Darcy's Quest

by Marianne Lewis

  "My servants need to return to my estate also, as my town house in London will now be closed for some time. I decided the ones who weren't needed there should travel with us. I trust you have no objections?"

  "I can't think why I would." Her gaze returned to the window. It must be owing to Darcy's consequence, and position in Society, which would also explain why his servants carried pistols at their sides.

  * * *

  Elizabeth nervously paced her bedchamber, her gaze skittering over the pleasing pink-and-white decor. They'd arrived at Pemberley many days later in the mid-afternoon. She'd met the servants, and after taking tea, had received a brief tour of the main rooms. Although huge, the house exuded an aura of warmth and welcome. The servants, happy and at ease, apparently performed their jobs well. The beeswax shine on the furniture was a wonder to behold, and the meal served them at dinner might have graced the Prince Regent's table.

  It came as a pleasant surprise to discover that Darcy had shunned the main dining room in favor of the smaller breakfast parlor. The servants had created a soft, romantic atmosphere with candles, freshly cut roses and the finest silver dinnerware. It was a scene fit for new lovers, but Elizabeth made sure it wasn't at all appropriate. Romance didn't figure in her and Darcy's contract. But Darcy had seemed in a relaxed, congenial mood, and the meal had passed tolerably well.

  Now she awaited her husband, wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, he might allow her to retire alone tonight. A hopeless wish, to be sure. Surely he would come. It was why he'd married her, after all. He needed an heir, and she had sealed their bargain with her vows.

  She crossed her arms in front of her, feeling decidedly unclad. That silly maid had insisted on dressing her in the most revealing of costumes, a horrid affront to Elizabeth's modesty. Emily had departed, rapturously extolling her mistress's beauty. One brief glance in the full-length mirror had sent Elizabeth rushing to the wardrobe and her worn, yet serviceable and enveloping, robe.

  Her fingers curled into her palms, the nails biting hard into her tender flesh. She could scarcely entertain the thought of what would come. It was too awful to think of his kissing her, of his hands actually touching her flesh. To think of...

  A strangled sound erupted from her throat, and she whirled about to pace to the other end of the room. Perhaps she should extinguish the candles and get into bed. Then, at least, he wouldn't be able to see how very distraught she was. And it would be much easier to endure if they were shrouded in darkness.

  Would that action expose her cowardice, or worse yet, make her appear too eager? She grimaced with indecision. Why, oh why, could she not control these turbulent thoughts and summon her courage to face with dignity the event to come? Calm yourself, Elizabeth, she admonished. This is your duty, and whether or not you like it, you shall perform it. You haven't any choice.

  The connecting door opened. Her nerves threatened to snap, and she whirled round, eyes wide, her breath caught in her throat. Instinctively, she clutched her robe closer and regarded her husband in silent, dubious dread.

  His hair, a trifle mussed, looked as if he'd drawn his fingers through it repeatedly. One curly lock slanted across his forehead, falling just above straight brows. Black lashes made a startling contrast to black eyes; lean cheeks and a strong jaw gave way to generously curved lips. Clad in a brocade dressing-gown, calves and feet bare, he looked wonderfully handsome and exceedingly forbidding.

  An assessing gaze swept her from head to foot, and returned to her face. Muttering softly beneath his breath, he turned, saying, "I'll be back in a moment."

  Elizabeth's breath rushed out in a whoosh. The connecting door stood ajar, and she stared at it, praying for composure. That cold regard still had the power to unnerve her.

  He was back in an instant, bearing a decanter of brandy and two glasses. He measured the liquor, handing her a portion and bidding her to sit. Gingerly, she backed into a chair, unable to take her eyes from him.

  He took a chair opposite, lowering his length in one lithe, graceful movement, stretching his legs before him. In that moment, Elizabeth despised him for all his self-assurance, his confidence and ease, for the fact that he was her husband and had the right to impose himself upon her.

  “Drink your brandy, Elizabeth,'' Darcy said, sipping his own.

  Would she have shown this fright were Wickham her husband? He doubted it, and the knowledge chilled his blood. He tossed back his brandy and set the glass aside. He couldn't make love to her with the specter of George Wickham looming between them. It would be hell waiting until she gave herself freely, but he wouldn't take her until she could.

