stopped her mouth with a kiss. It was a sound kiss, honest, a little impatient, plenty impassioned.

"Stop. Elizabeth, you're my wife. You are what I want," he whispered, his lips barely a breath away as he drew back. "Only you."

She nodded. She was keeping him close. Her fingers were teasing up the back of his neck. “I know, Will.”

“Those girls---it was a lifetime ago. Before I even dreamed of you.”

“I know.” She bit her lip. “I know I shouldn't be jealous. I just---I don't like thinking about you with anyone else. Once Bingley started talking about it--”

“Bingley's my friend, but tonight he's a drunk fool.”

“Drunk fool-in-law.” She reminded him weakly. “He is nice, Will. He's just had too much. You're right, he didn't think. And I would have asked you all those questions myself, only it makes me jealous to hear about. That's all it is. Those three girls...did you care for them?”

"I tried to, for awhile." His fingers buried in her hair. "I never went into it to break anyone's heart, Elizabeth. Senta and Dafne, and Wilhelmina, they weren't bad girls. They just weren't you. I wasn't in love with them, sweetheart. I couldn't pretend that I was. Bingley's right, you were different. You are different. I fell in love. With you, right from the first, it was electric. It was real. I've never, ever wanted any woman in the way that I want you. It's once in a lifetime. That's all there is to it.”

Elizabeth said nothing. Her fingers thumbed at the fabric of his shirt. He could hear her short breath. Then she tilted her head up and captured his mouth.

He had one of the best dancers in the United Kingdom here in his arms on the dance floor, and they barely danced. They did, however, kiss. They kissed over and over again, clinging to each other. When they returned to the Bingleys, Charles was studying him with a wry, appraising gaze. Jane was blushing.

Let them stare, Will thought. And then he slid into the booth beside her and kissed his wife again.



IV. Late Morning


It was, at times, an adjustment blending schedules, blending households. At twenty-three, Elizabeth was learning to grow tidier as she grew older. Being reared in a house with four wild brothers and a fisherman father, she'd rather grown used to clutter.

Will wasn't. He never would be. His London flat was immaculate. His books here were sorted by genre, his sock drawer was sorted for the weather, even his ties were arranged by color and width. He also had this...habit...of picking up after her and putting items away in spots he thought were 'helpful.' She didn't understand his organizational habits. She was beginning to think she'd never find half of those tucked away items again.

"Will?!" Elizabeth shouted in the walk in closet.

"Yeah?"

It was barely dawn. She'd have to engage in lengthy primp and prep this morning. The British Opera ballet was taking press photos for the Firebird.

Elizabeth, the aforementioned Firebird, had been instructed by Charlotte to arrive at the press interviews looking just short of demigoddess territory.

You'll be getting your photo taken by every news outlet in the UK. Alistair requests you wear something short, red, and sexy, Charlotte had advised.

“Sexy?” she'd repeated dryly. “To promo a hundred year old ballet?”

“Yes, and how do you expect us to sell tickets to a hundred year old ballet? Especially to any male below the age of seventy? We're trying to widen the demographics here, Lizzie. You're a beautiful girl. We're asking Frank Churchill to show up looking like nothing less than James Bond. The leads get picked for more than their dance skills. People like you and Frank and Mikhail and Jenna, you all look good on the posters. If your outfit's a little sultry, well maybe it'll inspire some editors to put you on the front page of the arts section instead of burying the story on page twelve. "

A sultry dress for the photo call. Yeah, Will would just love that. She wasn't sure what she was going to do, or wear. She'd woken early—even earlier than Will—and stumbled into the shower, hoping the warm water would wash away her second guessing. It hadn't. After blow-drying her hair and making her way back into the bedroom, and into the walk in closet, she was now staring blankly at her options. A whole section of her wardrobe---a handful of garments between her pinstripe trousers and her pale yellow shift dress---appeared to be missing.

“You're up early,” Will mumbled. He was shirtless, sporting a pair of pajama bottoms.

"Where's my red dress? Have you seen it?”

He yawned. "What red dress?”

Elizabeth rubbed her tired eyes as he came up behind her. His warm fingers slid around her ribcage. "My red dress. I think I only have two of them that are red. The fancier one.”

