The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  With these realities floating through the fogged happiness infusing his body with each rapid beat of his heart, George gradually slowed the kiss. It wasn’t the easiest act he had ever done, not by a long shot, but duty did call. Besides, he wasn’t about to vacate the house without telling her of his affection in words as well as action.

  “Jharna,” he breathed between small kisses, “I love you. I have loved you for the longest time.”

  “And I you, dear George. My priya.”

  My priya. My love.

  These words were almost his undoing. It was all he could manage not to back her onto the divan and make love to her that second. He had never wanted anyone more in his life! How he resisted was a mystery involving strength of will he did not know he possessed. He did kiss her again, hard, using the intensity to expend a particle of raging need, but when she responded in like manner, it fueled his desire to the point of drowning the last vestiges of restraint. If not for the sudden clatter of hooves from the courtyard below, followed by shouts in rapid Hindi, George was sure he would have taken those last steps to the cushions. He was also sure Jharna would not have minded one bit.

  Pulling away from her caused true physical pain. He buckled slightly, his hands running down her arms to clasp her wrists, serving as a stabilizing anchor so he did not collapse. Jharna appeared to be suffering as acutely. She was swaying and panting, heavy-lidded eyes locked on his face as they stared in silence.

  “You must come back to me, priya. Safe and soon as possible.”

  “I will, I promise. And then we will do more than kiss, Jharna. My love. I promise that as well.”

  She smiled and reached up to touch his cheek with tender fingertips. The hand still clasped around her slim wrist held on for the journey, turning her palm to meet his lips for a firm kiss. Seconds later, George pivoted and left the room. He had to or he never would, duties be damned. His last vision before galloping out the gateway was Jharna standing at the second story railing looking at him with radiating love as she bowed with hands clasped before her chest, the murmured namaste followed by I love you not audible but read on her lips and felt in his heart.

  ***

  General Arthur Wellesley with the British cavalry and infantry behind him reached Poona on April 20, 1803, and found the city intact. Amrutrao had vacated the day before, precipitously pulling his troops out rather than face the fury of the British. Haste saved the capital of the Maratha Empire from destruction but not so fortunate were the lands around. Anything edible or usable had been either consumed or plundered by the invaders. Most of the residents had scattered, deserting their homes and seeking shelter elsewhere. Peshwa Baji Rao II left Bassein and arrived in Poona on May 13, entering his palace and resuming his seat on the musnud. Ostensibly in control and safe, with a host of British and Maratha soldiers entrenched for miles about, the Peshwa launched into the work of reestablishing his government.

  Bloodshed on a major scale had been avoided. However, tension was high throughout the region. The situation between Jaswant of Holkar, the Sindhia, the Nizam of Hyderabad, and the Peshwa—just to name the principle players of the splintered Maratha Confederacy—was volatile in the extreme. Dispatches flew hourly as new intelligence was shared and decisions were made about the best plan of action. Minor skirmishes and recaptures of occupied forts and towns were frequent. The power of the British under the immediate leadership of General Wellesley, who was in constant communication with his brother, the Governor-General of India, Marquess Wellesley in Calcutta, kept matters tenuously at bay.

  Medical personnel, including Dr. Darcy who was stationed in Poona, found themselves treating patients suffering from exhaustion and overexposure more than battle wounds. The oppressive heat and rough conditions felled many a strong soldier, especially those not long dwelling in India or familiar with the jungles of the Deccan plain. It wasn’t the critical doctoring that George had anticipated when leaving Junnar, but it did serve to keep his mind occupied and not dwelling upon Jharna and the Ullas boys.

  The Ullas house was tucked into a shallow valley on the outskirts of Junnar, thankfully a small town not on a main avenue. Nevertheless, with hostile factions swarming across the breadth of Maharashtra, George could not suppress the rising panic each time a courier galloped in. He knew that Jharna’s father, the Sardar of Thana, had men guarding his daughter and other family members living at the Junnar house. He hoped it was enough and that any passing troops would respect the office of Sardar. He wrote often to let them know he was well and hear of their well-being in return. Neither he nor Jharna wrote a word of what had passed between them, instinctively sensing it was best to discuss their feelings in person.

  Administrative duties kept Deputy Surgeon-General Dr. George Darcy very busy in the weeks ahead. George focused on the daily problems that arose, dividing his time among reports to Dr. Trenowyth in Bassein, managerial tasks for all the medical corps for the Company, and tending to patients. A handful of people deemed it inappropriate for the deputy to roll up his sleeves and perform surgery. Of course, those people thought Dr. Darcy odd in a number of ways, especially in how he dressed, since George wore Indian garments unless forced to do otherwise, even opting for one of his many elaborate sherwanis over a constricting English ensemble for formal occasions. Add to that his habit of spending a period of each morning in a quiet place practicing hatha yoga, dining with the natives on their cuisine, speaking Hindi as well as one born there, and a host of similar oddities. Still, none could argue his superior medical skills, superb health, inexhaustible stamina, excellent supervision, and fine personality. He could be relied upon for relieving humor or empathy or firm command or whatever else was perfect for the situation. To the majority of those in contact with him, Dr. Darcy was a rock depended upon and highly admired. He could not deny that authority sat well on his shoulders, no one more surprised than he at how naturally he had assumed the mantle of leadership.