  He sighed. "The intimacy between a man and his wife can be pleasurable, Elizabeth," he said softly. "Certainly I will not force myself upon you, though I must insist you allow yourself to become accustomed to my presence— and my touch." His gaze slid from her lustrous, unbound locks to the feminine curves lurking beneath the hideous robe. "I'll try my best to be patient."

  "That puts me at my ease," Elizabeth said, a tinge of waspishness in her voice. Allow herself to become accustomed to his touch? Was that possible? "Pray, just how much patience might I expect?"

  "Not enough to suit you, I'm sure," came his dry answer. He stood, flexing his shoulders and rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. His robe lifted with the movement, revealing a strong and shapely calf, covered with fine dark hairs. Elizabeth endeavored to ignore the handsome sight.

  He studied her for some moments. "I can only promise to proceed as slowly and carefully as I am able to in the hopes that one day you'll allow me the freedom of my rightful place." A long, considering pause punctuated his words. "Come to me, Elizabeth."

  She flinched at the quiet command. For some reason, she thought he'd simply leave the room, without any further ado. Her sudden flare of relief died instantly. She might have known he wouldn't. Rising slowly from her chair, her spine stiff and straight, she walked to him and waited with wary expectancy.

  Fright and dislike oozed from every line of her rigid pose. Darcy was at a loss how best to proceed with this wife who clearly despised him and shrank from his touch. Wickham's face flashed into his mind. It was rather galling to know that his wife was in love with another man.

  He wanted to curse aloud and stalk from the room, but for the sake of an heir, he stayed his ground. He wouldn't, couldn't, have patience with her shrinking ways forever. Knowing he wouldn't bed her tonight was torture enough!

  "Kiss me."

  Her head snapped up. "Excuse me?"

  He sighed and tried again. "Have you ever been kissed by a man, Elizabeth?"

  Her eyes flashed green fire. "No. If I didn't kiss Mr. Wickham, you might be sure I've never kissed another."

  "Indeed," was his flat reply, though he gleaned a certain satisfaction from knowing he would have what Wickham hadn't. "Then tonight you shall." He wanted to sweep her into his arms and force his lips upon her, but didn't doubt she'd swoon. Best let her lead. "Come closer and kiss me."

  She regarded him with uncertainty, but took a pace forward. Lifting her mouth, she planted a quick peck on his cheek.

  Darcy gaped at her for one stupefied second. He swallowed. What had he expected? She was, without a doubt, a complete innocent."On the lips, Elizabeth," he said slowly, in strained tones. "Let me show you."

  His hand glided beneath the silky strands of her hair to the nape of her neck. He tilted her head, and brought his down ever so carefully, his gaze fused with hers. His thumb caressed the erratic pulse thumping in her throat. She was as frightened as a rabbit caught in a snare. He wondered that he didn't just leave the room and put her out of her panic.

  The delightful proximity of her sweet mouth stayed him, and he took her lips in a tender, yet lingering kiss. Though he sensed her alarm and lack of response, he delighted in tasting her lush softness. He lifted his head after a few moments, all frustration deserting him.

  Her face wore a considering expression, and he was emboldened to murmur,
"There now, was that so bad?"

  Elizabeth studied him with some bewilderment. Alarm and panic had flown, leaving her feeling soft and trembly. It wasn't really so awful as she'd imagined. Indeed, it had been quite...nice. She couldn't confess that, though, so ventured a different reply. "Your lips are warm, Mr. Darcy.”

  A strangled gulp, sounding much like amused astonishment, erupted from his throat. "Did you expect otherwise?" he queried. "I do believe most parts of the human body remain at a constant temperature under normal circumstances."

  She lowered her head, blushing. She had thought his lips would be as cold as his eyes, like a frozen winter pond. A finger beneath her chin lifted her face to his. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her again, and a tiny tremor of excitement rippled through her. But he merely considered her, his eyes having lost their iciness.

  "Now," he said quietly, "there are two further things I wish from you tonight. First, I wish you to call me William."

  "Yes," she said, tilting her chin higher.

  "William" he said, his eyes locking with hers in a silent, yet firm, command.

  She stared long into those dark depths, and gave an infinitesimal shrug. "William."

