Sept I was in Florida. October, I was in Germany presenting at the Frankfurt Book Fair about writing with AI! I also met with some executives from a top publisher about the ideas I have for an AI press! They are all working on book machines with no plans for authors to be a part of the future of writing. When they saw what we had prompted and got, they were shocked about how did it read so well? This book and every book since A Test of Fire has been written by me with AI assistance. But I prompt every scene, and what happens, and change the words, and I’ve trained models on my previous writing to sound just like me. November I was in Vegas, at AuthorNation, teaching authors. I believe in authors learning AI so they can keep making a living. I’ve created 2 software apps for authors to write with AI and I’m in the middle of launching a third in the new year. One of the app, Raptorwrite.com is 100% free to use (you only pay for the AI credits from OpenRouter.com) and has free training to learn how to use it.
I am scared of the future. I wanted to make sure I can still be a part of it. <3 Thank you for reading and commenting!
Chapter 18- The Heart of Marriage, Book 6 of the Moralities of Marriage, a Pride & Prejudice Variation
The wind whipped around Rosings Park, howling in tandem with the biting cold that squeezed through every crevice of the old stone estate. Inside, however, the library was a sanctuary of warmth. A fire crackled in the large hearth, sending flickers of orange light dancing against the dark wood paneling and the well-stocked bookshelves that surrounded the room. The heavy drapes were drawn tight, sealing out the winter’s chill and the moon’s light, leaving the room in a dim, almost eerie atmosphere.
Frederick de Bourgh hunched over a massive mahogany desk positioned at the center of the library. He scowled as he ran his finger down the columns of the ledger, the lines on his face deepening with each tick of the clock that echoed nearby. He raised his glass of brandy, staring into its amber depths as though it might hold an answer before taking a long, deliberate sip. His fingers drummed an irritated rhythm on the ledger when the figures failed to improve under the scrutiny of his narrowed eyes.
“You have no idea, son.” His voice was a low growl, almost inaudible, more to himself than his son.
Julian de Bourgh sat by the roaring fire, his legs crossed as he reclined in a deep leather armchair, his head tilted back, staring up at the ceiling. He watched the low burn of the flames through half-lidded eyes, one hand absently twirling a half-empty glass as though the movement might calm the gnawing unrest that had taken root in his chest. The warm glow of the fire only partially obscured his unease.
When his father spoke, Julian dragged his gaze away from the flames and met Frederick’s eyes, weariness flickering across his features. “I imagine it’s as bleak as the weather.”
“Bleak?” Frederick scoffed, slamming the ledger shut with a force that rattled the entire desk. “That word doesn’t begin to describe it. There is no capital, Julian. There’s nothing—no means of restoring, maintaining, or even selling this cursed estate without losing more than half its worth.”
Julian forced himself to sit up, leaning forward, clasping his hands tightly together. “What’s the point in saving it? What’s the point in any of this? Dressing up like puffins, barely moving, sitting around all day.”
“Point? Point? You miss the smell of tar and breaking your back each day?”
“At least there was something to show for a day’s work.” Julian glared at the fire, wondering who built the mantle and carved the stonework with reliefs of lions.
Frederick’s mouth twisted with disdain as he spat his words. “My brother and that harpy of his destroyed this place.”
Julian yawned and listened as his father ranted and raved against Sir Lewis de Bourgh, an uncle he never met. When he thought his father was out of steam, he dared to ask a question he always wondered about. Just how did the estate become so desolate?
“How did Uncle allow Rosings to falter?”
“Blinded by his hubris, or perhaps it was that infernal illness that did it. Then years, years of that woman mismanaging. But these questions are irrelevant now. We’re left to pick up the pieces. It’s a de Bourgh duty.”
Silence weighed heavy between them, only interrupted by the occasional crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock—its pendulum a metronome counting down to an inevitable confrontation.
Then Julian shook his head, a deep frown creasing his brow. “I don’t know, Father. This… role, this life we’re expected to uphold now—it’s stifling. Maybe we do sell. As I am not going to London to fetch an heiress.”
