The Measure of Love Launch

I keep a little running list of plot threads that tickle my fancy. I think most authors do, and like most, that list is so much longer than the list of stories that will ever get published! Sometimes a couple of threads work together to turn into something bigger than either idea was on its own, and sometimes one little sentence, jotted down probably after waking up in the middle of the night, is enough on its own to stick in my head and make a little home for itself there.

Such was the case with The Measure of Love. Well, the entire Measure of a Man series, really. Each story was kicked off by a single idea that I jotted down weeks or months earlier, but then one day I looked at them all and realized they were all amazing plot ideas, and they all spoke to the same theme—Darcy is crying out for someone to understand him, and Elizabeth is the only one who does. And thus, the collection began to take shape.

I’ve written about Elizabeth being forced to enter a marriage of convenience before, in Tempted, The Rogue’s Widow, and A Good Memory is Unpardonable. But this is the first time that Darcy played the reluctant husband in that marriage of convenience. And boy, is he reluctant, but he needs her even more than she needs him. So, thanks to a bit of wheedling and manipulation on the part of Colonel Fitzwilliam, he agrees.

For you angst lovers, this one is a feast. If you love sweet and happy, this book has those moments, too. What I loved about writing this story is that it contains such a wholesome arc for both of them. It begins with both of them feeling angry and hopeless, then gradually learning to lean on each other for comfort, companionship, and eventually, depending on each other for the answers to their struggles. Yes, there is a happy ending to all the things they have faced, but the journey there has crafted them into finer versions of themselves, and touched the people around them, too.

Today, I’ll leave you with a sweet scene from almost the middle of the book, when they are truly starting to find themselves in this marriage. It takes place just before Christmas in a drafty old castle in Scotland (You’ll have to read the book to find out why they’re there.)

Richard stayed just above a fortnight with them, and Darcy had never been more grateful to have his cousin’s meddlesome presence. A winter storm had chased Richard in on the afternoon of his arrival, and the residents of that old Scottish castle were obliged to shelter as best they could, for coming and going was impossible.

Fortunately, Elizabeth, Beth and Giles had seen well to their provisions, so much so that they wanted for nothing but a bit of water that did not freeze between the kettle and the cup. Darcy had never been so cold in his life—even accounting for that time he and Richard had got “lost” in a Derbyshire blizzard the winter he turned ten. That had been only half an hour’s worth of misery until Father had found them both. This was unending torment, with blasts of frigid air driving them all into the central rooms of the house, sheltering around a roaring fire that consumed far too much wood for the heat it delivered.

But the days were not without their mercies. Chief among them, for Darcy at least, was that three-wheeled contraption with the velvet, pin-tucked cushions and the leather strap for his waist that kept him securely in place. It was humiliating to be strapped in his seat and wheeled about like an infant in a pram whenever he wished to move from room to room, but humiliation had become an old friend by now, and at least he could move from room to room again.

The first thing he had done was to have his bed removed to the ground floor in what had previously served as a study of sorts. The windows were far too draughty, and the room was not appointed for a wardrobe or any of the other niceties that made for a proper bedroom, but he no longer had to be carried down the stairs if he wished to move about in his chair.

He could be among people when he chose and hear the day-to-day conversations that once he might have ignored as meaningless. Now, they were bread and milk to him, as he listened hungrily for commonplace phrases like Elizabeth asking Georgiana to pass her the sewing basket or Giles and Richard taking turns hauling in wood for the fire and snow to be melted for fresh water.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but it did seem that Georgiana had warmed by degrees. It might have been Richard’s arrival, or perhaps it was the effect of time, wearing smooth the rough edges of fortune’s mischances. Possibly it was Georgiana’s growing dependency upon Elizabeth’s company, for even Darcy could see, now that he was in the room to see it, that it was Elizabeth who continually steered the rudder of his sister’s raw emotions toward calmer waters.

