She was alternately mortified and exultant—and embarrassed that she felt both of those sentiments so keenly.
It was not that she had planned badly; it was simply that it had not gone as she had planned. She had fully intended to have him account for his connection with Mademoiselle Clisson. Indeed, she had given great study as to how this conversation would ensue and carefully prepared her questions. All was forgot in a trice. She had leapt upon him like some jealous (and possibly demented) harpy. His astonishment was quite reasonable. His answer was quite reasonable. Indeed, the only part of the conversation that was not reasonable seemed to have been hers. Although there were still a few clarifications she would pursue, she was altogether humbled to have harboured such suspicions. She was most particularly unhappy to have presented them with such vehemence.
He had not, however, seemed particularly vexed by her unwarranted inquiries. Indeed, he was wholly forbearing of it all. He could at least have had the good manners to have expressed a bit of pique so she could have justification to employ some part of righteous indignation. In this, he was wholly uncooperative. Not that she maintained any grievance against him. As he was a man capable of superior recompense, it was quite the opposite. Indeed, he had not left a strong impression of disfavour with her whatsoever. Amongst those intimate trappings of love he did leave was an impression quite of another sort.
As her office at that moment was the very apex of maternalism, she endeavoured not to think of either his methods or his means. She endeavoured not to think of them for a great long while. But as her present occupation was of a sort that inspired rumination, she had little success. Hence, the intervening hours between when she left him abed and coming together at dinner did not wear out her disconcertion. She had much to consider.
Several things were proved to her in that brief interlude atop their bed. She had been reassured of his love (although she was disinclined to think herself in need there, as a general rule one can never be reassured of that often enough). Too, she had been convinced of her allurement to him. Moreover, without a doubt he would soon steal a look under her chemise. She had concluded, however, that if when he did he was appalled at what he saw, so be it. She did not fall with child and birth two enormous babes without explicit help from him. Moreover, she had lately been of a mind that perhaps there was something to all the nudging and winking presumptuousness that her husband’s virility alone spawned twins. She was not inclined to place blame, but it was not her feet that were the size of iron firedogs.
She sniffed that she had spent her time fostering such botheration.
Elizabeth had come to all these conclusions solely by her own means. Her Aunt Gardiner was a great and good friend, but such was their connection, she could never confide her most private perplexities to her. Whilst Jane was her closest confidante in most matters, in the subject of carnal connections, her ear remained unused as well. This was more for the protection of Jane’s sensibilities than Elizabeth’s. Insofar as Elizabeth was aware, Jane had never even removed her night-dress in front of Bingley. Hence, Jane’s advice regarding the titillation value of the post-pregnancy figure upon one’s husband would not be particularly weighty. As she was neither bold enough to risk censure nor desperate enough to endure the embarrassment, Elizabeth was determined to keep her own counsel on the entire vexation.
***
Soon after Jane had hied to Kirkland Hall, Elizabeth had sent an invitation to the Gardiners. Her aunt was beside herself over their favourite niece’s blessed event and anxious to come and see all for herself. It was in all ways a pleasure to have the Gardiners’ company. Their happy manners and easy ways always soothed her when she was nettled by some preoccupation. Darcy had always been happy to have them, too. Whether this fell to the Gardiners having been the agents that begat their unification or that, quite simply, they were the only relations of hers with whom he could bear to spend ten minutes together, she remained uncertain. She did know that both of those elements were pivotal in his regard. The first was simply chance, but the second absolved him of the accusation that he could not suffer any of her relatives at all.
She looked forward to them at their dinner table that night beyond her general esteem, for she preferred a short breathing spell to prepare her thoughts before encountering her husband at leisure.
It all went quite splendidly—although Darcy seemed to be almost as out of sorts as she. Whilst he smiled at the appropriate intervals, he spoke but little. She knew this because she looked upon him slyly, but with undue constancy. Even in the candlelight, she saw that he looked pale. She had noticed that of him before, but thought that loss of colour in his countenance was due only to his having kept so much to the house. Once he began to take to the saddle, she believed that the late summer sun would have tanned him once again to that burnished hue that he bore upon returning from the Continent. But it had not. Indeed, dark half-moons were becoming visible beneath the fringe of his lower lashes—a condition she had not recalled of him other than in the darkest of circumstances. That was most troubling, for he had every reason to be in the best of spirits. She supposed that is what pricked the flight of fancy her own imagination took. Something was clearly amiss.
Elizabeth’s preoccupation with her husband’s well-being did not keep her from witnessing her aunt’s teasing pinch of Mr. Gardiner’s ribs. This observation incited within her several emotions—primarily that of delight. Elizabeth was thoroughly pleased to see evidence of a happy marriage improved by a bit of mischievous affection. Second, and soon to overwhelm the first, was that her perception of the occurrence and Darcy’s were not unalike. The realisation that they both saw and interpreted the incident with exact like-mindedness was a remarkable revelation. When their eyes met with such uncanny synchronicity, a frisson of excitement raced down her spine. Immediately every botheration nagging her had evaporated. She almost jumped to her feet and dashed for the door, thinking of feigning a swoon. But she had hung fast to the mast. With careful planning and Mrs. Littlepage’s bounteous bosom at hand, she knew the night would be theirs even before the Gardiners begged an early evening. Indeed, in light of the twinkle each seemed to have adorning their eyes, their predisposition to weariness was not altogether an astonishment.