“You smell nice.” His fingers teased at the fabric of her camisole. “What time do you have to be at work again?"

“Mo Chroi, focus,” she teased. “My red dress was here. And there are a few other items here that are missing. My silk blouses? And my black velvet dress?”

“They're at the dry cleaner's.”

“But—why?”

He drew away from her, leafing through his own clothing. “You said you wanted all your blouses dry cleaned. When the courier came to pick them up yesterday, that's what I gave him.”

“Will, there were more than just blouses in this part of the closet. I had a few dresses mixed in here too.”

“Well, why don't you keep the dresses with your dresses. And your blouses with your blouses?”

“Because I---” she rubbed her temple. Because I'm not as organized as you are. “Will, I have to wear a red dress today.”

He tugged on his bathrobe, frowning. He suddenly realized which dress she was looking for. That red dress. The sexy one. The short one. The tight one. The one she'd worn the night he proposed. His frown deepened. “Does it have to be that red dress? For a press call at the ballet?”

“Charlotte and Alistair thought—it's the Firebird, you know? They want something red and short, and---you need to be more careful when you give my clothes to the dry cleaner.”

“The dry-cleaning was an accident.” He stepped closer. His dark eyes were suddenly very sharp, and very alert. “I don't love the idea of every journalist in greater London ogling you in the dress you wore the night I proposed.”

All her sharp protests faded. It wasn't that he protested to her wearing such a dress. It was that he protested to her wearing the dress she'd worn that night. Their night. “Will...”

“You're a beautiful woman, Lizzie. The higher-ups at the Opera House want you to look the part today. I get that. Wear another dress. But not that dress. Not the dress I proposed to you in.”

“I didn't think." Her voice caught in her throat. "I'm sorry, Will.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” His fingers brushed her jaw. “I'm sorry too. About the dry cleaning, I mean.”

“It's fine. It's early. We usually don't argue in the morning.”

He kissed her temple. “No, we don't. Our early morning are usually a lot more pleasant.”

An understatement. They both had things to do today, though. He needed a shower. She needed to sort out her outfit, makeup and hair. After digging through half a dozen unworkable options, she finally found her only other ruby red dress. It was a wrap dress---probably more casual than Char had in mind, but floaty and feminine nonetheless. And the neckline dipped low---that would have to fulfill the sultry requirement. This she paired with a pair of slender heels. Her makeup came next. With a photography session, she knew she'd have to make more of an effort today than her usual, quick routine. She moisturized, then went through the full effort: foundation, lipstick, eyeliner, a sweep of dark shadow, a heavy coat of mascara. The glamorous woman looking back at her in the glass now had a full, sweet mouth and dark eyes, fringed with heavy lashes. Rarely did she ever look like this before leaving for a day of sweaty rehearsals at the opera house.

Will was still in the shower. The bathroom was filled with steam. She could barely see her hand in front of her face as she entered.

"Honey, where's my hair curler?" she asked, digging through drawers in their shared bathroom.

"Your what?" he called out over the sound of the water.

"My hair curler," she repeated. It wasn't where she'd left it, next to her makeup bag. It wasn't with her comb or her brush or her hair clips, either. "I swear I left it in the bottom drawer."

She heard him switch the water off. "Did you look in the basket under the sink?"

"No, why would I--" she knelt, pulling open the cabinet. There it was, tucked away with her hair dryer. "You moved it?"

When she turned to look at him, he'd already stepped from the shower and slid his bathrobe on. She watched him rake dark, wet curls from his damp brow. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"There's more room down there."

"But---" she pulled a face, plugging the hair curler in and switching it on. "Love, if you move things without telling me, I can't find them."

"It's my fault. Next time, I'll ask." He passed close to her. His gentle nip on her ear sent a sigh through her. Will stepped away, grinning. "We can split the tarte griotte I bought yesterday."

He reached for the door, exitiing the bathroom. She smiled and reached for the curling iron, wrapping a lock of hair around the iron. “That certainly sounds exotic. What is it?”

