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"I see," Darcy said, trying to loosen his cravat with a finger in the collar as he suddenly felt extremely warm.

"I'm hungry, though," she said, "so hopefully they will send up supper soon."

Darcy nodded. "I'm sure they shall."

Their conversation was awkward and stilted, but he didn't know how to make it any different. They felt like strangers, but then, he supposed in some ways they were – strangers who were bound together for the rest of their lives.

Elizabeth removed her hat and her gloves, and he found himself watching her doing so as she delicately pulled off the fabric from each finger and then slid it down her arm.

His mouth went dry.

The power this woman had over him – did she even realise?

"How long do you think it will take us to get to Pemberley?" she asked.

He began, finding himself lost for words, which was not something that happened very often. He often didn't say very much, but it wasn't because he couldn't think of what to say. It was because he had nothing he wished to say. Tonight, that was not the case.

She looked at him, waiting, and he finally found some words.

"Hopefully we will reach it tomorrow evening," he said. "If the roads are as kind as they have been today."

Elizabeth nodded. "Good. I'm looking forward to seeing it."

Darcy was saved from having to reply by the maid knocking on the door with their supper.

"Has Miss Darcy in Room Three had hers brought up as well?" he asked as she set it down on the table.

The stew smelt delicious and the bread looked fresh. He, too, was starving, and he was glad they'd stopped when they had.

"She has, sir," the maid said.

"Excellent. Thank you very much," he said, giving her a coin before she left.

"Thank you, sir, ma'am," she said with a curtsy.

And then she disappeared, leaving them alone again.

Eating took up some of the conversation time then, and Darcy wondered if it was ever to be thus. They’d had conversation before, had they not? Why was it so hard tonight?

And then, when they finished their stew and reloaded their empty bowls onto the tray, Elizabeth said something that would have made him spit out the stew if he hadn't already finished it.

"Are you regretting our marriage?"

Darcy blinked, shocked by the question. "I... No, of course not. Why would you ask that?"

"Well," she said, tracing the intricate pattern on the lace tablecloth with her forefinger and not looking directly at him, "it seems you have avoided being alone with me since we married, and so I wondered if you thought you'd made a mistake."

Chapter Forty-Two

Darn it.

That had not been his aim at all. He had wanted to give her some space. He hadn't wanted her to have any regrets.

But he hadn't wanted her to think that he was regretting the marriage.

Far from it.

"Not at all," he said decisively. "I—"