After a kiss to his second son’s head, he did, resonant voice rising and falling in a storyteller’s cadence. Michael calmed, the rattle brought to his mouth for serious gnawing as he listened to the adventures of Gulliver.

The final restoration to Darcy’s equilibrium came once the children were asleep and Lizzy was lying snugly against his side with head resting on his shoulder. They wore nightwear and had no plans to be intimate with the children in the same room, but that did not prevent tender caressing under the concealing covers. In light of the exhausting day and extreme emotion, it was soothing to hold each other.

“Miss Kitty, or Mrs. Artois I should say, was a vision of loveliness. Pale colors become her.” He drew the long lock of his wife’s hair that he had been negligently toying with to his nose. “Of course, she was no match for how stunning you were on the day we married.”

“Naturally not! It is requisite for you to make such a declaration. As I must say that your abundant handsomeness on our wedding day was no match for a man in military garb.”

“Is it not the truth, Mrs. Darcy?”

She pursed her lips, eyes twinkling, and answered with feigned uncertainty. “Well, the leather, jeweled baldric and gold saber did add a certain panache and éclat missing at our nuptials. Makes a definitive judgment difficult to render.”

“I knew I should have worn my grandfather’s Italian rapier that day!” he declared dramatically. “I feared being ostentatious.”

“Never any fear of you being ostentatious, my love. You so easily blend into the background.” She laughed, closing the gap for a kiss.

“You must stop that, Elizabeth,” he murmured huskily against her mouth, “or I shall not be able to restrain myself and will wildly make love to you unconcerned with giving Alexander an education he does not yet need.”

Lizzy halted the activity of her fingers, not aware that she had reached to feather light caresses over her husband’s left ear and the hair that curled there. Early in their marriage Lizzy learned how erotically sensitive Darcy was in the region of his ears. The lightest touch elicited faint moans and shivers, and a kiss or subtle breath drove him insane. She found it humorous since her own ears were only ticklish. She also found it useful. A last moment brushing kiss or stroke to his aural area was a gift she delighted in bestowing from time to time as he departed the house. The muted pule caught in his throat and flicker of fire in his sapphire eyes was satisfying. When they made love it was one of a handful of tactics she knew to employ that plummeted his ardor over the edge of control into blissful, wanton abandon.

Now, however, she obeyed the plea, moving her hand to his linen-covered chest and docilely laying it over his accelerated heartbeat. Squelching the instantaneous surge of gratification in knowing how easily her touch provoked his desire, she changed the subject.

“The newlyweds are enjoying the clear air of an exotic locale and tomorrow we will be breathing the clogged air of London, yet I hold no jealousy. Even the busyness of Town will be a welcome respite from recent drama.”

“You and Georgiana can shop to your heart’s content. Actually, we will all need to acquire new clothes to a greater degree than normal. The endless stream of fêtes to honor our new King will require the latest fashions.”

“Interesting that you would mention fashion. Georgiana brought several magazines from France. Styles are changing with Paris designers setting what is vogue, as always. Did you notice the subtle differences in Georgie’s gown?”

“I noticed that she was beautiful and wearing a pink dress.”

Lizzy laughed. “It was mauve, my darling. Thank goodness your tailor is cognizant of advancing men’s fashion or you would be a laughingstock.”

“That is precisely why I chose him and gladly pay his exorbitant prices. Like any excellent modiste, he keeps abreast of the whimsies of style trends. Take note of all the magazines you can obtain on the subject as you will need to be brilliantly garmented for the coronation next year.”

“Plenty of time to worry about that momentous event,” she said, attempting to be casual, but the tremor in her voice divulged her excitement. Darcy smiled in understanding.

It was not every day, or once in a person’s lifetime, that a new monarch was crowned. George III had ruled for some sixty years, few remembering his traditional coronation. All of England breathlessly anticipated the procession and ceremonies scheduled to take place next year when King George IV publicly received his crown and scepter from the Archbishop of Canterbury in Westminster Abbey. The rumors of how grand the planned coronation was to be were rife. The latest news circulating was that the King had purchased the famous forty-five carat French Blue diamond once owned by Louis XIV and later given to Queen Marie Antoinette, only to be stolen from the Garde-Meuble and then lost during the Revolution. Speculation as to how the King would use the renowned, two-hundred-year-old gem was only one of numerous coronation-related topics open for discussion. The King vocally determined to have a coronation that outshone Napoleon Bonaparte’s in 1804, Parliament voting to provide a staggering fortune to make it so. Thus, though over a year away, the enthusiasm mounted. The benefit of having eighteen months from the time when the Prince Regent became King in January of 1820 until the official coronation was latched on to by Society with the slated parties lavish and frequent.

“I shall need to buy an additional carriage to haul the new gowns and jewels back to Pemberley by the time this Season ends,” Darcy said, only partly jesting. “I know you, my dear wife, and am certain we shall exhaust ourselves in revelry.”

