Mr Darcy's Second Chance

by Gillian Smith

  "It's fine, Lilly," he said eventually. "You know me better than that."

  Lillian nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Good to have you home again. Congratulations to your daughter. Ring if you need me. Ma'am," she added in reconsideration.

  "Is she married?" Elizabeth asked when they were alone again.

  "No, she isn't married," he answered. "She's been very loyal to us over the years, Elizabeth. She's a family. I'm not dismissing her for making a mistake."

  "No, of course. I understand," Elizabeth responded and added, "How old is her son?"

  "Fourteen months, I think," he answered cautiously.

  "Oh."

  "I'm not the father, Elizabeth."

  "I had not yet determined that you might be," she said thoughtfully. "But you and she, you seem close. And she is just a servant-"

  "Lillian is Anne's half-sister." he interrupted her.

  A wrinkle appeared between Elizabeth's eyebrows as she tried to follow that tangled genealogy.

  "Look, Elizabeth, this is something that know only a few people. Mrs. Reynolds, and my cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam."

  Elizabeth waited for him to continue.

  "Lady Catherine, Anne's mother, and my mother's older sister is the daughter of Earl of Matlock. When she was 21 years old, she had an affair with a man in a trade whose name no one knows. They wanted to elope but her mother found out about everything. Catherine was with child already. To avert the scandal, her parents married her to Sir Lewis de Bourgh, who had an estate in Kent. She had the dowry of fifty thousand pounds." Darcy walked to the window and looked through it. "It was probably a secret agreement between Sir Lewis and Catherine's parents, that he will not keep the baby. When she gave birth to Lilly, he took her from my aunt and they told her the baby had died. He made confession to Lady Catherine on the deathbed eight years later. She confided everything to my mother but begged to not telling anyone. She didn't want to find her daughter. But my mother... my mother had a great heart, Elizabeth. And she just couldn't stand it that out there, somewhere was her little nice, vulnerable, alone and loved by no one. She had hired a man and he found Lillian in an orphanage a month later. My mother took the girl and gave her home. She couldn't tell anyone who the girl really was, so she kept her among the servants. Mrs. Reynolds took care of her and has treated like her own daughter." He stopped talking but didn't turn around from the window.

  "When did you find out the truth?"

  "Lady Catherine has gotten ill. She has some kind of mental illness. She forgets things and her personality changes constantly. One day I was walking her through the London Park and out of the blue, she told me the story of her unknown daughter, Anne's older sister. I didn't know if I should believe her but when I asked Mrs. Reynolds, she didn't lie. She told me everything."

  "And you have never told Lillian the truth."

  "I have told anyone, Elizabeth. I just couldn't... She... I don't know if... Some truth should be never revealed. It is best that way. It would hurt many people."

  "So... she is your-"

  "Cousin. Yes. And she always was close to me. We grow up together and though I knew she would be a servant in the future I always recognise her as a friend."

  "And her son?"

  "What about him? Lillian's son was born when I was in a deep mourning. That's why she thought I might not want to see her child. I don't care if she brings the baby upstairs, but she knows I wouldn't dismiss her."

  Elizabeth got quiet, try to process everything she heard when she heard him saying. "Are you angry?"

  She looked at him surprised.

  "Why would I ever be angry at you, Fitzwilliam? Unless there is something more you didn't tell me."

  "No."

  She got up from the sofa and walked over him to the window. She kissed him tenderly on the lips.

  "You are a good man, Fitzwilliam Darcy." She whispered to his month and left him alone in the sitting room.

  *~~*~~*

  "Are you the lady of the house?" A man asked in a bad cockney accent to the lady before him, keeping his head down and hiding under the top hat and livery he'd borrowed from the footman. Mrs. Darcy was informed that some gentleman is asking for her and waiting in front of the main door. Ten minutes later Elizabeth appeared, looking at the man who was tightening the reins of two horses.

  "Yes, sir?" she responded politely. "How can I help you?"

  "Are you the lady of the house?" he repeated, hardly understandable.

  "I suppose I am. How can I help you?"

  "Is your husband here?"