"Tarte griotte." He called to her. She could hear his footsteps in the kitchen. "I bought it yesterday from the patisserie across the street. It's in the fridge, on the bottom shelf. Do you remember the owner, Jean-Claude? It was his last one in the batch. The shop's closed for the rest of the month. He went to Paris on a purchasing trip. I was saving it for this morning. I just--"

Uh oh. She didn't remember anything fanciful in the fridge called a tarte griotte. She did, however, recall something that looked like a small, palm-sized raspberry cake. Will hated raspberries. This made her assume it was a leftover shoved into the fridge by Georgie. And so, thinking the item abandoned and desperate for a little sugar before her late night rehearsal, Elizabeth had taken it out of the bottom shelf and eaten it. It wasn't raspberry. It was cherry. And it was amazing.

She wound another section of her raven-dark hair more tightly around her curling iron and winced into the mirror. "Um...Will...?"

"Why's the bottom shelf empty?" he called out.

"That pastry---I thought Georgie left it in there. I thought it had raspberry. You can't bear the sight of raspberries, and so yesterday afternoon I--"

She heard him groan. "It was good, wasn't it?"

She bit her lower lip. It was the nearest thing to heaven. “I'm sorry!"

“It's alright. At least one of us ate it.” She heard the sound of dishes moving in the kitchen. Halfway through curling her mass of heavy hair, the scent of coffee tickled her nose.

“You know what this means?” he called out.

“Hmm?”

“I have to take you back to Paris so we can try the real thing together.”

She laughed. It was still, after all these months of being his wife, a novelty that he could carry her off to Paris whenever he wanted to. They'd already spent a long weekend there once, in the wonderfully romantic apartment. The bathroom door moved again. He slipped back into the small room.

At some point he must have slipped back into their bedroom and dressed. He now sported a crisp suit, complete with pressed shirt, jacket, and frost blue tie. A warm cup of coffee was placed on the edge of the granite counter top.

Her smile for him was apologetic. “I'm sorry I ate something you bought just for you.”

“It's not a big deal. I'm sorry I moved your things.” His gaze roved over her. “You look breathtaking, Elizabeth.”

“Thank you." The compliment brought a blush to her cheeks. "You want a weekend away?” she said gently, “When the Firebird ends?”

“I do. I can book the tickets. Do you have a French dictionary you can bring with you?”

“No, but I have a French nightie.”

He grinned, pressing a kiss on her cheek. And then behind her ear, and then down. He kissed the back of her neck, then the gap between her shoulder and her dress. His hands slid around her. “That works.”

“Will,” she whispered.

It was no one's fault, exactly, what happened next. Or rather, it was both of their fault's. Neither thought about the obvious. Hot tools and necking were a dangerous combination. Her right hand still held her iron, which remained wrapped around her last lock of long, dark hair. And that's how Will---so terribly observant in every other circumstance---ended up getting a little to distracted and...

“Bloody--” he yelped, drawing back.

She whirled. The hot iron was switched off and quickly set down. “Will, your neck. You have a--”

“A burn,” he said, wincing. There was now a raw spot on his neck. It was higher than his collar would fall, a red spot just below his ear. “It's my own damn fault. I should have watched what I was doing.”

“No, it's my fault. I should have had the sense to put the iron down. Just—try not to touch it. I'll get the aloe.” She knelt, reaching for the small bottle she always kept near her hand cream. “Will...”

“Yeah?”

She groaned. “Where's my aloe?”

Eventually they found it. He admitted with some chagrin that he'd stuck it in the medicine cabinet. They move outside of the hazards of the bathroom, returning to the safety of their bedroom. Perched beside him on the bed, she dabbed aloe carefully on his neck.

“It's not bad,” he assured her. “I'll be fine.”

“I still wish I'd put the iron down.” she said gently, clicking the small aloe bottle shut, “Honey...this red spot looks a little bit like a...”

His black eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Well,” she bit her lip, looked up. His eyebrows lifted. Her cheeks were growing warm. “I don't know what they call it in fair England, but the word round Ballyderc is---”

“A hickey,” he guessed. His fingers slid up her side. “Elizabeth...”

Laughter bubbled out of her. She tickled back, pulling him down onto the bed with her. When they grew still again, they were both breathless and nestled close.

“What am I going to tell the guys at work?” His mouth slid low, down to her neckline.

