Darcy & Elizabeth: A Season of Courtship (Darcy Saga Prequel Duo)

by Sharon Lathan

  “Not in the least, dearest Elizabeth. We have more to learn of each other, I suppose, but it is as I confessed in the Longbourn garden on the eve of our engagement. I have never experienced this degree of giddiness. I am light of spirit and as content as I have no recollection of ever being before, even in my youth.” He traced his fingertips down her cheek, pausing under her chin. “The reason is you, Elizabeth. Only you.”

  He bent closer, fighting the desire to kiss her. It was damned difficult, almost painful, but the presence of Mr. Travers and immobile footmen lining the wall, eyes averted as they silently waited to clear the table, penetrated his haze. Forcing a genial smile, he straightened and escorted her from the room without another word.

  Per standard protocol, Georgiana served as hostess for the ladies in the salon while Darcy led the men to the billiard room. The male bonding interval did not last for long, however. Darcy doubted Mr. Bennet or Mr. Gardiner were taken aback when he and Bingley prematurely suggested rejoining the ladies, or that they fully believed his expressed concern over Miss Darcy shouldering the burden. Neither of them argued though, and judging by their rapid steps to the low table laden with sweet cakes and fruit, they were perfectly happy to be there.

  Elizabeth sat in the chair Darcy remembered being his mother’s favorite. As always, her effervescence filled the room, her light voice lifting above the rest. Whether this was factual mattered naught, because to Darcy it was the truth, and immediately he felt at peace.

  Tea, coffee, and additional snacks were served as conversation abounded. A blushing Georgiana, after some coaxing, went to the pianoforte and proceeded to astonish everyone with her talent. Different guests lent their voices, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner especially skilled with a trio of duets. Jane sang two songs, Mr. Bingley’s unrehearsed accompaniment on the second inducing laughter more than awed admiration.

  It was when Elizabeth completed her song, the applause swelling, that Darcy stealthily exited the room. The sudden need to breathe cooling air was, he knew, a direct result of the impact upon him as she sang. The sonnet itself was not particularly romantic nor sung specifically to him. In truth, it was not the song at all but rather the accumulated emotions of the whole evening. Seeing Elizabeth in one of his homes, not yet his wife but already fitting comfortably, was overwhelming. Incredible, wonderful, rapturous—yes. And overwhelming.

  Standing on the terrace in an area at the edge of the gaslight, he stared into the sky. Inhaling and exhaling at a measured pace, he allowed his love for her to eddy over and through him.

  Soon, very soon she will be your wife. The next time you are here with her, she will not depart. Evenings of entertainment or serene family reposes will end with a walk to your bedchamber, and there, restraint will no longer be necessary.

  Closing his eyes, Darcy willingly painted the mental picture of Elizabeth in his bedchamber. Effortlessly he summoned the image of her stretched atop the burgundy counterpane wearing nothing but a shift, hair a loose mane spread over his pillows and face alit with desire. Smiling, the Elizabeth in his dreamy mind lifted her hand, palm up and fingers wiggling. Come to me, William…

  “William?”

  Opening his eyes, Darcy turned toward the melodious voice echoing the entreaty whispered inside his head. “Elizabeth.” Not feeling slightly surprised to see her standing in the doorway, he smiled and held out his hand. “I was dreaming about you, and here you are, as if conjured.”

  She laughed softly, left the doorway, and slowly crossed the stones toward him. “Not quite that magical, I am afraid. I saw you leave the parlor and wanted to make sure you were well. And…I wished to share a moment alone with you.”

  Reaching across the narrow gap remaining, he clasped her hands and drew her into the semi-shadows. Drifting tender fingertips along her flushed cheeks, he huskily confided, “No, it is magic, for I wished to be alone with you and here you are.” Bending, he secured her face within his palms and tenderly brushed his lips over hers.

  Perhaps the moonlight was weaving a magical spell. Perhaps the magic of their mutual love and desire intermingled with heavenly bewitchment to create an enchantment a hundredfold more potent. All Darcy knew for sure was that moderation was futile. The moment, however it happened, was too perfect for chaste kisses and regulated touches. Nothing rational or deliberate, he merely let pure sensation rule and his desire flare at will. Judging by Elizabeth’s arms snaking inside his jacket, hands kneading the muscles of his back, and breasts flattened against his chest, she was of like-minded opinion.