Frederick studied his son, his expression hardening. “Sell? You do not sell an estate that’s been in your family for six generations. This is how the world works. Do you think great estates maintain themselves through selling? No! They survive by ensuring each generation marries well.”
“I will not be a puppet, a dandy on the London dance floors!” Julian shot forward in the arm chair, and directly challenged his father’s authority with physical bruteness.
A young footman appeared at the threshold, bowing slightly as manners dictated. “Pardon me, sirs,” he began, his voice quiet, almost hesitant, “but if there is nothing more you require, might I be excused for the evening?”
The footman’s intrusion was a drop of water on a red-hot iron—a disturbance instantly met with searing force.
Julian snapped his gaze to the servant, his voice a sharp bark. “Leave us the hell alone!”
The footman flinched, wide-eyed at the sudden outburst. His fear was palpable, yet he quickly masked it with the sort of quick obedience that was expected of his position. He nodded fervently, mumbling, “Of course, sir. Apologies, sir,” before retreating from the room, closing the door behind him with care.
Julian watched the door shut, his heart pounding in his chest from the unexpected surge of anger. The brief interruption, however minor, seemed to amplify the suffocating pressure within him. He could feel the situation spiraling out of control, the unease mounting until it became unbearable.
Frederick merely observed, his expression unreadable, as though Julian’s outburst was as insignificant as a dropped glass of wine. When he finally spoke again, there was a coldness in his tone that Julian had come to despise.
“There’s no point in taking your frustrations out on the staff, son,” he said, dismissing the incident with a wave of his hand. “They are not the ones responsible for the mess we’re in.”
Julian clenched his fists tightly together, leaning closer to the heat of the fire as though it might burn away the sense of doom that had settled into his bones. “It all feels so hollow, though.” His voice was taut with frustration. “I don’t want this life—to marry not for love nor companionship, but for strategic placement, like a pawn on a board.”
Frederick let out a sigh, sipping more brandy, allowing the warmth to seep through him, calming his rising annoyance. “You are confused that there is a choice in this matter. It is necessity. We have no capital, boy. Not a shilling of liquid assets here to help us. So someone—you or I—must secure this estate’s future through marriage. That is the only viable option left to us now, no matter how galling you might find it.”
Julian sagged back into his chair as though his father’s words weighed heavily on his shoulders. He ran his fingers through his dark hair, his mind racing for another solution, but finding none. The ruthless pragmatism cut deep. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the smoky scent of the fire, trying to find strength.
Frederick watched him struggle, frustration building as the seconds ticked by in nerve-racking silence. His sharp mind was already two steps ahead, and he wasn’t about to let his cowardly son drag his feet. He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a more intimate, almost scheming whisper. “There is, however, a very simple solution, staring you right in the face.”
Julian’s eyes snapped open, narrowing on his father with suspicion. “And what’s that?”
Frederick pulled away, straightening to his full height and fixing his son with an ice-cold gaze, almost as though evaluating him for battle readiness. “Marrying Georgiana Wickham.”
Silence once again reigned supreme in the great library as Julian processed the words, a wave of his father’s logic washing over him with numb horror. Then he let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Georgiana Wickham? She’s penniless, Father! Marrying her would solve nothing. It would be like gaining another mouth to feed, not a savior for this estate.”
But rather than feel deterred, Frederick felt a sharp grin creep upon his face. It wasn’t one of warmth or pride, but the kind of smile forged from a plan coming to fruition. He walked around the desk, pouring more brandy into his glass as he sauntered over to his son. “That is where you are mistaken, Julian. She is not as penniless as you might think.”
Julian’s breath hitched; his guarded look turning darker. “What do you mean by that?”
Frederick gave a slight chuckle, savoring the moment before delivering his coup de grâce. “Her cousin enlightened me on the matter. If Georgiana marries well—a requirement, mind you, one which we both are sure to meet—her trustees will release her dowry.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink into the space between them. “Thirty thousand pounds, Julian. Thirty thousand.”
