Mr. & Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy: Two Shall Become One

by Sharon Lathan

  “In addition, I am so much in awe of your ability to converse and socialize with strangers that it frankly never occurred to me that you may be nervous. Perhaps you are not and I am, again, leaping to a false conclusion. I can only surmise your nervousness, based on the few subtle signs I have noted—as you have chosen, if I may risk incurring further wrath, not to share your feelings with me.” He noted that she jerked slightly at his last statement and almost turned toward him.

  He hesitated momentarily to collect his thoughts. “As for the waltz, I must tell you that I am offended and hurt that you would infer, knowing me as well as you should, that my learning the waltz in any way means that I have been intimate with another woman.”

  She hung her head and her shoulders shook, making it nigh on impossible for him not to move to her. “Oddly, at the same time, your jealousy and possessiveness is charming and gratifying to my ego. I suppose the logical denouement is that we humans, even those who love each other as profoundly as we do, still need reassurance and reiteration.”

  He took a few steps closer to her before continuing. “Both times I danced the waltz, it was painful to me and I was under great duress. I can bore you with the details later if you wish. Any proficiency I claim is due to Georgiana.” Lizzy was so startled by this that she spun around, her mouth agape.

  “Georgiana!” she blurted, her tear streaked face so precious to him.

  He smiled and stepped close enough to wipe the tears away with one finger. “When Bingley told her I had danced it in Paris, with the intent of embarrassing me—which he succeeded in doing—Georgiana would not let it rest. You know how weak I am when it comes to granting the wishes of those I love, so I capitulated and taught her.” He shrugged. “It is not unusual, actually. Who else do you think teaches her to dance?”

  He stroked her cheek as he cocked his head and knitted his brow. “By the way, you have obviously deduced that I do not like to dance. This is not true. I abhor balls with all the protocol and vapid conversation that attend them, and I detest being on display. However, I enjoy dancing and have been told I am accomplished. One could even say I am light of foot!” he chuckled. “I have simply never been properly partnered, except for one time during which I behaved idiotically.”

  Lizzy was crying again and fell into his arms, burying her face into his chest. “William, I am a fool! Please forgive…” He checked her apology with a deep kiss, and she responded fervently with a rapid transposition of her despair and anger to passion. Darcy swept her into his arms and swiftly carried her to their bed. He held her tightly, locked to her mouth as he gently sat on the bed with her in his embrace.

  He pulled back mere inches and met her eyes. “Elizabeth, my love, there is no other but you, never has been, and never will be.” His voice was low and husky as he stroked her face, tenderly kissing her eyes and nose and every other feature. His fingers moved to the clasps on her gown, beginning the familiar process of undressing each other, a process they had discovered early on to be tremendously stimulating.

  At last they were naked, crazily aroused yet peacefully content enough in their love simply to enjoy the sensation of touching each other. They knelt in the middle of the enormous bed, face to face, the unencumbered access to their bodies allowing for languid exploration. There was not an inch of Darcy’s sumptuous six-foot-three-inch physique that Lizzy did not adore.

  His many scars were the evidence of a rugged youth and badge of a virile adulthood. A light dusting of freckles across the fair skin of his shoulders created a pattern she enjoyed tracing with her fingertips. The downy hair on his chest, the strong pulse in the hollow of his throat, every muscle defined and firm, and his hands… Oh, how she loved his hands! Not only how they felt on her body and the passion his skillful fingers could incite in her, but the very look of them: strong with calluses on the palms, yet soft with long, refined fingers. Then there was his face with piercing blue eyes, lush lips, strong jaw, cleft chin, and noble English nose all combined masterfully. She touched all of him, arousing him with her devotion.

  Darcy equally worshipped his wife. Elizabeth was so alive and vibrant and spirited that he frequently found himself freshly amazed at how petite she was. Her bones were so delicate he wondered she did not break in their wild passion, her body svelte yet firmly muscled, skin velvety smooth and flawless, and breasts that perfectly fit his large hands. He towered over her and around her, but rather than prompting a sense of dominance, his potent manliness activated a profound need to protect and satisfy her.