  Groaning, he parted her lips, insistent tongue delving hungrily into the farthest reaches of her mouth. Nothing about this kiss was tender. It was consuming and heated, delirious and passionate. Fire scorched from so many points on his body that none could be distinguished. His groin tightened, then hardened into a steely rod in a matter of seconds. The blissful agony of his arousal was desperate for relief—relief that was only dimly gained by cinching one spread hand onto Elizabeth’s buttocks and crushing her pelvis harshly into the solid ridge. When she showed no sign of resistance, and in fact moaned and dug her fingertips into his back, he responded with an increase in the wildness of their kiss.

  God! Blinding ecstasy! Sheer rapture!

  Then, “Elizabeth? Are you out here?”

  Mr. Bennet’s baritone drifted through the open terrace door, as effective as being doused by a bucket of icy water or struck by a mallet. Darcy released Elizabeth so abruptly that she staggered. Not in much better shape, he recoiled and melted into the shadows. Hating himself for…well, everything to be frank—guilt and shame burned as hot as the remaining passion. I am sorry, he mouthed but could not be sure she saw him.

  Surprisingly, she turned and walked calmly toward the door. “I am here, Papa. You know me and seeking air in the evening.”

  “Indeed I do. I saw that Mr. Darcy was missing as well and thought he might be showing you the stars of London.”

  “No. Not looking at the stars tonight, and I am not exactly sure where Mr. Darcy is. Come, let us go in. I am superbly refreshed now.”

  For fifteen minutes, Darcy leaned against the cool stone wall while waiting for his blood to stop boiling and body to relax. How she had managed to speak coherently, telling the truth without giving anything away, was absolutely incredible. God knows he could not have spoken with such aplomb. Nor would he have had the chance. Mr. Bennet would have taken one look at his glazed expression and massive bulge in his trousers and either slugged him square on the jaw or hustled Elizabeth out the front door without a backward glance. Either probability was less than he deserved.

  Covering his eyes with one hand, Darcy muttered a string of curses. He was so far beyond mortified, even his command of vocabulary was unable to locate a proper word to define how low he felt. Recognizing it was sensible to abandon her to face Mr. Bennet alone failed to expunge his cowardice in doing so.

  Coward. Fool. Undisciplined. Dishonorable. Untrustworthy.

  If not for the shreds of his dignity reminding him that there were guests waiting for him, Darcy might have been ill. He pulled himself together and returned to the parlor. No one seemed to have noticed his absence, or at least they had carried on in the same vein of lighthearted congeniality.

  Elizabeth was in his mother’s chair again and immediately swung her glowing, chocolate eyes to him, smiling brightly. There was no hint of negative emotion about her. In fact, if he had to label the arch lift of her lips and tilt of her head, he would say she was smug.

  More confused than ever, he made it through the rest of the evening. Once in the foyer, amid servants distributing outerwear, Darcy retrieved Elizabeth’s cloak from the footman. Drawing her slightly to the side, he draped the heavy fabric over her shoulders and proceeded to fasten each button with focused intent. The weight of her stare added to the weight of the disagreeable awkwardness between them.

  “William—”

  “Miss Elizabeth, I am sor—” Pressing his lips into a hard line, he
shook his head. Finally lifting his gaze to meet her concerned eyes, he rushed on. “I love you. Please remember this. I shall pray you sleep well and for your shopping expedition on the morrow to be fruitful. As it pleases you and accommodates your schedule, I will be awaiting your return for the thorough tour of Darcy House I promised.”

  “That will be the high point of my day, William,” she stressed, staring directly into his eyes. Then she lifted his fingers to her lips, kissing gently. “I love you as much. You remember that. Until tomorrow, then.”