Julian’s stomach churned with unease as his father’s words echoed in his head. The drink in his hand suddenly felt like a weight, dragging him down. The last two months watching Mrs. Wickham take care of her son, elevate the conversation at meals . . . a small part of him had come to admire the young widow. And despite having a child, his distant cousin by marriage was lithe and bonny to look at. He set the glass aside, his hands trembling.
“This… marriage. I can’t do it, Father,” he murmured, his voice strained. “How could I? I’m not… fit for her. I wouldn’t know the first thing about managing this estate… about living up to what’s expected. She deserves better than someone like me, who’d be nothing but a failure in that world.”
“Ah, so you like her!”
Julian frowned. Then let out an exasperated breath, collapsing back into the arm chair.
Frederick placed his glass down on a nearby table, his expression swiftly turning from triumphant to a cold glare. “You act as though I’m suggesting something unspeakable. Times are dire, one does what must be done. Would you want Georgiana to marry another? Because she must marry again, son. Might as well be you.”
Julian stood abruptly, his knees almost buckling as he did. He grabbed the back of his chair for support, the weight of expectation pressing down on him. “You don’t understand, Father. I could ruin everything,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “What if I fail? What if everyone finds out that I have no idea what I’m doing? I couldn’t bear it… And she—Georgiana—she deserves so much more than a husband who’s destined to disappoint.”
Frederick’s patience had worn thin, his steel-like resolve unbending. He walked back to his desk, collecting the fallen ledger and positioning it over the spilled drink on the table. “I prayed you would see reason, Julian. But perhaps you require more time to wrestle with reality. Just remember, a good name tarnished by poverty is no name at all. If you cannot make the decision, you make me offer for her hand.”
Desperately clinging to whatever defense was left to him, Julian forced a nod, more to end the conversation than anything else. His father was more than thirty years her senior! Surely, Georgiana would never agree to such a match.
Without another word, Julian stumbled out of the library, unable to endure his father’s cold eyes on him any longer. He navigated through the darkened hallways of Rosings, his heart hammering against his chest as thoughts of failure, inadequacy, and Georgiana’s future—undoubtedly bleak if tied to his own—swirled endlessly in his mind.
The corridor upstairs was dimly lit, the flickering lanterns casting long shadows on the walls. Julian’s steps faltered as he reached the landing, his hand gripping the banister to steady himself. The brandy coursing through his veins dulled his senses but couldn’t silence the storm raging inside him. He leaned heavily against the cold wood, his head bowed, trying to collect himself.
“Julian,” a voice called softly, startling him.
He looked up sharply, his gaze landing on Georgiana Wickham standing a few feet away, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She must have been roused by Thomas’s restless stirring and had stepped into the hallway, only to hear the raised voices from the library below. Now, seeing Julian in his disheveled state, her concern was tempered by wariness.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice rough and edged with irritation.
“I could ask the same of you,” she replied, her tone steady but cool. “Though it seems the answer is evident. You’ve had too much to drink.”
Julian let out a low scoff, pushing off the banister to stand straighter. “I don’t need your judgment, Georgiana.”
“And I don’t need your drunken temper,” she shot back, her eyes narrowing. “But here we are.”
The sharpness of her tone cut through the haze of alcohol clouding his mind. He blinked, taken aback, but the frustration bubbling within him refused to be quelled. “You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered, turning away from her, his gaze fixed on the darkened hallway ahead.
“You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel trapped?” she challenged, taking a step closer. “To carry the weight of expectations you never asked for?”
Julian turned back to her, his expression hardening. “You? What would you know of it? You’ve live a life of privilege, shielded from the worst of the world.”
Georgiana’s lips pressed into a thin line, her patience wearing thin. “You presume too much,” she said sharply.