  "He is in Lambton at the moment. Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

  "Love, you can climb in, come with me to the heath, strip off my clothes, climb on, and make a man out of me."

  She blinked and gasped until he raised his head, grinning mischievously.

  "Mr. Darcy? You are wicked man!"

  "Climb in," he responded, taking off the hat and jacket, and leaning down to offer his hand and directing to the phaeton.

  "A dinner-"

  "Mrs. Reynolds will wait. You keep asking about the estate. I thought you'd like to see it since the rain's finally stopped. Is Jane all right?"

  "I just fed her."

  "I missed it," he said regretfully as she settled in, covering her full skirt with the lap blanket as they began their tour.

  He showed her the places where he, Anne and Richard were climbing the trees and eating fruits as kids. They draw the hills where he and Anne were spending their days as teens. Elizabeth seemed mesmerised by the beauty and grandness of the estate which was now also hers.

  "What's that," she pointed out at the house about two miles from them, surrounded by trees and grand garden.

  "It is the dower house."

  "Lady's Catherine's home?"

  "Her home is in Kent, The Rosing Park. But when Sir Lewis died, she refused to live there. Anne was an heiress to that place so now it is mine. My cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam is living there with his family. He got wound on Napoleon's war and had to give up the army. He... he cannot walk. I hope you will meet him soon."

  "And your sister? I wish to meet her."

  "Maybe later. She isn't ready. We just have to give her more time." Darcy said with the regret and sadness in his voice. He was looking at the house a moment longer and turned horses with the Phaeton toward their home.

  *~~*~~*

  It was late. The fire snapped and crackled, and occasionally a log split and disintegrated into molten-orange coals.

  He sat on the rug near the hearth in their bedroom, leaning back against the sofa with his bare legs outstretched. Elizabeth was facing him, one knee on either side of his hips with a blanket loosely draped around her. No gentleman would let a lady shiver in bed as he made love to her. The proper thing to do was pick her up, carry her to the fire, and make love to her there.

  "Are your feet warm now?" he murmured, outlining the ridge of her collarbone with his lips.

  "They are, thank you. Would you like to feel?"

  He slid his hands under the blanket, down her backbone, and to the hot flesh of her backside. "Yes, I would. I think I'll start here and work my way down. I want to be thorough," he stroked the backs of her thighs and slipped his fingers between them. "And check-" He slid his hands higher, urging her legs apart. "Every-" Higher, to the soft, damp patch of hair. "Inch," he finished huskily.

  Watching her face change as he touched her was intoxicatingly erotic. She was an opium in female form. Just as dangerous and twice as addictive.

  He tugged at the blanket and it fell to the floor, leaving her bare in the firelight. Her round, cold breasts brushed his chest, a delicious contrast to the warmth of her back and the hotness inside her. At his request, she'd left her hair down, and it hung almost to her waist in thick black waves. It shimmered as she moved and was as soft as silk as he ran his fingers through it.

  "There's a science called phrenology that says you can tell someone's personality by the shape of t
heir skull," he whispered, running one hand over her scalp. "For instance, this ridge at the back shows physical lust and above it, this one, a love for children and family. Loyalty. Here is kindness, intelligence, and this, stubbornness. It is frighteningly large." She pulled away, trailing her index finger down his profile to his lips.

  "That is where I bumped my head this morning, Mr. Darcy."

  "Thank God. I was worried." He sighed, pretending to be relieved.

  "You are making up this phrenology science."

  "Are you calling me a liar?"

  "No, sir, only a creative truth-teller."

  He smirked, kissing her fingertip. "No, it's true. And please don't call me Sir. Mr. Darcy is bad enough. Can't I be Fitzwilliam, just this once?"

  She leaned forward, her hips poised over his. "Fitzwilliam," she murmured into his ear. She got up, thinking he wanted to go back to bed.

  "No, like this. Just like this."

  "Here?"

  "Here."

  He positioned and guided her hips slowly down, biting his lip as her inner muscles enveloped him. She hesitated then slid down farther, a little at a time until her hips rested flush against his. She stopped, breathing heavily as her body adjusted.