  "And second, I want you to take off that dreadful robe and consign it to the rubbish heap."

  Darcy was quite unprepared for the panic which flashed through her eyes. As if by instinct, she clutched at the robe with both hands, holding it protectively about her.

  "Right now, William?" she whispered, her eyes wide.

  "Yes, now. I trust you have something on beneath it?"

  Would he make her part with it if she said no? Elizabeth couldn't bring herself to speak the lie, in case he did. Alarm lent warmth to her cheeks. "Yes, but, my...William, it is the most horribly revealing thing, and I shall be mortified should you see me in it."

  "Did your mother teach you nothing? Physical intimacy often requires not a stitch of clothing. Be assured, wife, I shall see you in less than that before long."

  He would want to see what he'd purchased, of course. She drew herself up to her full height, and commanded her fingers to lose their death grip. "Yes, my mother warned me what to expect. However, it seemed easier to hear of it than to perform it."

  Drawing the robe off her shoulders, she let it drop to the floor. Head held high, she refused to look at him. Still, it was difficult to keep her breath steady as she awaited his reaction. He lifted a tentative hand, and she froze. Slowly he caressed the length of her side from breast to hip. Her flesh tingled where his fingers trailed, and she marveled at the pleasurable sensation they left in their place.

  Darcy had never seen a more beautiful sight. Elizabeth's scanty nightgown displayed her charms most effectively, and he rather thought it might have been more conducive to his peace of mind had she kept the blasted robe on. He stepped back, his hand dropping to his side.

  "You are indeed wondrously made," he breathed. His voice sounded raw, and he knew another moment of this sight would undo his resolve. His gaze moved to hers, and he said unsteadily, "I bid you goodnight, wife."

  He turned away, rapidly closing the distance between himself and the connecting door. He was through it in an instant, the soft click of the latch following a mere instant later.

  Elizabeth, bewildered, stared after him. She moved slowly about the room, extinguishing the candles. Slipping between the lavender-scented sheets, she stared at the darkened silk hangings draping her bed. One finger lightly traced her lips.

  His kiss wasn't at all what she'd feared. Smooth lips, almost soft, had held a hint of mastery and confidence she somehow found as appealing as it was unnerving. His face danced before her. She recalled his slender fingers sliding through her hair, his thumb gently caressing her throbbing pulse. Her heart performed an erratic flip-flop, and she sighed.

  She'd given him cause for impatience, yet he'd let her be. Her knowledge of his character hadn't prepared her for such magnanimity. He'd chosen her as coldly calculating as if she'd been a prize broodmare. He'd paid the price, so why hadn't he demanded she pay hers?

  She wondered if Wickham would have shown the same generosity, and why she hadn't thought of him until now. Would his kiss have inspired these strange sensations inside her? Surely. One man's kiss, after all, couldn't be so different from another's.

  She conjured up Wickham's laughing blue eyes, and with a frown, rolled over on her bed. Wickham's kiss would have been much nicer. And she wouldn't have wanted him to leave.

  Mr. Darcy might take her body, but he could never take her heart.

  * * *

  Darcy sprawled atop his bed. A dive in the cool waters of Pemberley Lake would be beneficial to his peace, if not his health. That fine beauty had bewitched him, body and soul.

  She surely despised him even more than he had thought.

  He didn't want her love...but he didn't want her hate, either. What did he want? Her regard, her respect? Yes, but he needed an heir, and begetting him, it seemed, wouldn't be so simple as he'd imagined. He couldn't take a woman who loathed his very touch.

  He'd have to make her want him, and if he could oust Wickham from her thoughts at the same time, so much the better. He'd have to woo her gently, he decided, and with as much haste as was seemly.

  Chapter Seven

  A scratching at her door awakened Elizabeth. A young maid entered, bearing a tray.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Darcy," she said shyly. "Mrs. Reynolds said as how she forgot to ask if you liked your chocolate in bed. She had me bring it just in case, so as not to displease you."

  "Thank you," murmured Elizabeth, thinking the idea sounded delightful. She'd never taken her chocolate in bed. Being the mistress of such a large domain did have its advantages. She sat up, pulling the blankets with her, and smiled, asking the maid her name.