He stared at her, his brow furrowing as she stepped closer, her voice steady but laced with steel. “I married a man who gambled away everything we had, who left me to fend for myself and my son while he drowned in his vices. I’ve known fear, Julian. I’ve known betrayal. And I’ve learned the hard way that the world doesn’t care for our excuses or self-pity.”
Julian’s jaw tightened, her words cutting deeper than he cared to admit. “That gives you the right to lecture me?”
“No,” she replied, her tone softening but losing none of its firmness. “But it gives me the right to say this: you have a choice, Julian. To fight for something better or to let it all crumble around you.”
He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not simple,” she admitted, her gaze unwavering. She reached out and touched his arm still clinging to the banister. “It’s hard. It’s exhausting. But it’s necessary. You’re not the only one with something to lose here.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy with truth. Julian looked away, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her conviction.
He glanced down at her hand, then back up at her face. There was no pity in her eyes, only determination and resolve. For a moment, the tension between them eased, replaced by a fragile understanding.
“Georgiana,” he began, his voice hoarse, “I’m sorry. For what you’ve been through. For what I said.”
She nodded, her grip on his arm firm but reassuring. “And I’m sorry for being harsh. We don’t have time for self-indulgence, Julian. Not if we want to save this place.”
He let out a shaky breath, the corners of his mouth twitching in a faint, almost reluctant smile. “You’re relentless, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” she replied, a hint of warmth creeping into her tone.
They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling between them. Finally, Georgiana stepped back, her hand falling to her side.
Julian glanced at her, the echo of his father’s words still ringing in his head. *Marry her.* It felt like a yoke around his neck, tightening with each passing minute. And yet, looking at her now—watching the determination in her eyes—he wanted her more than he cared to admit.
Julian nodded, the exhaustion in his eyes mirrored in hers. “Goodnight, Georgiana.”
“Goodnight, Julian,” she replied, her voice soft.
As she turned and walked back toward her room, Julian watched her go, a mix of gratitude and uncertainty swirling in his chest. One thing he knew was that he could never stomach his father marrying such a woman. One should never lust after their stepmother.
NEW RELEASE
For the Love of a Bennet
What if Elizabeth Bennet traveled with Lydia to Brighton?
A reimagining of Jane Austen’s most beloved tale, Pride & Prejudice, join author Elizabeth Ann West as she writes the romantic adventure story she always wanted! When Lizzy and Lydia arrive in Brighton, it’s very clear that the younger Bennet sister came with very serious plans towards Mr. Wickham. Thankfully, an old ally is also in town, with problems of his own to solve. After Mr. Darcy, himself, is summoned to Brighton to hopefully solve two dilemmas with one wealthy member of the gentry, the whole militia is thrown into an uproar by Wickham’s most dastardly deed, yet. Together, Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy have to save Lydia from her own undoing, or it will mean more than just mere reputations are ruined.
For the Love of a Bennet is a novel length story, currently being posted chapter by chapter on Elizabeth’s author site. This story was originally conceptualized in 2019 as a part of the All Go to Brighton challenge.
Chapter 19 - The Heart of Marriage, Book 6 of the Moralities of Marriage, a Pride & Prejudice Variation
The light of dawn struggled to break through the thick winter clouds that hung low over Rosings Park. The estate was quiet, the only sound the faint rustling of trees as the cold wind whipped through their barren branches. Frost clung to everything—rendering the gardens in a sheet of silver and turning the stone pathways into slippery trails.
Inside the house, all was still except for the distant echo of hurried footsteps along the wood-paneled corridor that led to the library. Georgiana Wickham, clutching her shawl tightly around her shoulders, made her way with quiet determination through the dimly lit hall. She had risen earlier than usual, the weight of the estate’s future pressing heavily on her mind. Thomas had been left in the care of the new nurse, who had thus far proven to be a far better choice than the last, allowing her a rare moment of solitude.