  "Oh, God. Jesus, Elizabeth." He groaned at the sensation.

  He exhaled through his teeth, letting his head fall back on the sofa cushions. When she shifted, he gasped, putting his hands on her hips and rocking her against him again.

  "Like that. That's nice," he whispered to her. "So nice. Don't stop."

  She let him guide her into a slow rhythm. Once she knew what he wanted, rested her hands on his shoulders as her hips rose and fell over his. Darcy raised his head, opening his eyes to watch her, mesmerised.

  "You are beautiful," he murmured in awe. A fine sheen of perspiration covered her breasts and her mouth moved silently as she rocked, exhaling with each thrust. "You are. I like watching you."

  She tilted her hips slightly, changing the angle and taking him deeper inside her.

  "Don't stop, Elizabeth. Make love to me."

  She moaned something that sounded like his name, resting her forehead against his shoulder. He put his arms around her, closing his eyes.

  "Don't stop," he told her again, with increasing urgency.

  Her thighs trembled and her breath was hot and heavy against his shoulder but she didn't stop. He gritted his teeth as the pressure inside him built, blocking out every other sensation. Then, suddenly, he felt her vaginal muscles spasm and heard her moan in pleasure. She went limp against him and his arms still around her, he quickly lowered them both to the rug, laying Elizabeth on her back and entered her again, easily sliding inside. "Too hard?" he asked, feeling her hips rising to meet each desperate thrust.

  If there was an answer, he didn't hear it. A dozen deeper thrusts and her fingernails dug into his shoulders as it happened again. A quick series of inner contractions, more powerful this time. His response was an ineloquent curse and release so intense he saw stars. One of the life's mysteries solved, he realised, once he could think again. That, he assumed, had been the female orgasm.

  She opened her eyes, looking flushed and uncertain in the firelight.

  "It's fine," he assured her, pushing her hair back from her face. "I want you to like this. Did you?"

  She nodded breathlessly, licking her swollen lips.

  "So did I." He whispered and kissed her.

  "Why, Elizabeth?" he asked after several minutes of silence, spooning up behind her and closing his eyes. In the spirit of chivalry, he should have swept her up in his arms and carried her back to bed but he wanted to be much steadier on his feet after such intimacy. Darcy had settled for leading her by the hand, getting her a drink of water and tucking her in. "Why did you do it?"

  "In front of the fire? Because you asked me to, Mr. Darcy," she mumbled back, wanting to sleep.

  "No, why did you marry me?" he clarified, his old insecurity rearing its head again.

  She sighed. "Again, you asked."

  "No, there's no shortage of men who would have asked. Why me? Because I was your friend? Because I was there?"

  "Because you wanted me."

  "Was it just that? Mr. Daniels was unfaithful, and you knew I would not be?"

  Elizabeth didn't respond for a long time and he thought he'd upset her by mentioning that man.

  "Have you ever wondered if there is something more?" she finally whispered. "Have you ever laid in bed at night and stared up into the darkness and wondered if what you have is all there is to life?"

  He stroked her arm reassuringly and instead of answering, asked her if she wanted him to bring Jane to their bed for a little while. It was almost time for her to nurse again, anyway.

  By the time he'd returned with the sleepy Jane and worked up enough courage to answer her question, Elizabeth was asleep.

  *~~*~~*

  The whole instruction he'd received in marital relations was his father's wedding night advice: "She's with child, leave her alone." His own father, not far from being a grandfather, had assumed Darcy knew all he needed to of the fairer sex.

  In truth, Darcy had once briefly encountered the anatomical basics necessary to create a child, though Ed's conception had been an inch short of innocent. Anne had been crying, he'd been comforting, she'd kissed him and three minutes later, he'd been re-buttoning, still uncertain as to exactly what had happened.

  Some paternal wisdom and reassurance would have been welcome. He remembered waiting in his bedroom after the wedding, stomach knotting, palms sweating, not sure if he should undress or not, sit in a chair, lie on the bed, or stand. He'd paced for what seemed like hours until his aunt brought Anne to him, kissed him on the cheek without looking him in the eyes, and closed the door on her way out.