Or it might have simply been the advancing of her pregnancy. According to what the midwife had told Elizabeth, his sister had passed that trying first term and was now settling into more comfortable months. Her emotions would be less in turmoil, the morning sickness had passed, and the reality of the thing was making itself known to all by now as Georgiana’s figure began to change.

This, he feared, was as easy as it would be for the foreseeable future—a quiet moment in the eye of the storm.

Sixteen days after he arrived, there was a sufficient break in the weather for Richard to make his escape back to London. He left one Tuesday morning, with the icy winter sun barely risen over the frozen heaths, promising to post all their letters and send on whatever word might be had of news from London, Longbourn and Pemberley.

And so, it was a quiet, morose gathering all the rest of that day as winter’s gloom seemed to tighten its grip on those who remained behind. Darcy poked at the fire some, then, when he had heard Georgiana sigh for at least the fifteenth time, he had Giles wheel him into the makeshift secondary study to pore over ledgers and accounts of the estate. He must give Lady Matlock a reckoning, after all. It was not only for his own benefit that she had offered the use of her property, but out of concern that it had been too long left without oversight.

Darcy scowled at the latest tenants’ reports awaiting review, scattered across his desk. Sorting through the old steward MacTavish’s disaster of incomplete maintenance logs and vague property surveys made muddling through estate affairs a discouraging task, even on his most lucid days. Which today decidedly was not.

Bracing both clenched fists against the wooden chair arms, Darcy strained forward, attempting to slide a particular tenant petition closer without toppling ingloriously face-first atop the desk. After two weeks of adjusting to wheeled mobility, he still struggled with the contraption’s perpetual imbalance, as what remained of his muscles’ memory continually sought to adjust his seated posture. Which, of course, resulted in nought but tipping dangerously whilst scrambling to prevent a humiliating collapse. Surely, he ought to manage simple paperwork without requiring rescue like a blasted porcelain doll!

The door opened just as Darcy’s tenuous balance wavered. Instant mortification stung harshly, even as gratitude surged in equal measure when Elizabeth swiftly grasped his chair’s backrest to sweep it back under him, restoring his stability. Galling to require his wife to play nursemaid, but it was better than earning himself a bloody nose by smacking it on the desk. Again.

“My thanks,” Darcy muttered once the room stopped its dizzy spinning. Suppressing irritation at his hunched posture, he slowly straightened against the confining support strap intended to keep him from toppling sideways during just such undignified moments.

“For what?” she asked blithely. “I only came in to ask if you were in the mood for Poularde à la Montmorency for the evening meal. Or perhaps you would prefer Caneton aux Pêches?”

A slow grin overtook Darcy’s face. “Where did you find a French chef in these parts?”

Her mouth curved smugly. “I did not say I had, nor did I promise I could deliver. I merely asked which of the two options you preferred.”

He laced his fingers across his lap. “Neither. I am sick to death of chicken, and I never cared much for duck. See if you can conjure Filet de Bœuf.”

“I will see what I can do.” Her lips pressed into a friendlier smile, and she came closer. “Gracious, William, when was the last time you let Giles trim this mane of yours?” Her hands smoothed the dishevelled hair from his brow with a casual intimacy that never failed to ignite unwise cravings for more tender caresses. As the heated energy thrummed invisibly between them, he finally forced himself to pull his head away.

“The scissors required sharpening. Dratted things pulled more hair than they cut last time, but Giles has been too busy with other matters to take a stone to them. I should have hired a man of all work from the village long before this, but…”

“But you didn’t trust anyone.” Elizabeth stepped back, framing her hands behind her back at the dip of her waist, and gave him a knowing look. “Did you? Admit it.”

His cheeks warmed. “In this strange place, with three women under my care and myself unable even to stand up in your defence… but perhaps the doctor can give us a reference, and now that the weather has taken a better turn for a few days…”

She lifted her chin in a definitive agreement. But then her chest rose and fell in a sigh, and she touched the edge of his chair.