  * * *

  The Bennet daughters woke in the morning of their first full day in London with wide smiles, and briskly launched out of their beds. Today would commence the serious shopping for their wedding gowns and bridal trousseaux! In no time at all, hasty breakfasts and speedy toilettes were completed, and they were out the door with Mrs. Gardiner gaily leading the way and Mr. Bennet grumpily trailing behind. The driver made for the finer shopping areas in London where, Mrs. Gardiner insisted, the essentials her nieces required for the elevated stations they were marrying into must be obtained. As they rode down the streets lined with glass-fronted shops crammed with merchandise and edged with sidewalks crowded with elegantly dressed people, all their previous chatter, teasing, and list making felt pointless. Imagining had not prepared them for the reality. Mr. Bennet was already pale, undoubtedly from the anticipation of how much of his money would be spent!

  Fortunately, as a way to ease into the expedition, their aunt had set an appointment for that morning with her modiste. “After all,” she declared firmly, “the selection of your wedding gowns is of prime importance.”

  In her late thirties, the modiste, Mrs. Carter, possessed higher than average talent at designing, and her crew of seamstresses were skilled, yet her shop was ordinary and prices reasonable. The latter especially pleased Mr. Bennet, who then waved farewell in relief, leaving them with their aunt for several hours. The vast selection of styles, fabrics, laces, ribbons, and the like was delightful, if a bit overwhelming. Eventually, she and Jane settled on wedding gowns fancier than any dress they had ever owned, yet suited to their individual tastes of simplicity and modesty.

  All in all, the session was enjoyable. The one surprise came at the reaction from the dressmaker to the name Mr. Darcy. Her eyes had bulged, mouth dropped, and for a minute or two, she was speechless. Then she had sent her assistants scurrying for the costliest fabrics and trimmings in the place, and been stricken with renewed muteness when Lizzy insisted that was not her desire. The whole episode was bizarre, and Lizzy’s expression must have revealed her bewilderment because her aunt laughed and squeezed her hand.

  “My innocent Lizzy! Even after touring Pemberley and visiting Darcy House, do you remain unaware of Mr. Darcy’s importance?”

  “I know he is…rich,” she whispered the word, “of course, and with money comes power and distinction, I grant, but this?” She jerked her chin toward the still-twittering Mrs. Carter.

  “There is wealth, my dear, and there are those who wield power. Mr. Darcy falls into the latter category to be sure. As valuable as that stature is, of greater worth are those who add dignity, character, ancestry, solidity, and similar vaunted English qualities to the wealth and power inherited. Then, one has a name instantly recognized as you have now witnessed.”

  Nothing more was said, and soon the fun of measuring and being draped with yards of cloth took precedence. Lizzy remembered her aunt’s words, however, and frequently dwelt upon them in the month to come.

  With most of the morning consumed at the modiste, they only had time to visit a handful of shops before Jane and Lizzy separated for their afternoon invitations. Mr. Gardiner had volunteered to escort Jane to meet Mr. Bingley at his townhouse on Hill Street, in the Mayfair District. Mr. Bennet served as Lizzy’s chaperone. Secretly, she suspected the arrangement had more to do with her father’s curiosity with the Darcy House library than any favoritism for her or Mr. Darcy. Nevertheless, she was pleased to have him with her.

  The Bennet carriage rattled over the cobblestones of Oxford Street, passing one stunning townhouse after another. Lizzy’s eyes darted up, down, and side to side, as they had all day while driving through the high-end shopping areas. She had been to London a handful of times in her life but dwelt with the Gardiners in Cheapside and had only skirted the wealthier districts. Bypassing Kensington and approaching Grosvenor Square awarded her an entirely new perspective of the life she was marrying into.

  Last night, she had sat in a cramped carriage while darkness rapidly fell, the artificial illumination from gaslight and smoldering lamps ineffective in dispelling all the shadows bathing the grand townhouses. Yet even with limited vision, the splendor of Grosvenor Square and Darcy House had taken her breath away. The impact on a sunny day was unimaginable, and her excitement boosted her sagging energy from the busy morning. Further invigorating was the prospect of wandering through rooms that, in about a month, she would call home. Lizzy attempted to wrap her mind around that fact, as she constantly did with Pemberley, and met with minimal success. The reality of precisely how radically her life would change as Mrs. Darcy, with the expectations and duties thrust upon her narrow shoulders, was easy to shove aside when in his adoring company in provincial Meryton. In London, especially after seeing Darcy House and the modiste’s reaction, she felt twinges of nervousness creeping in.