“Only moderately,” she said with a laugh. “I still have a baby at home to care for, so cannot drag you all over London until the darkest hours of the night.” She leaned to bestow a slow kiss. “I always prefer to stay home with you and our children over dancing and socializing. Have no fear, love.”

He grunted. “We shall see how well that plan holds. I think I will be ready for our restful holiday hiatus in Kent after Easter.”

“It will be wonderful to see Anne and Raul again. And the baby.” Lizzy spoke softly, laying her head onto his chest and squeezing tightly.

“Indeed,” he answered. “I have worried over her so these past years. She has suffered too many health issues and traumas. Perhaps marriage was not the best choice for her, but then I know how she loves Dr. Penaflor and how devoted he is to her.”

“It is an unfortunate consequence, I suppose. But you know that even with the losses, Anne would not wish it otherwise. Now they have Margaret.”

“Lady Catherine says the infant is strong and that Anne is yet fragile, but largely healed from the ordeal. Still, I will not rest easy until I see for myself.”

Lizzy smiled and hugged him again, thoughts momentarily shifting to Kent and the inhabitants of Rosings as they snuggled together and drifted into sleep.

The former Anne de Bourgh, now Mrs. Raul Penaflor Aleman de Vigo, would unequivocally affirm that marrying Dr. Raul Penaflor was the happiest moment of her life. Not a one of the subsequent heartaches in the previous two years could supplant the overwhelming bliss they found in each other. In every way it was precisely as her cousin and lifelong friend had confided to her on the shores of Rowan Lake: “All I can assert with absolute confidence is the astounding joy to be found in a union with one whom you love and who loves you in return.”

Anne had found that joy with Raul and felt no regrets. The losses had taken their toll, and privately Anne had doubted a baby was ever to be, but strangely her fourth pregnancy proceeded with hardly a glitch. For the entire nine months Anne was chronically tired and pale, but otherwise proved to be one of those fortunate women who barely notice they are pregnant. She suffered not a single negative symptom, glowed with an inner happiness that superseded the pallor, and had a labor that lasted for four hours start to finish.

Margaret Catherine Victoria Penaflor Aleman de Vigo was tiny but perfectly healthy. Anne remained frail and wan for weeks and was unable to nurse her daughter as she had wished, but gradually the persistent care from her private physician, who loved her obsessively, prevailed.

The next day was their scheduled departure from Hertfordshire. Mrs. Bennet insisted on hosting her family for a last tea at Longbourn before they quit the area. Darcy grit his teeth and did not argue, but he prepared for a last-minute confrontation with Wickham.

The carriages with their luggage and servants were sent on to Darcy House while their coach diverted onto the narrow avenue leading to Longbourn. As soon as they crossed the threshold they heard Mrs. Bennet’s voice raised in lamentation. Mary greeted them at the door with an explanation.

“Mama is distressed over Lydia departing today. It has taken all of us by surprise as they planned to visit through Easter. Barely did we sit down for breakfast when Mr. Wickham announced they would be leaving.”

“Did he explain why?” Lizzy asked.

“Not with complete clarity, no. He smiled regretfully and pleaded, ‘pressing business affairs that pull us away from the delightful company of our family.’ He has been effusive in his apologies but firm. They are packing as we speak.”

“How odd and how sudden. Was a missive delivered today as the cause of his urgency?”

“Not that we are aware. Who can say, Lizzy? The entire affair is so strange. Why come so far for a week’s visit?” She shook her head, steering into the parlor and missing Darcy’s muttered Why indeed as she continued to speak. “I do apologize for the histrionics, Mr. Darcy. I fear the day may be unpleasant.”

The latter was an understatement. Mrs. Bennet refused to be consoled. Lydia cried and expressed deep remorse at leaving one moment only to then rhapsodize over “her darling Wickham’s” promise to holiday at Brighton once his business in Portsmouth concluded. What he had to do in Portsmouth remained a mystery. No one directly asked the question and Wickham was strangely quiet.

The minuscule amount of delight Mr. Bennet experienced at seeing his youngest daughter after so many years had rapidly dissipated upon noting she was as foolish and noisy as ever. Wickham, despite being respectful and pleasant, had never been forgiven by Mr. Bennet for his despicable conduct and the scandalous affair with Lydia that had nearly brought ruin upon the entire family.

Mr. Bennet silently endured his wife’s ranting for a time before speaking. “Mrs. Bennet, we are all greatly grieved at the imminent emptiness to our family, but surely you would not wish a man as important and influential as our daughter’s fine husband to shirk his responsibilities? Imagine the negative cast this would place upon our dearest Mrs. Wickham if her husband were to gain a reputation as feckless and unprincipled.”

Mr. Bennet directed his gaze toward Wickham, who startled at the softly spoken double entendre and then flushed with anger before composing himself.

To Darcy, Wickham said nothing, not even a farewell beyond a slight incline of his head and an indecipherable smirk. Darcy was unconvinced it was that simple, but nevertheless, watching the Wickhams’ carriage wheeling away on the southwestern road skirting London was encouraging. His greatest relief was when they arrived at the palatial townhouse on Grosvenor Square that evening.