  A nervous, inexperienced groom and an anxious, shy, frightened seventeen-year-old bride hadn't made for marital bliss – then or in the future.

  Over the years, he'd invested in numerous advice manuals for new grooms, most of which were written in language so vague and flowery he wasn't sure if he was supposed to kiss and caress a woman's body or pluck it and put it in a vase. Although the illustrations were interesting, pornographic novels were equally useless with their enthusiastic, vulgar descriptions of rapture and ravishment. He seldom wanted to ravish anyone. He just wanted to love a woman at night as easily and naturally as he did during the day.

  To answer Elizabeth's question, yes, he had laid awake at night, stared at the ceiling as Anne slept, and wondered if there was something more.

  As he massaged her back, Elizabeth shifted and stretched, sighing contentedly as she slept. Her hair was tousled and fell in long, black tangles over the pillow. He could smell the night on her. The delicate scent of Jane and midnight feedings, the salty, sour odour of sweat and semen from him and the musky feminine scent designed to bypass a man's reason. His hands crept lower, pushing the blankets down, and passed in long, slow strokes over her bare backside and thighs. The light from the candles on the nightstand was making the transparent hairs on her back and shoulders glisten against her pale skin. He told her to turn over, examining the half-dozen faint red stretch marks across her hipbones, the soft weight of her breasts, the old white scars on her knees from unnamed childhood adventures and the light scattering little moles on her arms. She was real, laid out for him across the sheets of his bed in beautiful, natural imperfection.

  Elizabeth inhaled, opening her eyes, blinking and blushed in embarrassment.

  "You were watching me again," she mumbled, rolling away.

  He put his hand on her hip, pulling her back. "I was. And I wasn't finished."

  Under his intense gaze, the blush spread from her face down to her chest. "Mr. Darcy…" she began sleepily, turning him away.

  "What? I can't watch my wife if I want to?" he asked, tracing a lazy line with his finger from the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach and down between her thighs. "I do," he murmured, gently plac
ing her wrists above her head with his free hand, for the first time taking her up on her previous offer to hold her down. "I want to watch you. I've seen you watching me when we make love."

  She shook her head "no," wetting her lips and shifting her hips as he rubbed.

  "No, you haven't watched me, or no, you don't want me to watch you?"

  "No, yes, I…" she whispered, moaning and closing her eyes when he found her sensitive spot between her legs.

  "No, you don't like my fingers? Maybe I should use my mouth," he offered and felt her inner muscles contract in anticipation. "Maybe tonight? Would you like that? I'm certain a proper married lady never thinks about things like that. A man's tongue between her legs."

  He didn't get a response, but he hadn't expected one. If Elizabeth had said "oh yes, please do it now, Mr. Darcy," he would have died of mortification. He was still new to playing at lovemaking and his bravado was mostly smoked and a little fire. He was learning, though, and he'd always been a quick study.

  Darcy lowered his head, feeling her tense again as his lips worked their way down her stomach. At the last minute, he changed directions, laughing at her annoyance and instead took her nipple deep into his mouth. He slid his fingers inside her, then back to the spot again. In and out, in and out, then he switched breasts, letting go of her wrists so she could touch him. He couldn't tell if she was disappointed that his month didn't touch her there, but he was assured, she was enjoying their time in bed as much as he.

  Chapter 5

   “It is not in the stars to hold our destiny

  But in ourselves.”

  - William Shakespeare

  He'd once watched copper wire being produced, how a piece of metal was formed into a gossamer thread. That was how he felt now. Like something that began as solid but was now being pulled impossibly spider-web thin. Any second, he'd snap in two and go drifting off with the icy winter wind.

  Underneath the table, out of sight, Elizabeth put her hand on his thigh, reassuring him. He covered it with his, squeezing gently, and the din of a half-dozen empty dinner party conversations faded to background noise. She looked at him and smiled like the Mona Lisa and he exhaled. He removed his hand, and she did the same and turned back to pretend she was enchanted by the endless, pointless story the Earl of Matlock was telling over dinner.