She bit her lower lip, swallowing another gasp.

“We're newlyweds. I hope they'll be---polite enough not to ask.” She laughed breathlessly. When his head lifted, her warm fingers graze the sharp bones of his cheeks. Dizzy with love, she studied him. “I love you, Fitzwilliam.”

“I love you.” He shifted, kissing her mouth tenderly. “What time's your appointment?”

“Not until 9:00. You?”

“The same. 9:00.”

She tilted her chin up, letting her lips meet his with another tender, open kiss. Then another, sweet and slow. His warm fingers were burying into her dark, perfume scented hair. When the kiss broke, she rolled on top of him. Her fingers started untying his tie, sliding it from his collar. Will's dark eyes brightened.

“We'll both get to work on time, I swear it,” he promised her.

“I know. And I won't hurt the burn on your neck.” True to her word, she was gentle as she kissed his neck, careful to avoid the mark.

“Not my concern right now, Elizabeth.”

She smiled. “Will, we'll just have to be sure to remember one thing...”

“Huh?”

“This is the only red dress I have.”

His laugh was rich and loud. She threaded her fingers into his curling hair, leaned down, and kissed him again.



V.


“Georgie,” Will's voice was low and tight, “I'm serious. I don't want you wearing that tonight.”

“I'm not changing,” Eighteen-year-old Georgiana Darcy pushed the refrigerator door shut. “Stop treating me like a child!”

“Stop acting like a child,” he said firmly.

She certainly didn't look like one anymore. She was looking more and more like their mother with every passing year. At eighteen, she had a grown-woman's face now, elegantly beautiful. She'd trimmed inches off her girlishly long hair. Her soft brown curls usually fell just past her shoulders. She'd pinned it up tonight into an elegant bun. Her lips were glossy. She'd added a smokey accent to her eyes.

All of that was fine. She was a lovely young woman, Will didn't mind if she showed it off. What he didn't like was the dress she'd chosen to pair with all of this. Especially if she was wearing for Tye Bertram.

“This is a perfectly suitable dress for a concert hall,” said Georgiana.

“It's too old for you. It's too tight and it's too short.”

Her sandy brown eyes rolled upwards. The sight of it made his jaw click. He sure hoped that habit was a late-teenage phase she'd grow out of. She'd never rolled her eyes at him when she'd been a sweet, docile thirteen year old. “Every dress looks short on me, Will, I'm tall.”

They were in the London apartment at the Montgomery Victoria. It was a Friday night in late Spring, the final year of Georgiana's Bardwell education. Georgiana had an 'evening appointment' with a boy. This was the phrase Elizabeth gently teased Will with. He wanted her to call it anything but what he worried it was. The 'd' word. Date.

Will thought it was bad enough that Georgiana was going anywhere tonight with Tye Bertram. Reformed though Tye was, he was still too old for her. Too worldly. Not the influence he would have chosen for her. Georgie and Tye had struck up an unlikely friendship ages back, and maintained it for all these years---Will had mostly reconciled himself to this fact. That didn't mean he loved the idea of him taking her anywhere at night, dressed like that.

“Georgiana, if you're just trying to deliberately provoke me--”

“Will, I just can't talk to you when you're acting like this. Lizzie?” Georgiana pleaded, turning toward the living room.

Elizabeth was there, with a baby on her lap. Sympathy for Georgiana lingered in Elizabeth. She'd been the protected younger sister four times over, after all. She'd certainly longed for a night out often enough in her teen years.

For now, their nights out were on hold. She wouldn't have it any other way. A sixteen-month-old baby boy---their breathtakingly sweet baby Nicholas---rocked back against her. She and Will were already halfway through their nighttime routine with him. They'd bathed him, changed his diaper and slipped on his choo-choo train sleepwear. She'd reached the last page of his favorite picture book. They'd been careful so far to make sure he was introduced to as many words as possible. He babbled sometimes, but rarely in English.

“Ba-bo...” Nicholas said softly.

Elizabeth pressed her lips to the baby's honey-white hair. “Ball,” Elizabeth whispered. Nicholas yawned again, warm head nudging against her. He was growing sleepier by the minute.