  "My name be Alice, Mrs. Darcy," the girl answered, bobbing a curtsy.

  Her new title still sounded strange. Elizabeth was entirely unused to the bobs, curtsies, and bows. She wondered if she would become accustomed eventually, or continue to find them as frustrating as Georgiana did.

  "What time is it?" she asked Alice. Upon receiving the answer of ten o'clock, she added, "And Mr. Darcy...has he breakfasted yet?"

  "Oh, yes. At least two hours ago, but he said as we weren't to disturb you. If it pleases you, I'll send Emily to help you dress. Mr. Darcy said as how he'd await your convenience in the study, as he'd be pleased to give you a tour of the house this morning."

  "Thank you, Alice. I shall be ready to dress in twenty minutes." Alice left the room with a final bob. Elizabeth followed her retreat with a thoughtful gaze. Normally, the chore of showing the house was reserved for the housekeeper. Why should Darcy choose to take on the task?

  Elizabeth had hoped she wouldn't see him until dinner. True, they were newlyweds, but she wished they could escape each other. She sipped her chocolate, mulling over the previous evening.

  Perhaps she had behaved rather foolishly. But how else might she have responded to the idea of being intimate with her husband? She knew so very little of him. Still, she was no longer a child. It behooved her to act as the woman she was. And, she was forced to admit, he wasn't unattractive.

  After breakfast, Elizabeth tapped on the study door. Darcy's low, well-modulated voice bade her enter, and she turned the knob, wishing she might have delayed this moment. Facing her husband after last night wasn't in the least comfortable.

  He sat behind a large desk. As she shut the door, he rose, coming round to lounge against the polished oak. He was casually dressed, his buckskin breeches tucked into polished boots. His white linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, had several buttons loose, displaying a light curling of hairs on his chest. He looked more handsome and virile than she cared to admit.

  "Good morning," she said, hoping her tone sounded as cool and impersonal as she intended.

  "Good morning. I trust you slept well?" Darcy hoped she'd slept better than he, for his night had been hellish. Warring
with his manly urges had been difficult enough; but the question of how he might bring her to him, soft and willing, had nagged at him constantly.

  Surely he could stamp Wickham from her mind, he'd reasoned, but now an uneasiness assailed him. What if he couldn't? Would anything he tried succeed? Would she ever forget that rogue and desire her husband? And dammit! Why should he be obliged to try? She was his wife; he shouldn't have to maneuver for her favors.

  But she was so beautiful. Her pale blue morning gown and the matching ribbon in her hair made her a delightful picture. Her green eyes were tilted up at him, expressing a polite, yet cool, inquiry. He realized he'd been staring, and wondered if his face reflected his inner battle. Well, he decided, his mission must begin, and he could but try to wrest her affections from Wickham.

  He smiled, moving forward to take both her hands in his. He kissed her fingers. His gaze caressed her face throughout. "You look lovely today."

  "Thank you," murmured Elizabeth. What a change he had taken. Her cold, aloof husband kissing her fingers? She didn't want to acknowledge the pleasant fluttering his action provoked. But she couldn't tear her gaze away from his lips, nor help thinking that only last night, they'd taken hers in a kiss softer and warmer than she'd thought a kiss from him might be.

  His gaze, she finally realized, was fixed on her, and she quickly looked away. Elizabeth, she admonished herself, you needn't ogle quite so openly. She rushed into speech, hoping to hide her confusion. "You wanted to show me the house?"

  "Yes."

  His smile was nice, quite nice. More than that, it was attractive. The thought of kissing him again swept over her like a sudden deluge. She concentrated on the toes of her slippers, her body growing warm. Whatever was she thinking? A trifle breathless, she asked, "Are you ready, or should I return later?"

  "I'm ready. Come." Instead of offering his arm, he took her hand in a gentle, but firm, clasp.

  Elizabeth gave a nervous jump, so startling was the contact. She peeked up at him, but his lashes shuttered the expression in his eyes. What was he thinking? He looked almost grim. Her hand rested in his, though she didn't dare to curl her fingers round his palm. Wickham had held her hand several times, but somehow the pressure of his palm against hers had never been so unnerving. Holding Darcy's hand had an intimate quality Wickham's clasp had lacked.