Nor was Darcy taking her hand and ducking with her into a doorway. She, of course, had no idea what configuration it would take, but she was fully prepared for him to take the initiative that she had so long been desiring. (She supposed was it necessary to name the aggressor in their earlier engagement, it would have been declared as mutually agreed upon.) Perchance it was having her anticipation so delightfully rewarded that set her to giggling like a girl; she could not be certain. She supposed that it was that in combination with a fit of nerves. Regardless, silliness was not at all what she wanted to present just then, but she could not bring her giddiness to heel. At least it remained unmanageable until the confines of the bedchamber and the prospect of his touch at last settled her.
Cressida’s interruption had not been invited, but it was not an abhorrence. Elizabeth was happy for an excuse to gather her wits—and the beat of her heart, for it beat with such fury she felt her ears throbbing. By the time Darcy had taken the few steps back from the door, her wits were in no better order and they were additionally troubled by a burgeoning concupiscence that threatened to cause her to start tearing at his costume. In fortune, their minds were still alike, for he began to discard articles of his clothing ere he arrived back to her open arms. This gave her leave to assault once again the stubborn knot of his neckcloth whilst he began, with barely restrained impatience, to fumble with the buttons at the back of her dress.
Both their hands were trembling, but her fingers were nimbler than his. (The thanks for that she owed to the hours her mother had insisted she and her sisters embroider—but as it happened, she did not think of that then.) Once the knot of his neckcloth was undone, she seductively withdrew it from about his neck
.
He was far too occupied with conquering her buttons to notice that, but his attention was caught when he felt her hand tugging loose his shirt-tail. He stopt his fumbling only momentarily as he felt her hands begin a tantalizing journey up his chest. Forthwith, he quite gave up undoing the buttons properly and took hold of the fabric, then gave it a violent tug, ripping the buttons loose with enough force to send several pinging across the floor. She threw back her head and laughed at his impetuosity and to once again revel in a compleat surrender to desire.
“You have destroyed my least objectionable frock!” she laughed again.
“They are both objectionable. I shall destroy the other one as well,” he retorted.
“Pray, what shall you have me wear? My night-dress all the day long?”
“Of course not. You shall wear nothing and lie with me beneath the counterpane until the seamstress arrives.”
His hands began the undulating search of her body that was quite capable of turning her limbs liquescent. She could also sense the lubricant of passion begin to form in the farthest reaches of her nether-regions. She very nearly succumbed to compleat abandon, but his mention of impending nakedness reasserted that niggling little reservation.
Wrapping her arms about his neck, she whispered in his ear, “Pray, put out the light.”
She felt only the slightest hesitation before he ceased his caresses, saying, “As you wish.”
Before he went to the candelabrum he shed his shirt, hence she had the pleasure of admiring the inverted triangle of his back as he leaned, reached out, and, with firm deliberation, snuffed each candle between forefinger and thumb. When he turned to come to her, she could only see his outline and she immediately realised the disadvantage of her plan—if he could not see her, she could not see him either. (Briefly she considered whether he would entertain the notion of wearing a blindfold, but just as quickly discarded it.) With the apprehension over any disappointment he might have undergone removed, her inhibitions evaporated as well. Hence, it was a glorious and lengthy restoration of marital bliss.
And thus the best sleep either had had since Ascension Day.
28
Bliss Restored
Sleeping through the night without one interruption was always an odd sensation for a new mother. Elizabeth Darcy was no different. The maternal call to flee to her children’s bedsides to see if they had survived the night without her personal supervision was keen, but she suppressed it. Rather, she lay laconically amidst the bed-clothes, pleased to no end not to be awakened through insistent, squalling necessity. To once again have him awaken her—to be sensible of another type of hunger as his morning pride nestled against her, to suppress a shudder as he drew the backs of his fingers the length of her legs was a savour beyond measure. It took nothing more than those few moments of his burgeoning wakefulness to bestir in her desires and longings that were quite unmaternal.
All this he accomplished before he opened his eyes.
With his fingers, he combed her hair from the back of her neck. She anticipated that he would kiss her there. Instead, he puckishly rubbed the stubble of his beard against her shoulder. Understanding her role compleatly, she gave a small shriek as if of annoyance, then they both enjoyed a quiet laugh.
He nestled even closer. “Oh, how I have missed you, Lizzy.”
“But I have been right here beside you every night.”
That was more accusation than observation.
“Have you?”
Elizabeth Bennet Darcy was not of uncertain nature. Indeed, the few times she had been confounded, it had been at her husband’s hands—sometimes quite literally. She was confounded then and did not immediately reply. Hearing the hurt in his voice was off-putting. After all, had she not all but thrown herself into his arms by luring him to their little outdoor tryst? Perchance that had not ended impeccably, but it had been concocted and engineered entirely by her design. He merely followed her lead. She did not think it unreasonable for him to return the favour. After all, he was the husband—she refused to chase about after him as if she were some love-starved Amazon. (Well, in truth, she was no great hand with a bow, but she had been increasingly love-starved.)