“Lizzie,” Georgiana begged, “could you please explain to Will that provoking him is not my foremost goal most of the time,”

“Georgiana...” Will frowned.

“I'm eighteen, Will. I can decide my own outfit.”

“You haven't graduated yet. You're still in Upper Sixth at Bardwell.”

“And you make it sound like a date. It's not. Tye is my friend! Elizabeth will understand my side of things. Don't you Lizzie? Tye won't even notice my dress, will he? And anyway, it's not like we're going to a nightclub. He and I are going to a concerto---which I asked him to go with me to, by the way. It wasn't even his idea. He was just too nice to say no.”

Elizabeth took a breath, carefully shutting the picture book and setting it aside. She eased Nicholas onto her shoulder. His lovely, summer blue eyes were already shut. It would take some maneuvering to stand, though.

Will noticed. He was there in a flash, sliding his arm around her, helping her up.

Three months after settling home with Nicholas, she and Will had made surprise discovery. Despite utilizing the same pregnancy prevention method they'd reliably used for four years, it seemed God was intent on Nicholas having with a sibling. Elizabeth was pregnant.

She was showing early, too. At fourteen weeks, even a casual observer could see the changes in her body. She looked pregnant. Already. Long before Emma or Anne had at this stage in their first pregnancies. Weeks before she'd made the announcement to her friends, Char questioned what sort of spectacular push up bra she'd started wearing. Now just past her first trimester, there was a change in her waistline. Every book she read insisted how small the baby was at this stage. Elizabeth's small bump was obvious.

It was a happy, confusing time.

Will had been...stunned. Worried. Happy, but...worried. They were as thankful about this baby's impending arrival as they'd been with Nicholas. But the prospect of her illness potentially mixing with her pregnancy made him anxious, she knew that. They'd considered having biological children one day down the line, but she was supposed to have had a laundry-list of blood tests and clearances from her physicians in advance before attempting to conceive.

The most shocking thing of all was the unexpected pregnancy hadn't stirred up a flare. Her lupus appeared to remain dormant. In fact, one baffled doctor had announced she was healthier pregnant than she'd ever been before it. Perhaps some of that was her break from the stage. She'd taken a leave of absence from the ballet before they'd traveled to Eastern Europe to sign Nicholas's adoption papers and bring him home. She'd been on leave these last few months, caring for Nick. She'd intended on going back to work at the ballet after six months, reducing her schedule to accommodate Nicholas's needs. With this pregnancy though, she'd be sidelined for much longer. Her due date was late September or early October.

“This is a conversation between you and me, Georgie,” Will told Georgie. “And you need to keep your voice down.”

“Tye's only twenty-three. I'm eighteen!” Georgiana continued, “that's no more of an age gap than you and Lizzie. I don't see how it's any different from you two hanging out---and he's just my friend.”

Elizabeth held back her sigh. She rubbed Nicholas's back gently.

“Georgiana, sweetheart,” Elizabeth said quietly, “I think your dress is lovely, to be sure. But it's also mature for your age, your brother is right. Now Tye has grown into a fine young man, and I expect he'll be nothing but a gentleman, and a friend tonight. But he is older than you, and he's escorting you downtown at night, and so your brother worries after you. The weather report says it's going to be a cold night. You've already spent the money on the dress, I grant you that. But bring a wrap with you to drape around your shoulders.”

Elizabeth's soft words were enough to still Georgiana to silence.

“Will, I'm going to put the baby down,” Elizabeth added, “I don't expect I'll be long. He's had a busy day. He's already asleep in my arms, despite all this excitement.”

“I'm sorry,” Georgiana spoke quietly.

“Your brother loves you, sweetheart. You'll have fun tonight. I know you've missed Tye, and you deserve a fun night.”

When she retreated to the bedroom with the baby, Georgiana turned to Will.

“I'm sorry I argued with you,” she whispered. “Is the dress really so shocking?”

The dress was cool, dramatic black. Yes, it was cut to skim her figure, and maybe the hem did fall only to mid thigh, but the neckline stretched all the way up, linking around her neck with a black ribbon. Her best friend Margaret had strongly recommended it for an outing with the likes of Tye Bertram. Yes, the skirt was short, but she wasn't showing an ounce of cleavage. She practically looked like a pilgrim in the front.

