Darcy's Quest

by Marianne Lewis

  * * *

  Elizabeth dressed with care for dinner. Emily arranged her hair in a becoming chignon, coaxing stray tendrils to curl about her face. A red satin gown swirled to her ankles, and she could only wish the decolletage were as modest. Cut daringly low, the bodice showed more of her bosom than she deemed seemly.

  Emily didn't set her fears to rest. Staring rapturously with her hands clasped to her chest, she declared her husband would be that pleased. Elizabeth ardently wished for a shawl, but knew it wouldn't serve. Not only would one spoil the effect of the gown, but Emily would be sure to fuss.

  Elizabeth joined Darcy in the drawing-room, and immediately wished she had insisted on the shawl. His gaze slid in slow exploration from the ivory comb in her hair to the tips of her red satin slippers. She straightened her shoulders, refusing to blush at the admiration she glimpsed in his eyes. He stepped forward, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.

  "Red becomes you exceedingly, Mrs. Darcy," he murmured. "Come, I fear I've neglected a most important husbandly duty." His smile caressed her, and he raised one thumb, drawing it from her jawline down her neck. Tiny tremors of delight rippled through her, and she caught her breath.

  He turned, moving across the room to a large enameled case. "I beg your forgiveness, but I've been terribly remiss. The family jewels are yours to command. Though they're kept in a vault in the study, you need only ask for them."

  Flicking back the latch on the case, he opened it to display a pirate's treasure. Jewels of all shapes and colors sparkled up at Elizabeth, and she gasped with awe.

  "Oh, Darcy, they're lovely," she breathed, lifting several pieces for closer inspection. A sapphire brooch, an emerald ring and a diamond earring winked at her in the candlelight.

  Darcy sorted through the case, bringing forth two glorious necklaces. "Should you like the diamonds or the rubies for tonight?" he asked. "I daresay they each have matching earrings...somewhere in here."

  Elizabeth bit her lip in indecision. "Oh, they're both so beautiful, I'm sure I can't choose! Perhaps the diamonds, as I'm already wearing so much red?"

  "The diamonds will be stunning," Darcy assured her. "Ah, and here are the earrings. Come, I'll help you put them on." He laid aside the case and, taking her hand, led her to the large mirror set between two equally large paintings.

  Elizabeth affixed the earrings and reached for the necklace, but saw her husband had other plans. He unfastened the clasp and placed the dazzling piece around her neck. She stood utterly still. The cool gems settled with unaccustomed weight on her neck, but the warmth of his fingers as he worked the clasp held her attention.

  He smoothed the sparkling jewels about her collarbone, his fingers splaying across her flesh. Her lashes drifting down, she marveled at the sensations claiming her. Facing the mirror as they were, she saw his head lower. His lips touched her neck in a gentle kiss. Her breath caught, and she forced herself to expel it. He looked up, and their eyes met.

  "Stunning," he murmured, his fingers trailing hot brands of fire down her neck to the curve of her breast. She regarded him silently, knowing an impulse to lean back against him and an intense desire to have his fingers caress lower still.

  "Dinner is served, sir, Mrs. Darcy," Bexley intoned behind them.

  A scowl of impatience flashed across Darcy's face. With a tiny sigh of resignation, he stepped away and offered his arm. Elizabeth, wondering at her own sense of disappointment, turned and rested her hand lightly on his sleeve. They went into the dining room without speaking.

  ''Bexley," Darcy said the moment they entered, "I'd have you move my wife's setting to the place beside me. You can hardly expect me to behold her beauty down miles of table, especially with that hideous vase to obscure my vision.

  Bexley mastered a smile, and made a stately bow. "As you wish, sir. I shall be but a moment."

  Darcy led Elizabeth to his end of the table, pulling a chair for her at his right. Leaning close to her ear, and trailing a finger down her neck, he whispered, "You're far more luscious to look upon than any food they could serve."

  His words tickled Elizabeth's ear, and a quiver of excitement tingled through her. She sent him a shy glance, and looked away, knowing she blushed. Was this the man who had so coldly proposed to her in the tiny garden of her parents’ house—the man who desired not even a modicum of affection from his spouse? What was he about?