  He loved the small mole located precisely where her right buttock swelled from her back, her narrow waist, the dimple at the base of her spine, her pink nipples, her fragility, the thin wrists that he could encircle with his thumb and index finger, her dainty ears, and her face. He could and often did become enraptured by her face. Elizabeth was beautiful by any standard, but what captivated Darcy was the vital force and character that shone on her countenance and primarily in her fine eyes.

  He kissed her and she responded with fervor, as they held and touched and squeezed and teased. He trailed his mouth along her jaw to her ear, whispering, “Best beloved, do you remember the first time we touched?”

  She hesitated for only a second. “When you assisted me into the carriage at Netherfield. I remember, yes.”

  “We have not spoken of that event. What, if anything, did you feel?” He nuzzled her neck, planting feather kisses while his fingers lightly traced up her backbone.

  “Initially I was merely surprised that you would extend the courtesy as I thought you disliked me. A bit angry, too, with what I perceived as presumptuousness. The way you looked at me though… it disturbed me. I could not decipher your expression, but I was captured by something in your eyes and the warmth of your hand.”

  He was studying her eyes, smiling softly as they relived an odd yet now happy memory. “I felt a jolt rush to my heart and my hand tingled all the way home. I did not understand it and was troubled. I still am not sure what happened. I know I did not care for you then, and I do not believe it was a sexual response. Perhaps it was like a signal, if I had been listening, that there was more between us than I imagined. It affected me and I relived the moment in my dreams, yet I cannot explain it. I do know one thing; it was the first time I consciously accounted you handsome.” She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair.

  Darcy caressed his thumb over her lips and jaw as he cupped her face. “I did not plan to take your hand. It was impulsive. The instant I touched you, I knew I had acted from a desire to feel you, not out of courtesy. I was stunned by the emotions rushing through me. Prior to that moment, you had intrigued me but only as a challenge to my intellect, an enigma I failed to comprehend. I thought you lovely but no more so than many other women I had seen. At least this was my reasoning.

  “You had already invaded my dreams,” he smiled and blushed mildly, “and I thought of you incessantly. I think I needed to touch you so I could rid myself of this obsession, rationalizing that the dreams were not reality. I was a fool. The instant your skin met mine, I was yours. I knew I loved you. Of course, you know the rest, how great my self-deception and denial.”

  He took her face into his strong hands and drew closer, raptly staring into her eyes. “Elizabeth, I have touched other women’s hands and never, not once, have I felt anything, not a ripple. In addition, I have never dreamt of another. Whatever… sensual… dreams I have had in my life were vague with no discernable partner. You were vivid, much to my shame. I pictured you in stunning detail and that touch, as brief as it was, lived in me and came alive and grew with each dream. I love you, my Lizzy. No one compares to you.”

  By the afternoon of the fifth, Lizzy was relatively calm and excited at the prospect of the Masque. She owed her renewed peace solely to her husband. His mild chastisement for her not sharing her anxieties had struck a nerve. After making love, they had cuddled and talked for hours, Darcy effortlessly ignoring any misgivings regarding his duties to their
guests. His wife was precious to him, and her peace of mind was of paramount importance. His assurance to her of this incontrovertible fact alone was enough to placate the majority of her concerns.

  Although Darcy was cautious not to label her silly again, Lizzy realized that she was precisely that. Her place in his life was indelible not because of the license that legally bound them, but because of the invincible love that connected them. Simply stated, Lizzy had nothing to fear from the society of Derbyshire, or anywhere else. They belonged to each other in a love and devotion that exceeded logic. They both ended up laughing at how ridiculous they occasionally were in their vulnerability.

  Darcy taught her the relatively basic steps of the waltz while still in their bedchamber, theorizing that if she could learn in this setting, then dancing while in a ball gown would be facile. If his generally well-honed ability to rationalize did not succeed as he had deduced, the unforeseen result of ending back in their bed was delightful and welcomed.