“You, ah… were not in the process of injuring yourself when I walked in a moment ago, I hope?”

“Not on purpose.” He grimaced. “This time.”

“My timing was fortunate, then?”

“Indeed, since my clumsy contortions nearly capsized this blasted contraption altogether,”

She crossed her arms. “That single wheel sticking out in front makes it difficult to push up to the desk properly. There must be something else we can do to make this chair work better for you.”

“There is. Find a miracle worker, so I no longer need it.”

She made him a pinched scowl but smoothed it away with a grin. “Richard told me someone he heard of had one that could be steered. It had some sort of handle that came up in the front, but he did not know where to find one like that—and he thought Giles and I would not thank him for it, if he did find one.”

He arched a sardonic brow. “Funny. ‘Richard,’ now, is it?”

“Well, you cannot very well expect me to use the formal address when I am swearing at someone, can you? ‘Richard’ is easier to shout.”

Darcy chuckled. “He got under your skin, did he?”

“Like a leech. Did I ever tell you how he got me to go upstairs and talk to you a second time?”

Darcy leaned forward and pulled a ledger closer because he was afraid he would not be able to keep a straight face if he held her gaze. “I would imagine he dared you. And you cannot resist a dare.”

She snorted. “I very well can. But he more than implied that I was being a coward for not telling you off as you deserved.”

“Like I said…”

She swatted at his shoulder, then reached across the desk to pull the stack of papers closer to his reach, without even being asked. Darcy’s hand closed on them, and he looked up, letting his gaze linger on her soft cheek… those thick, black lashes…

He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

Elizabeth lifted a shoulder. “We cannot have the master of Pemberley kicking his chair over and sprawling across the floor with a bruised knob on his head, can we? Why, imagine the dire scandal. All the cats of the ton will believe your nobody of a wife did it to you!”

Despite himself, answering laughter spilt from Darcy’s lips, though laced with bitterness. “Dire scandal already exists, simply through my inability to prevent the need for this cursed chair. It is just that no one of any consequence knows about it yet, but rest assured, they will.” Ashamed by this evasive harshness, he risked a glance upward, expecting to glimpse hurt or pity darkening her sparkling eyes.

Instead, Elizabeth studied him solemnly. “Scandal is far too weighty a word for circumstances beyond your control,” she murmured. “No shame exists in merely requiring additional assistance sometimes.” Slim fingers gently traced the rigid line of Darcy’s jaw as she whispered. “You are still the same man, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

Words choked in his throat, holding her earnest gaze as warmth radiated outward along strained nerves from everywhere her featherlight touch grazed his taut skin. Before the unwise cravings sparked fully to life, Elizabeth stepped back, almost as if she, too, required a moment to remember the reality of things. How instinctive was the intimacy that lit between them these days. It both panicked and thrilled him in equal measure.

Desperately shifting his mental footing, Darcy cleared his throat gruffly. “Well, I apologise for dragging your attention away from more important affairs.”

“What more important affairs? Georgiana just went upstairs for a lie-down, and Giles and Beth have matters well in hand. To own the truth, I am bored to death and craving something to do. So, I thought I would come in here and annoy you.”

“Hardly an annoyance.” Darcy gestured across the desk’s disorganised surface. “You could try making sense of this disaster. My blasted clumsy fingers make a proper mess, shuffling papers one-handed while using the other to keep from toppling sideways.”

Elizabeth leaned over his shoulder, surveying the muddled paperwork as tantalising curls grazed his cheek. A wisp of floral perfume—rosewater? No, there were faint undertones of lavender blended in, as the aroma surrounded him in a delicate haze. She hummed thoughtfully, sorting through various tenants’ complaints and ledgers. Darcy’s lingering dizziness owed little now to the unbalanced chair.

“Well, well, perhaps there was a reason for Mr MacTavish’s sheepishness during your blistering interrogation yesterday,” Elizabeth observed lightly, though steel laced the sly words. “Drunken negligence nearly burnt his crofter’s cottage to the ground two winters past? No wonder icy draughts plague your study if similar lackadaisical oversight riddles all the properties under his care!”