  The questions roiled round her brain, confusing her as much as his effect on her senses. His attentions pleased her. Yes, pleased, and she needn't deny it. She lifted her soup spoon, not knowing what she might say.

  Darcy took the task from her, confusing her even more by the nonchalance of his address. "They found no sign of the poachers, so I think it best to keep close to home for a time. I do not mind, as I rather desired having you to myself for a spell."

  Elizabeth peered at him from beneath her lashes. He wanted her to himself? What game was he playing at? The answer flashed upon her, like lightning illuminating a dark night. Of course! He wished to coax her into his bed with sweetness and pretty words, instead of by force.

  While one part of her gave him credit for not being a brute, another argued that his motives were hardly pure. Well, if he thought for one moment to cozen her, he was decidedly mistaken. His pretty affections were all for show.

  She dipped her soup spoon, feeling oddly deflated. She'd almost believed he had come to like her. And perhaps he did, a little. But his actions bespoke his quest of an heir and they'd become all the more pronounced after the shooting mishap.

  The remainder of dinner passed well. Darcy made light and easy conversation. In spite of herself, Elizabeth enjoyed his company, laughing at his many witticisms. But her head reminded her that his pleasantries were for a purpose: his precious heir. Some errant gallantry in him demanded he not make love to a martyr.

  The last course was removed, and she retired to the drawing-room, leaving her husband to his port. Selecting a chair, she lifted the book she'd been reading, but got only as far as opening it. Her gaze traveled about the room, resting on nothing. Prey to an equally restless mind, she didn't realize she'd worried the pages of the book until a corner of paper tore off in her fingers. She stared at the frayed piece, and squeezed her eyes shut.

  She actually found her husband charming. More than that, she looked to be in his company, and desired his touch. It was too confusing. Her head told her he merely wanted an heir, but her heart, it seemed, wouldn't listen. She waited, and indeed, wished, for every touch Darcy might give her. She berated herself, but yet, he was so near, so warm, so wonderful.

  Darcy strolled into the room. She dropped the frayed corner between the pages of the book and shut it. A tremulous, uncertain smile hovered on her lips.

  "Would you care for a walk in the garden, Elizabeth?"

  She set the book aside, and stood up in a rush. Anything was preferable to sitting here idle. "I should like that, William."

  He reached for her hand. She gave it without flinching. A satisfied, even happy, smile tugged at his mouth. He led her through the garden doors, down the terrace steps and into the fragrant night.

  Elizabeth strolled beside him, content to be with him, to have her hand held in his gentle, yet firm, clasp. At the rose bushes, Darcy halted. He plucked a bloom, stripped it of thorns and turned to her.

  "A flower for your hair, my dear?" he asked, a nonsensical grin playing on his lips.

  She smiled and nodded. He tucked the red rose in her hair, securing it with the ivory comb. The moonlight splayed across the garden, touching his handsome features and throwing shadows in the curves and hollows of his face. She admired the portrait he presented, watching his eyes grow darker. Snared in the moment, Elizabeth awaited his next action.

  He raised his hand, trailing a finger across her mouth. She nearly melted into his touch. She couldn't fight it. She wanted to, perhaps needed to. But she couldn't. She lifted her chin, knowing she wanted him to kiss her and wishing he would. She cas
tigated herself for being every sort of a fool, for having no resolve, no proof against him. His face inched closer, and she thought her heart would burst into a thousand pinpricks of light. His mouth met hers, softly, gently. She swayed against him, her lips parted in silent invitation.

  He gathered her to him, and she melded to his frame, delighting in every hard fiber of his physique. The kiss, at first tender and light, deepened. With a will beyond her own, Elizabeth gave herself up to it, marveling in the wonderment of his lips on hers, of the taste of his tongue as it flicked between her lips. She trembled everywhere, and wanted only for him to continue this onslaught of passion.

  Darcy could scarce believe her response. She was accepting his kisses, and returning them! His heart sang a hundred tunes. Never had a kiss tasted so sweet, never had his head reeled with such wanting for a woman's charms, and never had he known how very much he must constrain himself. He wanted to bed her in the garden, and to hell with propriety! Only the knowledge of her shy innocence held him in check. But it didn't stop him from caressing her back, her hips, from moving his hand hungrily to the inviting roundness of her breast.