  Over the next several days, Lizzy practiced with Darcy in the more appropriate location of the music room with Georgiana at the pianoforte, accompanied by both the Lathrops and the Gardiners, who happily embraced the fun. Once over her initial embarrassment at the close proximity of her partner, she found the waltz immensely enjoyable. In truth, much of her pleasure was precisely due to the closeness of Darcy, yet in no small measure was it also due to the graceful, swaying motions of the dance.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Twelfth Night

  January 5, 1817

  MARGUERITE FUSSED OVER LIZZY like a mother hen, but the result was stupendous. Lizzy’s gown was a multilayered masterpiece. The dress was white satin with slightly puffed sleeves ending midway down the upper arm. The sleeves were edged in cornflower blue chenille tied in a petite bow. The same chenille edged the dress in a crossed fashion over the legs and along the hem and demi-train, exposing a white silk organdy petticoat edged with the finest Parisian lace.

  Layered over the dress was a drape of midnight blue crepe edged with a braid of the blue chenille and lace. This darker overdress fastened at the left shoulder and fell across the left side of her bosom and back, pleated tightly under her breasts, and gathered under her right breast to fall in soft waves over her hips and buttocks to her knees. The bodice and back were low-cut in a V shape with an inch double frill of the Parisian lace over the shoulders. Slippers of white kid and satin elbow-high gloves completed the ensemble.

  Her hair was pulled loosely to the right cascading over her shoulder in full curls secured by a bandeau of pale blue satin adorned with sprigs of honeysuckle and campanula. She wore the sapphire necklace Darcy had gifted her upon their engagement. Lizzy felt like a fairy princess!

  Her husband waited in the grand foyer with bated breath. The only hint Lizzy had yielded was that he should wear blue. Darcy preferred blue anyway and, aware that Samuel and Marguerite had undoubtedly compared notes, he trusted his valet’s selection. Therefore, he stood on the marble floor wearing a dark-blue formal jacket and matching long trousers of fine wool, the pale blue waistcoat Lizzy had given him, white linen shirt, and an elaborately knotted silk cravat. Mr. Lathrop stood nearby, suppressing a laugh with difficulty, while the others loitered in the parlor.

  When Lizzy materialized on the landing, resembling to Darcy’s eyes every iota the princess from a fairy tale, his breathing halted for a full minute and his heart skipped several beats. Lizzy blushed under the stunned scrutiny of her husband, loving him increasingly with each step she moved toward him. His smile was radiant and his eyes glowed. If only he knew how impossibly handsome he was when he smiled and gazed upon her in this manner, yet much of his charm was in his total ignorance of his attractiveness and allure.

  He kissed the gloved hand she offered, meeting her eyes. “Mrs. Darcy, you are majestic. I am spellbound by your beauty.”

  She curtseyed and beamed. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. May I repay the compliment and say that you are an Adonis? Supremely handsome and dapper.”

  “Elizabeth is here!” Georgiana exclaimed, dashing to her sister and followed closely by the others, who quickly surrounded Lizzy with gushing praise. Grinning indulgently yet conscious that this could continue for hours, Darcy rapidly called for Elizabeth’s coat and ushered her into their waiting carriage. Once settled and on their way, Darcy turned toward his wife, retrieving a small box from his pocket.

  “For you, beloved. I ventured a guess, the gown a mystery of mythic proportions. Upon revelation, I warrant this bauble will accent nicely.”

  The bauble was a silver brooch some two-inches in diameter in a vague sunburst design with inlaid diamonds and sapphires. Accounting it anything less than exquisite would be an insult. Lizzy was, again, overcome by Darcy’s generosity and impeccable taste. He pinned it to her left shoulder where the overdress gathered. It was perfect.

  Darcy, painfully cognizant of the fact that for the next eight or so hours proper decorum would prevent him from overtly touching or kissing his lovely wife, made use of the time the ride afforded. Carefully, of course.

  Melcourt Hall, home of the Cole family for close to a hundred years, was an enormous brick structure almost as imposing as Pemberley. Sir John Cole, a frail widower well into his sixties, managed his estate with a vigor and efficiency contrary to his appearance. His three sons had gradually assumed most of the responsibilities; however, Sir Cole unequivocally reigned. The eldest two sons were married and the youngest, Percy, only a few years older than Darcy, had recently become betrothed to Mr. Creswell’s eldest daughter, Laura.