Her quiet influenced him to turn her upon her back so he could gain the expression her countenance bore. He half-rose upon one elbow, allowing her to fall back. He was not entirely happy with what he saw. Placing his forehead to hers, he cupped her face in his hand and then kissed her lips.
“I think we could find better employment during your brief respite from motherhood than placing blame,” said he.
“Well said,” she said agreeably, before her attention was stolen a by distant sound. “Pray, did you hear that?”
“I hear nothing.”
“I am certain that I did,” she insisted. “Perchance…”
“I hear nothing,” he insisted. “All is well. If it is not, Nurse will be here in a trice.”
“In a trice?”
“To be sure.”
As a deliberate diversionary tactic he began to kiss her neck.
“Mmmm…” said she. “How easily I am beguiled from duty.”
It was only when she saw the work of the light streaming through the windows making a chequered pattern upon the opposing wall that she realised the jeopardy in which she had placed herself. Their night’s lovemaking was so all-encompassing that she had compleatly lost all inhibition. Those forgotten apprehensions reasserted themselves in the harsh light of morn. She was absolutely naked—in all senses of the word.
As his lips slid from hers and began to nuzzle and kiss her shoulders, she steeled herself for what was to come.
“No,” she heard herself say.
He stopt.
“No?” he shook his head slightly as if to reassure himself he had heard her correctly, then his voice altered immediately into his deeper, more formal speech, “Forgive my forwardness.”
“I meant not for you to cease,” she waffled. “I meant for you to…linger.”
Thereupon she kissed him.
The liberal and meticulous craftsman he believed himself to be demanded that he inquire the specifics of her wishes. “Kiss you? Where? Here?”
He once again began his demarche down her body. Thereupon, she made a desperate feint and grabbed him by the hair.
“No,” she said once again.
He laid back, his head propped upon one elbow, his hair askew.
“What?” he said quite impatiently. “Tell me precisely what you desire if I am to have any notion of what I am to do.”
“I meant only to forestall the inevitable.”
“The inevitable?” his voice was once again deep and a bit starched. Then it softened, he rolled closer, “Lizzy, do you want me now or do you not? You have only to say and I will do your bidding. Perchance, you are still weak. You need to go to your babies…”
“Our babies,” she interrupted.
“Our babies,” he repeated, and went on. “You have only to speak what is true. Your will be done. Even if that truth is that you do not want me as you once did.”
“Yes. I must be honest,” she said, more to herself than to him. “This is difficult.”
“You do not need to speak the words,” he said, “if they are too difficult. I shall understand implicitly.”
“No, you do not understand anything at all,” she then was impatient. “It is not about you or my wanting you—for I love you in all the ways I always have. But…”
It was clear that there had been quite enough shilly-shallying about. She threw back the coverlet, exposing herself compleatly. She then lay in abject mortification, but increasingly defiant. Defiantly mortified was no easy posture, but she managed it as she bethought the situation. Let him see how altered she was. Let him see his wife as she was then and always would be—forever altered by bearing his children. She did
not say the words, but had he looked at the flash of umbrage in her eyes he would have understood her feelings without being told.
“Lizzy, why do you torture me thusly?”
“Torture you? Torture you?”
His expression was apparent—as was a rather impressive arousal that she happened to glimpse. Both implied that he was in no way displeased with what he saw. Indeed, he was so pleased that he made what could only be characterized as a lunge for her.
He planted his lips upon hers and grasped her thigh, sliding his hand around and beneath it and wrapping her leg over his hip. He buried his face against her and then smothered her abdomen and any and all adjacent areas erotically inclined with long, lingering kisses. From there, shall we say, nature took its course. However sweetly and fervently they had made love the night before, this was at variance with every part of those couplings.
“Far too long, Lizzy,” he murmured. “It has been far too long…”
“Yes,” she agreed, although not quite certain to what it was she was agreeing, she was far too compromised by passion.
Admittedly, she found his reaction to her disfigurement somewhat odd. However, his dutiful attention to all and sundry kept her in eye-fluttering distraction for so long that the incongruity of it seemed quite beside the point. Rather than off-put, he was aroused—aroused, infused, inflamed, and altogether impaled on the pangs of lust (or to be more exact, she was impaled on the pangs of his lust). And because he was aroused, she was aroused. She was aroused to a vexatious degree. Hence, the whole of his away was very nearly recompensed in the space of that one morning.
When at last the reunification of mons veneris and mons pubis was compleat, Elizabeth was quite astonished to see that their enormous bed was still standing in the same spot and had not rattled its way across the floor. (She, most certainly, had been turned over, under, and around so many times that they were both lying sideways across the opposite side of the bed themselves—which was why she initially thought it was the bed that had shimmied its way thence.) She lay on her stomach, he on his back, rivulets of perspiration slinking down crevices still quivering in achievement.
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