  He must remove to her chamber. He took regretful leave of her mouth, trailing his lips along her cheek, her brow, to the top of her head. His lashes flickered up for the briefest of instants. His gaze skimmed across the garden to the water beyond. A light bobbed, and disappeared. Wickham! Curses! Double curses! And triple curses! Of all the blasted, ill-timed, rotten—Good God! Wickham! He was alive!

  "Elizabeth," he said, seeking to control the urgency of his tone, "let us take ourselves inside, hmm?" At her bemused nod, he grasped her hand, stifling the desire to pull her along at a racer's pace.

  Once inside her chamber, he lifted her, carrying her across the room and depositing her gently on the bed. Her hair tumbled about her face in wanton disarray, and he groaned. "God, you're beautiful."

  He stepped back, knowing he must, now, because he wouldn't have the strength should he stay a second longer. Swift strides took him to the window where he whisked shut the curtains. What could he say? "We rush things, Elizabeth.''

  The perplexed expression in her eyes arrested him.

  "Sweet dreams," he whispered, and swiveled towards the connecting door without a backward glance.

  Chapter Ten

  Elizabeth stared at the door, which had almost slammed shut behind Darcy. Had she done something wrong? But what? She hadn't wanted him to stop! She wanted to call him back. She would have asked him to stay! Why did he go?

  Darcy! she raged. How could he ignite this conflagration inside her, then disappear? She got up and paced restlessly about the room, extinguishing the candles. His behavior was absurd. Had he expected her to sleep, fully clothed, on top of the covers, and the room ablaze with light? He'd shut her curtains and rushed out. It was all too odd.

  She stepped to the window, flicking back a corner of the curtain to survey the moonlit scene below. Catching a movement from the corner of her eye, she turned her head in time to see the figure of a man clearly etched in the moonlight. Darcy.

  His form in the moonlight was easily discernible. His greatcoat whipped about his legs as he stood near the lake. The breeze ruffled his hair. Her stomach tightened at her awareness of his strength and virility.

  She touched a finger to her lips, recalling their moments in the garden. What was happening to her? Were all kisses so magical, so entrancing that one knew nothing but a roar of emotion? Did all kisses incite one to cry for more? Her coldly dispassionate husband wasn't quite as icy as she'd imagined. He had hands and lips of fire, melting her resistance in a way she never could have dreamed of.

  She'd thought when he took her, it would simply be that, a taking. She had never supposed she would want to give, to explore these delights with him. She'd never experienced such a longing and desire before, not even with Wickham.

  And what about Wickham? And her good intentions? Yes, as his wife, she was honor bound to provide Darcy an heir, but did she have to know this overwhelming physical response in the process? How could she possibly love one man, yet so desire another? Her body betrayed her heart, and the knowledge wasn't easy to own.

  She frowned. Her mother had only told her a duty was a duty. It was not unpleasant, she'd said, but she'd never mentioned that your being could burst with a thousand stars, that your reason would desert you and that every nerve would tremble and tingle.

  Elizabeth sighed, peering across the expanse of garden and lawn. What was Darcy doing? The water rippled, touched by silver moonlight, its surface smooth and unspoiled. Or was it? She pressed her face closer to the glass, her eyes narrowing. Another man? Darcy clapped him on the back, and together they disappeared.

  She stared for several long minutes, without catching so much as a glimpse of her husband and his comrade.

  * * *

  Darcy didn't wait for Harrison to help him dress. Wickham had been so fatigued last night that Darcy had declared his information could wait until morning. An alive and breathing Wickham was good news in itself. Never had Darcy dreamt he'd be so happy to see the man. But morning dawned, the sun steadily climbed the horizon, and if Wickham wasn't up yet—he soon would be.