She wasn't blind to the back of the dress. There were black ties in the back, crisscrossing all the way down her back. Between each crisscrossing ribbon was exposed skin. The ribbon tied off at the bottom, like a corset.

It was the only time she'd ever really splurged on a high fashion dress. Ewan, her boyfriend of the last five months--now her ex-boyfriend--- wasn't one for crowded spaces. Not even crowded spaces that involved symphonies and concert halls---and so she'd never had the chance to use it, but she wanted to use it tonight.
The fact that she wanted to wear this for Tye was something she didn't want to admit to anyone. Maybe not even to herself.

“Georgie, honey,” he said quietly, “it's just---a surprise. I wasn't expecting to see you in an outfit like that. I just want you safe.”

“I will be, I promise.”

“Will you wear the wrap?”

“Yes, I promised Lizzie I would. Maybe I could just--” a light, musical knock on the door had her eyes widening. “That's him!”

Will held his breath. He watched as his lovely young sister—who didn't look so young anymore—darted for the door. The observation that she looked more nervous and more eager to see the formerly-wayward young composer than she'd ever been for any boy from Bardwell was not lost on Will.

He let his hands slide into his pockets, heading towards the door behind her. When she opened the door, he could hear her faint sigh. Tye Bertram: always so casual. Always so calm.

Tye had dressed nicely for the event. He hadn't, however, dressed with sense of occasion that indicated he thought this was anything close to a date. Will noted this fact with an unexpected mixture of both relief and sympathy for Georgiana. Tye wasn't wearing a tuxedo, or even a three piece suit. He was sporting dress trousers and a button down shirt, a black tie, and a herringbone vest. No suit-jacket. The young composer had already restlessly unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled the sleeves up. His golden blond hair---kept at a Gypsy's length in his youth---was now cut respectably short.

He offered Georgiana a casual grin. “Miss Darcy. Good to see you.”

“Tye! How are you? You look---” she held back another sigh, “you look just wonderful.”

“I'm good. A little jet lagged. Getting settled back in for a week long visit at Mansfield Park. I miss my siblings, you know. Especially my kid sister, Lynnie.”

Lynnie, his youngest sibling and the only one born to his father out of wedlock, was now a four-year-old bundle of energy.

Georgiana, beaming at him, was gesturing him in. “Thank you for taking the time to go to this performance with me.”

“Thanks for asking me.” Tye's black eyes were warm for her. Warm with affection, not with anything even close to lust. Slowly, some of the tension Will had felt over Georgiana's excursion was lifting.

“Tye,” Will greeted him coolly.

Caution crept into his smile. “Mr. Darcy.”

“You two talk,” Georgiana said, still a little breathless from the sight of him. “I have to go fetch my purse.”

Tye nodded. “Sure, Georgie. Take your time.”

“How's the job in Canada?” Will questioned.

“Canada's pretty good. I like teaching. It's introductory coursework, nothing complicated, but my students are a good lot. Mostly I'm busy with---with---”

His words cut off abruptly when Georgiana turned around, stretching to reach for her purse on the kitchen table. He'd finally noticed the back of Georgiana's dress.

“With composing?” she asked him, snapping her purse shut.

“I---what?”

“You were just--” Georgiana looked up. “Weren't you just saying something?”

He swallowed, cleared his throat. “Is that what you're wearing tonight?”

“Yes. Why?”

The young man looked stunned. Struggling for words, he tore his gaze away from her. Desperate to look at anyone or anything else---anything that wasn't the glaring Will Darcy---he noted Elizabeth Darcy's approach down the hallway.

“I just---” he shook his head, “That concert hall we're going to...I've played there a few times. I know the place pretty well.”

“Yes,” said Georgiana, “it's the Meridian. It's supposed to be lovely.”

“Right. It is. But it gets a little...you know---there's so a lot of open space. A fine dress like that, in an old building, poorly ventilated. It's---” he cleared his throat, “drafty.”

“Drafty.”

“Yes.”

“The concert hall is drafty?”she repeated flatly. “Well, you sound just like my brother---which is something I never thought I'd say. I'm not changing. I spent too much money on this dress as it is. But I was just on my way to get a coverup.”