As Georgiana pushed open the carved oak door to the study and entered, she took a deep breath. The room was as she’d left it the night before—heavy drapes pulled tight against the drafts, a small fire barely alive in the hearth. Papers and maps were spread across the large desk, a reflection of the estate’s currently tangled state. Nestled among the papers were remnants of Sir Lewis’s haphazard management and Lady Catherine’s domineering influence, haunting in their ink-stained testimony of the financial ruin left behind by the previous generation.
The fire crackled as Georgiana threw another log onto the embers, watching it catch fire before she set about gathering the documents she intended to study. She needed to understand Rosings the way Darcy understood Pemberley—with an intimate knowledge of its strengths and weaknesses, its potentials, and its pitfalls. She had little choice in the matter; if she were to survive here, she would need more than stubborn pride. She would need an arsenal of knowledge.
Her fingers grazed over an old map of the estate, and an idea began to form—a plan that could provide the income Rosings so desperately needed. But she needed the cooperation of Julian for this to work. The thought of him made her head turn toward the door, half expecting him to show up as usual, dressed in his attitude of nonchalance and air of lightly restrained impatience.
But Julian was nowhere to be seen.
Georgiana shook her head and allowed herself a small, rueful smile. Perhaps it was better this way. Being taken seriously by men was a challenge, especially by one who viewed himself as the rightful head of the estate. But their altercation in the hall yesterday, far from bruising her pride, had fueled her resolve. Julian may disdain this life, but she did not. At least not anymore. It was strange how quickly Rosings had moved from being an inescapable prison to a place where she could imagine a future.
She sat at the desk, her fingers tracing the lines on the map as she lost herself in thought. Simple ditches and rudimentary dams, or perhaps a controlled floodplain—the land was rich enough for such endeavors to be worthwhile and wouldn’t cost more than the remaining storehouses could supply. How many tenants would benefit from—?
The door to the study suddenly burst open, disrupting the quiet. Julian strode in, his eyes wide with surprise followed by a thin frown that deepened the lines on his particularly pale face.
“You’re up early,” Julian remarked, recovering from his initial surprise, his tone laced with mild irritation. His clothes were rumpled, and a faint shadow of weariness lingered under his eyes, remnants of the previous night’s drinking and the weighty ultimatum laid upon him by his father.
Georgiana allowed herself a small, controlled smile. “Preparing myself for the day ahead, Mr. de Bourgh. It seemed only prudent.”
Julian faltered for a moment, his gaze flickering to the documents spread out before her. He cleared his throat but didn’t close the door behind him. “You’ve taken an unusual interest in estate matters. Most ladies… Well, they show little concern for such things.”
“Perhaps because they aren’t given the chance,” she responded evenly, rising from the chair. “And you, Mr. de Bourgh, are you finding this life stifling as you mentioned?” She gestured to the ledgers lying underneath her hand, the faintest smirk playing on her lips.
Julian bristled but crossed the room with a forced casualness as he moved beside her. He loomed over the desk for a moment, staring at the same map she had been inspecting earlier. “I see you’ve discovered another way to keep yourself occupied.”
Georgiana fought down a flash of irritation, masking it with cordiality. “Rosings is hardly a place for idle hands.”
Julian let out a low, sardonic laugh, though it was weighed down by the lingering fog of his hangover. “And since when have you taken such an active interest in agriculture?”
Georgiana met his sarcasm with a calm reply. “Since I realized that the survival of this estate affects more than just those with the de Bourgh name attached to it.”
His brows furrowed as he leaned in closer, inspecting the map in more detail. “What’s this then?” he asked, though the question came with less enthusiasm and more curiosity, as if entertaining an impractical notion. She could smell the scent of spice his man applied that day, and resented her attraction.
“It’s the lands near the lower fields of Rosings,” Georgiana explained, positioning herself beside him as he studied the paper. “I believe there’s potential for these lands to yield much more if redirected properly. Ditches, channels, and a controlled floodplain could irrigate areas that have been left untended.” She hesitated, watching him absorb the information. “Can you envision it?”