  Darcy tucked his shirt into his breeches and started for the door. Alice bore a tray of chocolate down the hall. He paused. Alice would wake Elizabeth. Elizabeth's hair would be tumbling about her face, her eyes would be sleepy...her mouth soft and tender. He'd never seen her when she'd first awoken. And he'd really made a muddle of it last night. By the time he'd seen Wickham settled, her room was dark. It would have been too brutish to go to her then. But now...he couldn't resist. "Alice, I will take my wife her chocolate this morning, thank you."

  Alice looked startled, but hastily handed over the tray. She bobbed two curtsies in quick succession. "Certainly, sir. Thank you."

  Darcy tapped on Elizabeth's chamber door. At her summons, he turned the knob and let himself into the room. Elizabeth's gaze flew to him and a small gasp of astonishment left her lips.

  "William." Her hand fluttered to her chest. A second later, she tugged the bedclothes up to her chin.

  "Good morning, Elizabeth," he murmured, smiling. Mercy, but she was the fairest lady on earth! Her hair all tumbled, her eyes wide and green with lingering traces of sleep. And her sweet, luscious lips...just as he had imagined. He cleared his throat, taming his wayward thoughts. "I confiscated your chocolate from Alice. I thought I might enjoy bringing it to you this morning."

  "Thank you," Elizabeth quavered, her gaze shying away. Having Darcy in her chamber while she was still abed made her feel more vulnerable than ever. Why had he come? She indicated a table. "She normally sets it there."

  Darcy deposited the tray, poured a cup and proffered it. Elizabeth shifted the blankets so she could clutch them with one hand and still retain her modesty when she reached for the cup. She caught the twinkle in Darcy's eyes, and knew he found amusement in her efforts.

  "Did you sleep well?" he asked.

  "Very well, thank you. And you?" She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, and sipped her chocolate.

  "A most restful night," he replied.

  "So obviously the man near the lake didn't keep you up overlong." She peeked over the rim of her cup, satisfied at seeing him grow tense, and his eyes narrow.

  "Pardon?"

  "The man, Darcy. Remember? What goes on? I fear I'm confused. You tell me not to go there, and yet you do. It's most odd. Every time I set foot out of this house, I find Tom trailing me—oh, ever so discreetly. And Darcy, he carries a pistol. You carry one yourself, and I find that curious. You've been fighting, you've been shot and Lord knows what else has happened since I arrived. And if there are poachers, I doubt they would bother me."

  "You cannot be too sure," Darcy replied, shrugging. "I always maintain that it's better safe than sorry. Enjoy your chocolate, my love. I'll see you later, after breakfast."

  He touched her brow with a gentle kiss, and turned, exit
ing the room in a trice. Elizabeth stared after him, unable to muster a coherent thought. He'd called her his love. A tiny thrill leapt through her.

  She lifted her chocolate with a light sigh, then frowned. He hadn't answered a single one of her questions.

  * * *

  "Wickham,” said Darcy, slipping into the scullery. "I trust you slept well."

  "As well as I might, Darcy," Wickham answered around a mouthful of eggs. "And you?"

  "Mmm," Darcy grunted in reply. He flexed his wounded shoulder, peeked under his shirt and adjusted his bandage.

  Wickham watched him, a slow grin curling his lips. "Marriage sits well with you, I see. How's your wife?"

  "Very well, thank you." Darcy sat across from him at the scrubbed wooden table. Cook set a plate before him, and moved out of earshot, as did the potboy and maids. "Elizabeth's becoming curious. Asking any number of questions about my doings. I'm not sure I can lie to her much longer."

  "I see," Wickham responded around another mouthful. He sent Darcy a sidelong glance. "Maybe she needs some diversion to keep her mind off your activities."

  "And what would you suggest?" Darcy asked with deceptive mildness, refusing to rise to Wickham's unspoken implication that Elizabeth was bored with his company.

  Wickham paused, studied him a moment and shrugged. "Invite her sister? Miss Jane?"

  “It's a very good notion, Wickham, I must say. Jane may be the perfect solution to my dilemma. I find her a practical and levelheaded girl. Doubtless she'll keep Elizabeth busy and her nose out of mischief."

  "And did Elizabeth give you that wound?" Wickham asked, wiping his mouth on a napkin. "Getting too friendly, eh?"