Darcy snorted. He, too, had noted vague supply records and undocumented maintenance gaps, hinting at long neglect across all of Lady Matlock’s Scottish holdings. “Incompetent wastrel! Small wonder rents continually decline and tenants grumble, if this constitutes acceptable management of estates.”

He smacked the stack of annual financial reports sharply. “A steward at least ought to provide fundamental upkeep on properties, ensuring the tenants remain securely housed against Scotland’s harsh winters. Was the man too sotted to realise he was inviting disaster, ignoring obvious disrepair?”

“Likely, the poor fellow only wishes to keep his head down and to be left in peace,” Elizabeth mused gently. “Some men simply lack the ambition to rise beyond base comforts, which can be attainable through modest effort. But come, even inept help proves scarce this far north.” One slim shoulder lifted fatalistically. “If old MacTavish stumbles occasionally in his duties, well, we must kindly redirect his fumbling rather than issue more scathing reproofs.”

Darcy’s frustrated grunt acknowledged her compassionate wisdom, but he could not forgive past negligence as easily as she. And what would Lady Matlock have to say on the affair? Bring her husband into the matter, that was what she would do, and poor old MacTavish would be worse than out of a job.

But any thought of Matlocks and MacTavishes evaporated within seconds, for Elizabeth had crossed round to the opposite side of the desk to peer at the haphazard stack. And when she leaned forward to gather the papers into neat piles, she unwittingly offered him a view that… well, if anything could make him feel something again, that would probably have done it.

“There. Organised and ready for you to make sense of it… if you can.” Elizabeth’s brow furrowed as she shook her head. “Most of it isn’t even legible.”

Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose and cast aside his quill. “Would that there was a decent library in this cave. I have had quite enough of staring at chicken scrawl, and I cannot tell you what a relief it would be to read something printed in proper English.”

Elizabeth straightened and cocked him a saucy grin. “I have just the thing! It may not be a book, but it is almost as good. If you do not mind my company a little longer.”

Darcy coughed. “I suppose I will survive if yours is the only company to be had.”

“My feelings exactly. You are tolerable, I suppose,” she crooned sweetly.

He rolled his eyes. “I knew you were going to fling that in my face one day.”

“Oh, I assure you, it will be more than once. Now, close your eyes while I conjure something much more pleasurable than ledgers and letters of business.”

He arched one brow curiously, despite himself. “Pleasurable, you say? That is a word that can have many meanings.”

“And you will never find out what it means this time until you close your eyes. No cheating, William.”

“Very well.” He closed his eyes and felt a puff of air as she fanned her hand over his face. Then, footsteps racing out of the room… and back in. The fluttering of the stacked papers as she cleared the things from the desk, a clatter of his inkpot, and thumping. Quite a lot of thumping. “What are you doing?” he asked at last.

“Open your eyes and see.” Impish triumph flashed in her eyes as Elizabeth swept a hand over the desk’s surface, displaying an old wooden chess set. “Behold my wondrous discovery earlier when I was scavenging above stairs with Beth! Likely an antique, by the game’s elaborate craftsmanship, yet all the pieces are present. Fancy a round or two, William?”

Unaccountable delight bubbled up in Darcy’s chest, chasing gloomy shadows back momentarily. He had not indulged in that favourite pastime since before taking the reins of Pemberley, and he had scarcely ever met a woman who enjoyed the game. “You know how to play?” he asked dubiously.

“My dear husband, do you not think that chess is one of every proper young lady’s usual accomplishments?”

“No.”

“And neither did my father. Which is why he taught us to play… well, Jane and Mary and me. But Mama said it was a waste of our time, so Kitty and Lydia never bothered.” She sighed.

“And remind me again, which one of your sisters went astray?”

Elizabeth quirked a brow at him. “Touché. Shall we?”