  Knowing William would be at her side today, and forever, was comforting. That vision was vitalizing while adding to her nervousness.

  “Lizzy, you have nothing to worry about. You are my clever, capable daughter. The girl who once chastised an angry bull and memorized Act Five, Scene Two of Love’s Labour’s Lost just because Lydia dared you can handle any challenge set before her. Including being Mrs. Darcy.”

  “I do pray you are correct, Papa. It is a different life than I have lived for twenty years.” She accented her statement with a nod toward the window she stared out of, the houses increasing in size and ornamentation.

  “In some ways, maybe that is true. Nevertheless, my opinion is you are selling yourself short, Lizzy.” She turned her eyes to her father, attentive as he went on. “Mr. Darcy sees your capability, even if it took him a while to do so. Moreover, he cares deeply for you so will help you along the way. That said, the main reason you will succeed admirably is because you have watched your mother for twenty years. Just do the opposite of that.”

  “Oh, Papa!” She shook her head, laughing. Mr. Bennet’s grin and humorous advice lifted her spirits to a great degree. Of course, she could not tell him that a portion of her nervousness at the present had to do with what had occurred the night before.

  Reliving her encounter with William on the terrace—as she had endlessly all night and morning—was the real reason her insides were coiled in a knot. The kiss and the sensations of embracing his body were, quite simply, the most deliriously joyful five minutes of her life! Instantly, she recalled the taste of him on her tongue, the pressure of his mouth and insistent hands, the sound of his ragged respirations, the heated smell of his cologne, and the glaze of desire flooding his eyes. There was no shame or fear in how William made her feel or in how she obviously made him feel. Her only regret from their interlude was that she stupidly walked away with her father rather than following William into the shadows. Over and over, she envisioned the expanse of darkness, sure that they could have carried on their blissful intimacy for a while longer before forced to return to the parlor.

  Then she remembered his reaction. The guilt and shame that was stark on his face. The wall of awkwardness sensed the rest of the evening. And worst was the apology he started to give before she left.

  What, precisely, had he wanted to apologize for? The kiss? For becoming aroused while holding the woman he was soon to marry? For leaving her to face her father? Could he honestly think for a second that Mr. Bennet seeing the state he was in would be better than disappearing? Or was it all of these points and more?

  Luckily the
carriage turned the corner, off Duke Street and onto Grosvenor Square, halting further conflicting musings. There, before her eyes, was Darcy House, and Lizzy sucked in her breath.

  Though tiny compared to the vastness of Pemberley, it was still majestic. Constructed of polished white stone that glowed in the sunlight, each of the five bays on the lower level contained tall, multipaned windows allowing beams of light into the house. Dozens of wide windows cut into the flat surface of the upper floors. Flowers bloomed from boxes underneath each window. Ornate iron fencing barricaded the passageway to the basement service areas and curved elegantly up the steps before the gleaming, blue entryway doors.

  “It is so beautiful,” Lizzy whispered.

  “Yes,” Mr. Bennet agreed, “but it is just a house. One with a reputedly fine library, I hasten to add.”

  “I have a suspicion you will enter that room and need to be physically evicted. We best make sure to go there after luncheon.” Lizzy squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek.

  Mr. Darcy and Miss Darcy waited in the foyer exactly as they had the night before. Lizzy’s eyes immediately swung to her fiancé, noting as she always did how handsome he was and striking his figure. As detected last evening, there was a distinct difference to his bearing. He seemed to dominate the space more than his stature and presence typically did, which was significant no matter where he was. She surmised it was because, here, he was the master. Here, he was at home and fully cognizant of his place in Society. He wore the aura of power quite well, and Lizzy’s insides thrilled in response.

  He was also stiffly proper. This, she could not decide how to decipher. Was it normal? Or was it the result of nervousness?

  Smiling politely, he kissed her hand and greeted with the common phrases of welcome and pleasure to see her. Searching his eyes, Lizzy felt the warmth and adoration, yet he too quickly looked away. All through lunch, he maintained an attitude that skated the edges of formality and congeniality without dipping one way or the other with consistency. She honestly questioned her perspective, wondering if she was fretting where there was nothing to fret about, but the sporadic odd reactions from her father and Miss Darcy confirmed something was amiss.