A Wife for Mr. Darcy

kissed her?”
    “Why?”
    “Because if you have, you may write of how you felt when your lips met hers—the heat, the passion, all thoughts deserting you, except those of her, and how at that moment, the two of you became one—inseparable and complete.”
    “That is very nice, Antony. I can see how that would be a pleasing sentiment.”
    “Sarah Compton loved it.”
    “Good God. I am not going to write to Elizabeth using words you have written to your mistress.”
    “Former mistress. And what is the difference between using my words or copying out one of Will Shakespeare’s sonnets?
    Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.”
    “That is a beautiful sonnet,” Darcy said defensively. He had been thinking about copying out that very poem.
    “It is beautiful, and if you want, I can go down to the park and some talented person will have already copied out Sonnet Eighteen for you in a beautiful hand, and for a few pence more, you can get a sketch to go with it of some artist’s concept of Summer personified.” Despite his excellent advice, Antony could see that the man was still struggling. “For goodness’ sake, Darcy, all you have to do is think about that lovely creature during your most romantic moment together. Then pick up the pen and write.”
    “Well, you have given me some ideas, so I thank you.”
    “Before I go, I want you to know I will be leaving shortly. I have taken rooms in Kensington to be nearer to a dear friend.”
    There was no doubt Madame Antonia Konig, lately of Vienna, was the dear friend he wanted to be nearer to, and Darcy’s expression said it all.
    “Darcy, I know what you are thinking. Kensington! Ugh!”
    Darcy just shook his head in disbelief. Only Antony would consider his move from Mayfair to Kensington to be the greater evil than the reason for the move—his mistress.
    “I can see you do not approve. I had hoped that since your heart has so recently been touched, you might understand. But since you do not, please allow me to explain. I am deeply in love with Antonia, but because I am bound to the Evil Eleanor, I cannot marry her—which I would do if I did not have this millstone of a marriage around my neck. And there are other reasons. Because Antonia lives near Kensington Park, I was able to introduce Emmy and Sophie to her, and they got along famously. It is nice for my children to see a man and woman together in the same room without furniture being thrown about.”
    “I am happy for you, Antony,” Darcy said, surprised at his own change of heart. “I know you never wanted to marry Eleanor, and it has been a disaster for you from the beginning. And you are right. Love does change you.”
    Antony came over and put his arms around his cousin and hugged him.
    “For God’s sake, Antony, you are not French.”
    “I know. If I was, I would have kissed you.”

    After Antony left, Darcy returned to the task at hand: writing a love letter to Elizabeth. But with his cousin’s advice fresh in his mind, he had no difficulty in choosing the moment to inspire him. It was in the study at Pemberley when Elizabeth had come to him seeking his help. When she came into the room, her hair was flowing over her shoulders, and her robe, obviously thrown on in haste, had fallen open, revealing the nightgown beneath. For a mere second, with the glow of the fire behind her, he had seen the outline of her body, and he had to fight his desire to pick her up, take her to the sofa, and make love to her. With such a glorious image in the forefront of his mind, Darcy picked up the pen and began to write.
Dearest Elizabeth ,
Although we are apart, you are always in my thoughts. You are the first thing I think about in the morning and the last before I close my eyes. Even in my sleep, you are with me, as you inhabit all my dreams. The remembrance of you in my arms is what sustains me. Is it wrong of me to tell you how much I want to kiss you, to hold you, to feel you against me? That is not something a gentleman should write, but your power over me is such that I want to be with you every minute of every hour so that we become one—“inseparable and complete.” Those words come from another, but they fit so well with what I am feeling that I believe they were composed for me, if not by me. The hours go slowly, but soon I shall be in Hertfordshire. Once we are together, it will require an act of