Julian was silent as he processed what she was suggesting. His brow furrowed, but there was a new light of interest, or perhaps understanding, dawning in his gaze. “Controlled floodplain management… It would take work, coordination with the tenants, new equipment…”
“Yes,” Georgiana agreed, a small, hopeful smile spreading across her lips. “But we can do it together.”
But duty and attraction were worlds apart, each with their own snares. “Together…” he echoed, unsure whether he was testing the word or committing himself to the idea.
“And not just in matters of the estate,” Georgiana added, stepping closer. Her voice softened, becoming almost intimate. “Julian, I understand that you’re under considerable pressure, and that your father—”
“Don’t,” he cut her off, the shadows under his eyes darkening. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the headache that threatened to split his skull. “Please don’t bring him into this. Not now.”
She nodded, sensing his reluctance to discuss the topic. Instead, she changed tack, using the opportunity to inch closer still, placing a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to bear the weight of the world in silence.”
Julian stiffened at the touch, but he didn’t shrug her off. Instead, he glanced down at her hand on his arm, then back up at her face. There was something in Georgiana’s expression—an earnestness he hadn’t noticed before—that gave him pause.
“Why do you care so much?” he asked, his voice hoarse and tired, but desperate to understand. “Why do you want Rosings to succeed? What’s in it for you, Georgiana?”
Georgiana searched his eyes, finding vulnerability that had been carefully concealed beneath layers of bravado and resentment. Drawing a steady breath, she decided to be completely honest, hoping that sincerity might reach him where logic could not.
“Because I’ve known loss, Julian. If you allow Rosings to fall apart, to slip through your fingers without giving it a chance, then you will have ensured that loss. And you won’t have anyone else to blame but yourself.”
His mouth tightened, the words striking home as they touched a raw nerve. But before he could form a response, that vulnerability in her gaze hardened into resolve. “But it’s not just about Rosings, Julian. It’s about us—about building something new from the ashes. Not just for you, for your legacy, but for Thomas. For all of us.”
Her words carried a quiet authority, each syllable weighted with conviction. Julian found himself unable to look away, her determination cutting through the haze of his doubts. “You truly believe that?” he murmured, almost to himself, as though the idea were too foreign to grasp.
“I do,” Georgiana replied, her voice steady, though her fingers trembled slightly as she gave his arm a brief, reassuring squeeze. “And I mean to see it done.”
Julian studied her for a moment, his gaze searching hers, before he gave a slow nod. “Very well, Mrs. Wickham,” he said, the formality of her name softening in his mouth. “If we are to succeed, it will require more than words.”
“Then let us begin with actions,” she said, extending her hand toward him—a bold gesture that seemed to hang in the air between them. It was not just an offer of alliance but a challenge, one that dared him to set aside his cynicism and meet her resolve.
Julian stared at her outstretched hand as though it were a foreign object, his expression flickering between skepticism and something unspoken. At last, he took it, his grip firm but not ungentle, as though acknowledging not only her offer but the strength behind it.
As their hands clasped, a strange tension filled the room, something unspoken and electric. The frost outside seemed to soften, the fire in the hearth crackling warmly in the silence. Julian’s gaze lingered on Georgiana’s face, his expression unreadable but undeniably altered, as though some deeply buried part of him had been stirred.
Georgiana felt her breath hitch, an unfamiliar flutter in her chest that she quickly tried to suppress. This was no time for sentiment. And yet, the way he looked at her now—his eyes searching hers as though trying to unearth a truth he had long denied—made her question the walls she had so carefully constructed.
“Gerogiana,” he murmured, her name a low rumble in his throat, hesitant and almost reverent.
“Yes?” she replied, her voice softer than she intended, betraying the steadiness she sought to maintain.
Julian hesitated, his free hand lifting as though compelled by some invisible force. His fingers brushed a stray curl from her cheek, the touch rough yet strangely tender. The faint scent of spice and brandy clung to him, mingling with the lavender of her shawl.
“You are not at all what I expected,” he said, his tone laced with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. “Not here. Not now.”