Elizabeth, meanwhile, was approaching Tye with a grin. She tucked herself beneath Will's arm, wrapping her arms around her husband's midsection. “Hello, Tye.”

“Mrs. Darcy.” Tye tugged at his collar. “Good to see you.”

“You, too. Which composer's work are you and Georgiana hearing tonight?”

The twenty-three year old man barely knew the words coming out of his mouth. He'd always had a healthy appreciation for a beautiful woman. He'd never slotted Georgie in that category. He simply didn't think of her that way. To do so now would be---he just couldn't. In that dress, though—

“Hm?” His eyes finally focused on Will Darcy's wife. Elizabeth Darcy was a beautiful woman too, in her own way. Great green eyes. Prettily delicate features, a face fit for a fairy. Lovely black hair—he'd always liked brunettes. She wore soft black leggings, and a long-sleeved pullover of soft white cotton.

It took him a full minute to notice the fact that she was also quite obviously pregnant. His gaze drifted downward to her bump. “Georgie mentioned you adopted. She didn't mention--”

“We have adopted. Our son's name is Nicholas. He's asleep in his crib. The pregnancy came afterward.”

“Congrats for both. When's your due date?”

“Late September, early October.” Elizabeth's words were soft.

At last, Georgiana reappeared. She had a gauzy wrap around her shoulders. “I'm ready.”

Tye nodded. “You look good, Georgie. Warmer.”

Georgiana's mouth quirked. “All set?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Tye reached for the door opening it for her. When she breezed through into the hallway, Tye looked to Will.

“Have her home by midnight?” said Will.

Tye nodded. His voice dipped low. “Absolutely. She'll be as safe as she can be.”

“I'm sure she will, Tye,” Elizabeth assured him. “We'll see you both in a few hours.”

“Did you see that?” Will murmured once the door shut behind them.

Elizabeth grinned up at him. “Oh, yeah.”

“I worried. And then when he got here, I didn't think there was anything much to it other than maybe Georgie has a crush. But the way Tye looked at her before they left...” Will murmured. “And then---the way he looked the moment after he realized how he'd looked at her?”

Tye did not look happy about it. He looked like he'd gotten smacked in the face.

“How long do you think it will take them to figure it out?” Elizabeth murmured.

“A good while, I hope. She's not ready for it.”

“No. She's so young still,” Elizabeth echoed, “And so is Tye, frankly. I expect it'll be a few years.”

“I think so, too.” His fingers tangled in her dark hair. “I hope so.”

“A few months was long enough for us. Too long, sometimes.”

“Yes,” Will agreed. “I can remember before we dated, I wanted to kiss you, or touch you, a thousand times. You were painfully distracting to me. You still are.”

“You distract me, too,” she whispered.

He looked down. Her mouth curved to a slow smile, soft and sweet and, in his eyes, still criminally sexy to him. Will grinned. He knew the look in her eyes: the baby was asleep. The flat was quiet. This was still new, what with her pregnant and growing more so week by week. But they were figuring it out.

And so he did what his younger self had wanted to do so desperately. He dipped his head low and kissed her.



VI.


There were stuffed animals on her bedroom floor in Pemberley. A doll was beneath the bed. And there was a four year old girl, Elizabeth's third child of four, curled up next to her, admiring the shining diamond on her hand.

"Mummy, it's pretty.” Elise Darcy--four years old, and tucked into a small, flower pink bed—smiled up at her.

It was surreal sometimes, seeing that little face, with features that so closely matched all Elizabeth's own childhood memories. Little Elise's hair was less wavy, more curly, and a lighter shade of brown. She had Will's hair. Elise had Elizabeth's long, black lashes, though, and Elizabeth's own emerald green eyes. In the light, one could see Lissie's eyes also held the faintest flecks of brown. When she smiled though, that was when Elizabeth's heart truly melted. That was Will's smile in Elise's little face.

"It is, isn't it? That's my engagement ring. That was a gift from Daddy.”

“Mummy, Aunt Georgie had one too!"

“Yes, hers was lovely. Tye gave her that. He loves her very, very much, Lissie."