  This development gave Miss Creswell a certain distinction amongst her peers, several of whom gathered strategically so they could simultaneously gossip and admire her engagement ring while maintaining constant vigil on the entryway. The anticipation was elevated this year. As a high point on the Derbyshire social calendar, the Twelfth Night Ball provided the unattached participants the best chance to make a lasting impression on each other.

  For the newly plighted, such as Miss Creswell and Miss Sylvia Bristow and Miss Joy Worthington, it was the final opportunity to carefully flirt, giggle, and tease. Additionally, this year’s prime topic of speculation was the revealing of the country nobody who had stolen Mr. Darcy. To state that a dozen hearts had been broken, tears shed, and pillows punched would not be an exaggeration; however, none more so than Miss Bertha Vernor, daughter of Henry and Mary Vernor.

  The Vernor family had for generations been the closest to the Darcys, both in physical proximity to their lands and in relationship. Gerald Vernor was only months older than Darcy and the two boys were close all through childhood and well into their adult years, only drifting apart somewhat over the past four years since Vernor’s marriage. As often transpires after matrimony, Gerald began passing more time in Derbyshire with his wife and new son while Darcy tended toward Town. Nonetheless, the two often met, hunted, and rode together, and Darcy had hosted Gerald and his wife Harriet at Pemberley numerous times.

  Miss Bertha had fallen in love with her brother’s friend when she was a young girl of sixteen. It was fairly common knowledge to all except for the object of her affection who, not surprisingly, was unbelievably dense about such things and would not have been interested anyway. Still, Miss Bertha pined and hoped, counting on the intimate association between the two families to assist her. Her mother had been devastated by the news of Darcy’s marriage, railing at length to anyone willing to listen, especially her husband and son, both of whom cared too deeply for Darcy to wish for anything but his happiness. If that happiness had been acquired with Bertha, the rejoicing would have been profound, but affairs of the heart could not be controlled.

  The Vernors had not yet arrived as the flibbertigibbets surrounding Miss Creswell prattled and cogitated. “I heard she refused to eat for a week!” declared Miss Nanette Stanhope.

  “Ridiculous,” Miss Rose Creswell snipped. “Dear Bertha may be heartbroken, but she would never behave so foolishly.”

 
“Well, I think anyone who chooses to bemoan Mr. Darcy thusly is idiotic,” Miss Bristow primly stated. “Aside from Pemberley, he had nothing to offer. Altogether too dull, in my opinion.”

  “Oh, pooh, Sylvia! Listen to you!” Miss Suzette Lynam sputtered with a laugh. “I recall how you nattered on and on after he spoke with you at the opera two seasons ago. ‘He has the bluest eyes, Suzie. And so tall! My neck ached from looking up at him!’” They all laughed and Miss Sylvia blushed.

  “Fortunate it is then, Sylvia, that Mr. Reynolds is mere inches taller than you,” Miss Trudy Mills teased.

  Miss Bristow tossed her head, “At least I am affianced. Trudy, were you not equally all aflutter when Mr. Darcy danced one set with you at the Masque two years ago?”

  More laughter all around, and then Miss Greta Creswell spoke in her quiet voice, “Poor Bertha. We should not tease at her expense. She truly cared for Mr. Darcy, not that any fault can be laid at his feet for not returning her sentiments.”

  Miss Joy Worthington patted Miss Greta’s hand. “Do not fret over Bertha, dear Greta. I understand that Mr. Bates has been calling recently. If she is wise, she will accept his suit.”

  “Have any of you attained any specifics about the new Mrs. Darcy?” asked Miss Laura Creswell. “All my Mr. Cole knew was that she came from Hertfordshire. Not London Society at all.”

  They collectively gasped and shook their heads. Miss Nanette replied, “My brother Aaron was relating that he met Mrs. Darcy in Lambton a few weeks ago.” Most of them had already heard the tale of how the eldest Mr. Stanhope had been introduce to Elizabeth at the Carriage Inn, but for the sake of a meaty story, they all affected ignorance. “He said she was pretty but rather plain, polite and friendly but seemed shy. Mr. Darcy, he said, was clearly besotted.”