“Nor you,” she replied, her voice firmer this time, though her heart thudded painfully in her chest. “But perhaps we ought to leave expectations behind us.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, though his eyes remained serious. “And what do we replace them with?”
“Purpose,” she said without hesitation, her gaze steady. “Determination. And perhaps… trust.”
Julian’s expression shifted, the faintest crack in his carefully maintained façade. For a moment, he seemed almost vulnerable, as though the weight of his own doubts might crush him. “Trust,” he echoed, as though tasting the word for the first time. “A dangerous thing.”
“Only if misplaced,” she replied, a spark of defiance in her tone. “And I do not believe it is.”
Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them. Julian stepped closer, his hand still cradling her cheek, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, rough and uncertain. “Say the word, and I will.”
Georgiana opened her mouth, intending to do just that, to draw a line that neither of them could cross. But the words would not come. Instead, she found herself leaning in, drawn by something she could neither name nor resist.
The first brush of his lips against hers was tentative, almost hesitant, as though he feared she might vanish if he pressed too hard. But as she responded, her hand tightening around his and her other hand finding its way to his chest, the kiss deepened into something neither of them had anticipated. It was not a surrender but a meeting of equals, a collision of wills and desires that neither had fully acknowledged until now.
Julian’s hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer as the kiss grew bolder, more certain. The fire in the hearth seemed to flare in response, its warmth filling the room as though echoing the heat between them. Georgiana felt her knees weaken, but his arms were steady, grounding her even as the world tilted on its axis.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Julian rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed as though trying to hold onto the moment. “You are… remarkable,” he said, his voice low and hoarse, as though the words had been wrenched from him.
“And you,” she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper, “are not nearly as insufferable as you pretend to be.”
A soft chuckle escaped him, the sound warm and unguarded, and for a brief moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift from his shoulders. “High praise, indeed.”
Georgiana smiled, a small, private smile that she quickly tucked away as she stepped back, her hand lingering in his for just a moment longer. “We have much to do, Mr. de Bourgh.”
“Indeed we do, Mrs. Wickham,” he replied, his tone lighter but his eyes still serious. He turned his attention back to the map on the desk, his expression thoughtful. “If this is to work, it will require more than plans and promises.”
“Then let us begin,” she said, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside her.
As they bent over the map together, their shoulders nearly touching, the frost outside seemed to glisten more brightly under the pale winter sun, a quiet promise of renewal. Neither of them spoke of what had just transpired, but the air between them was charged with unspoken understanding.
Rosings was not the only thing they were rebuilding. Something fragile and tentative had taken root between them, and though neither dared to name it, both felt its presence. And for the first time in a long while, Georgiana allowed herself to hope.
You’ve been reading The Heart of Marriage.
Coming soon to stores.
Book 6 of the Moralities of Marriage Series.
The final book of the Moralities of Marriage Series sees Mr. and Mrs. Darcy fighting off scandal and family strife once and for all. Mr. Darcy is summoned to London to provide answers for Mr. Wickham’s crimes. Too many of High Society were hoodwinked by the mining scheme, and outside forces would relish plundering the Darcy coffers to compensate for their losses.
At Pemberley, Elizabeth is set on establishing herself as Mistress of the House, no matter what her mother believes. As the house goes into mourning for Mr. Darcy’s aunt, her sisters are despondent that the yuletide ball is cancelled. Especially when none of them knew the woman! The Bingleys try to distract the younger sisters by enlisting their aid in finding a home of their own.
The old scores of his parents’ generation keep Darcy in London longer than he planned. Not even his cousin is immune to the costs of past treacheries. Despite the machinations of Marlborough and Derby, Fitzwilliam is desperate to get home and see the birth of his first child.
+ 23 additional Pride & Prejudice variations are available at these fine retailers . . .
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A Jane-of-all-trades, mistress to none! Elizabeth Ann West is the author of 8 novels and 11 novellas, 18 of which are story variations of Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.