He reached forward and claimed the black pieces to begin setting them up. “By all means, Fair Lady. Lay out your armies upon the battlefield! Never let it be said I avoided meeting any foe boldly.”

“Careful, sir, for my innocuous façade hides a ruthless warrior’s instincts, once roused.” Laughing eyes gave lie to Elizabeth’s feigned hauteur as she set intricate figurines precisely across the worn chessboard. “Consider yourself forewarned and gird for war.”

Darcy warmed with anticipation as he watched his petite wife circling the game table with military precision, lush hairpins askew, creamy throat clenched in mock ferocity. Elizabeth Darcy proved far lovelier than any classical muse, bringing this wintry barren existence momentarily to life again. Impulsively, he smiled, engaging her fiery glance.

“Then your deadly forces stand arrayed, Madam General,” Darcy invited with a courtly flourish, wrenching his mind from the intoxicating imagery. “Might we sound the opening cannonades?”

Elizabeth’s fingers closed on her first pawn, eyes alight with competitive thrill. “The honour of first foray is mine, good sir! But make your answering move cautiously, lest your ranks suffer a trouncing.”

The merry campaign launched in earnest, punctuated by strategic feints and jabbing wordplay woven seamlessly through each player’s manoeuvres. “Ha! My spear throwers would skewer your knights at forty paces,” Elizabeth taunted. “Far wiser to retreat behind your ramparts before my archers shred you.”

She crowed loud victory minutes later, capturing three key cavalry pieces, forcing Darcy’s king into indefensible terrain. “Well, sir, what think you of my martial prowess now that the field lies wide open for final assault?” Elizabeth purred, a halo of victory wreathing her laughing face.

Something fierce and tender surged within Darcy’s breast, staring mesmerised by his wife’s radiant savagery. How life’s bleakest domains bloomed vibrant wherever she passed, untouched by darkness. Surely, fate had conspired to bring some good to him through their unlikely union.

Unaware of his arresting study, Elizabeth prompted expectantly, “Do you concede the battle as mine, then? For your beleaguered monarch cannot withstand many—”

“Never!” Darcy interjected staunchly. “Ignominious surrender earns nought but bitter scorn. Nay, Madam, we fight on, devising a brilliant counterattack!”

He adored the sound of her affronted gasp as he captured her queen with a lowly pawn, checking the king viciously. “What now, Madam Tactician? My troops stand ready to meet all sallies.”

“The devil take your eyes! Full unfair, dazzling me with masculine wiles rather than attending honest play,” Elizabeth huffed indignantly.

“Masculine wiles, indeed. No one ever accused me of any sort of sleight of hand.”

“Only because they do not know any better. Stop smiling, William, for it is entirely unfair. I had best finish trouncing you swiftly, lest I fall prey. Particularly if any of us want to eat anything besides melted snow for dinner—I promised Beth I would help her.”

Vexation stung briefly that their pleasant pastime must conclude so soon. But he could not very well occupy his wife’s every moment, particularly since she was almost single-handedly managing their comforts after Fitzwilliam had left them rusticating away for the remainder of the long, bitter months ahead. When peace and stability hopefully resumed come spring, he vowed to share plentiful diversions with Elizabeth. For now, he could simply imagine a “someday” that did not involve isolation and secrets, and when Elizabeth might take her ease more by his side.

Only a few minutes later, Elizabeth had successfully checkmated Darcy’s king between her encroaching bishop and last triumphant knight, smug satisfaction making her face glow like the sunrise.

“I declare the campaign yours, Madam General,” Darcy conceded. “But tomorrow, I demand a rematch. Your lucky streak cannot hold indefinitely.”

Elizabeth leaned over the desk and boldly set her hand on his cheek as she brought her forehead within inches of his. “Mr Darcy, I am counting on it.”

And then she was gone, leaving Darcy’s head spinning over more than the chessboard.

The Measure of Love comes out today (depending on your time zone) so dive in!