"And they're getting married, like you and Daddy did?”

Elizabeth nodded. Her fingers threaded gently through her daughter's hair. “Yes, in the new year I think.”

“And is she going to go very far away?"

"No, sweetheart. After they marry, she and Tye will live in Paris for awhile. That's not so far away.”

"But you and Daddy won't go, right Mummy?"

Elizabeth smiled, pressing her lips to her daughter's round cheeks. "We won't go. The engagement party's ended. Tomorrow when you wake up, everything will be just as it was."

"And sitter's gone? And all the people?"

Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, everyone's gone home. It's just the family now---you and me, and your father, and Nicholas, and Bennet and William.”

They'd hosted Tye and Georgiana's engagement party here at Pemberley. While guests dined and mingled, Will and Elizabeth had hired a babysitter to entertain the children upstairs. It had been a challenge to find anyone outside the family who could meet Will and Elizabeth's scrupulous requirements to watch their children, but they'd found that in Mrs. Reynold's granddaughter. Sweet, responsible Louisa Reynolds had been their babysitter for the evening. She'd stay up here with the children while the engagement party continued downstairs.

Elizabeth watched Lissie's yawn. “Mummy, will Aunt Georgie have a baby?”

“I'm not sure, sweetie. Maybe one day. She's still quite young. Only twenty-three.”

“Mummy, will you and Daddy have another baby?”

Elizabeth laughed. “My love, we just had one. William is still a baby.”

Lissie sighed. “But it's not another sister.”

Gently, Elizabeth brushed her daughter's cheek. Elizabeth knew that she and Will would never have another child. She was thirty-three. They'd adopted one baby, and then given birth to three others---Bennet, Elise, and William. She'd had a run of very good luck these past ten years, both with her lupus and with her pregnancies. The one-year-old in the nursery would be their last baby.

“You know,” Elizabeth murmured, “I never had a sister either. But I have a cousin, Aunt Jane. And she's as close to me as any sister could be. And I have wonderful friends--”

“Aunt Emma and Aunt Anne?”

“Yes, and Aunt Emma and Aunt Anne and I form our own sisterhood. Not only that, I have four marvelous brothers who love me endlessly and would give the world for me. You have that. Nick and Ben and baby William, they all love you very much.”

At last, it seemed the child was running out of questions. "It's time for sleep, sweetheart. Want your nightlight left on?"

Lissie nodded. Elizabeth reached for the small light switch, switching it on.

"Mummy,” she rubbed her sleepy eyes, “you looked so pretty tonight...like a princess."

"She does look beautiful, doesn't she?" That was Will's voice. The sound of his footsteps had her smiling. Will settled on the opposite side of the bed. "Ready for bed, Lissie, sweetheart?"

Elise nodded. "Mummy read to me."

"I thought she would." His fingers smoothed the curly lock on her forehead. "Goodnight, Lissie. We love you."

With both parents there, Elise was finally compelled to close her eyes. It wasn't long--barely minutes---before her breathing was calm and even.

“How are the boys?” Elizabeth whispered once they reached the hall. Will clicked the door shut. When he slipped his arm around her, she let her head tuck against his chest.

“Sound asleep.”

“And the baby?” she said softly.

“The baby was easy. He's a good sleeper.”

“Just like Nicholas was as a baby.”

“Yes.” His long fingers were teasing her earlobe. “Lissie's always the one with a thousand questions.”

“Just like her daddy.”

“And her mother, too.” His dark brown gaze was reflective as he studied her. “Tye thanked me privately for the engagement party.”

“He thanked me, too. He's grown into such a good man, Will.”

A soft smile was gracing his lips. “Yes, I think so, too. And Georgiana loves him. They're well suited to each other.”

“They're wonderful for each other,” Elizabeth confirmed softly. She tiptoed, kissing him gently.

She could feel his smile as she drew back. “I love you, Elizabeth Darcy,” he whispered.

Her soft green eyes, full of emotion, met his. “I love you, Will.”

They walked, hand in hand, past the rooms of their children, down Pemberley's quiet halls. The house was still. Their merry children were safe, and sleeping soundly. As for the Darcys, they would enjoy these soft, quiet hours before dawn together.