  A month passed before he saw a break in the madness wide enough to maybe, just maybe, allow him an opportunity to slip away. Negotiations had concluded, an apology and reconciliation between the Peshwa and Amrutrao, this agreement settling the interior as well as possible under the present circumstances and rattling the composure of their enemies. Jaswant had moved to the northwest, closer to the territories held by the Nizam, his intentions unclear. Politically, the treaty with the Peshwa held but was shaky at best. General Wellesley was not pleased with the Peshwa’s lack of support in regards to supplying troops and the aid of the Sardars. Nevertheless, bolstered by native soldiers or not, the bigger concern was Company business and the need for stability in the region. Thus, the general planned to march north by early June, hoping to continue the quest for peaceful negotiations. War was certainly not best for trade, but neither was the disintegration of the Maratha Confederacy.

  Luckily for George, the standstill meant that his services were not essential. A year of hard work paid off in that the medical corps was now running flawlessly with a large number of skilled professionals. George knew they could handle their assigned duties without needing the Deputy Surgeon-General breathing down their necks. Leaving orders to send for him if anything changed in the next two weeks, George mounted Rathore and Anoop his pony, the two men joining three soldiers tasked to ensure their safety reaching Junnar.

  They traveled the fifty miles at a swift pace, arriving at the house as dusk was falling. Every last inhabitant of the manor was standing in the inner courtyard when they rode through the open gates. Servants and family alike swarmed around them, greeting as if welcoming returning heroes not seen for years, Nimesh and Sasi at the forefront. It was flattering, Anoop especially loving the attention.

  George was unsure of his emotional reaction to the place he called home and he doubted whether remaining nonchalant was possible when every scenario involved sweeping Jharna into his arms and kissing until neither could breathe. He tried to find her in th
e swirling crowd and suspected she hung back, probably doubting her own poise as well as his. Good call, he thought as he engulfed the Ullas boys with his long arms, squeezing tight.

  “God, look at you two! I swear you have grown another foot in the past month.”

  “I am almost as tall as Nimesh!” Sasi declared. Nimesh had inherited his father’s build and at sixteen was an inch or two over five-feet tall and likely not to grow much more. “You missed my day of birth, chacha-jee. I am thirteen now!”

  “Yes I know, Sasi. I have a gift for you in my bags. I would not forget.”

  “I have news, too, chacha.” Nimesh’s voice was calmer than his brother’s but with a tremor of ebullience evident to George amid the clamor. “I have been accepted as apprentice to Vaidya Rajani. He wishes me to begin immediately, but mata-jee is insisting I wait until I am seventeen. You must speak with her and convince her otherwise.”

  George laughed at the young man’s earnest face. “Oh, I must, must I? And what makes you think I have any influence over your mata-jee’s opinions?”

  “You are a doctor, too, and started your education at my age, just as my pita did. You can make her see reason!”

  “I shall do my best,” George nodded, ruffling Nimesh’s hair.

  Over the youth’s shoulder, he spied Jharna standing on the stone steps before the main dining area, far enough away not to have heard the words spoken, although George suspected she knew what Nimesh would blurt out first. She was smiling, her dark eyes soft and tender as they caressed his face, yet one delicate brow was arched and she winked after sweeping her gaze briefly to Nimesh. The message made George laugh and served to defuse the tension coiled inside.

  This is how it feels to come home.

  All through the evening, as they sat around the open table in the loose manner of Indian dining and fellowship, George and Jharna shared warm looks filled with promise. Purposefully, they kept distance and people between them, yet it wasn’t a matter of not trusting themselves to act as mature adults rather than randy adolescents. It was the sweetness of enjoying his homecoming and contentment with their fledgling relationship while their mutual anticipation built. Nevertheless, George was happy to bid good night to everyone, the dispersal gradual until he was alone in the parlor waiting for Jharna.

  She crept silently through the door, closing it behind her and treading on bare feet to where George stood by the patio threshold. A gentle breeze blew off the river, not enough to notably cool the heat igniting his skin but brisk enough to stir his hair where it fell loose on his shoulders. Jharna’s hair was twisted and pinned at the nape of her neck. The jeweled clips twinkled in the low lamplight, beckoning to George to remove them, a task he intended to perform as soon as possible. Right after he slowly removed the multicolored sari draped over her lush body, that is. No longer restricted by the presence of others, George allowed his eyes to convey his desire. Hungrily he watched her graceful approach, sweeping over the swell of her breasts and sway of her hips with visible appreciation.

  “You are so beautiful.”

  Neither reached for the other. Instead, they enjoyed the moment of simply feeling the myriad emotions spinning between them. It amazed George that this could feel so perfectly right when not yet having officially begun. How much better would it be once they had taken the step of expressing their love physically? How incredible would it be to be one in mind, body, and soul? George shivered in anticipation.

  Jharna interpreted that as a signal. Or perhaps her plan was already formed. George did not know, but when she clasped his hand, smiling with a divine mixture of sensuality and teasing lilt as she led him from the room, it did not matter. He was unaware of the stones and carpets under his soles as they traversed the corridors and steps until reaching her chambers. George had never been inside her private quarters and should have been curious how she decorated her inner sanctuary. Not tonight. He didn’t care to see where the bed was or what it looked like. He was sure she had one and that was enough for now. No, he could not and would not remove his eyes from her. Jharna was all that mattered.

  Without a word, he cupped her face between his palms and bent until so close to her lips that he could smell the spices carried on each of her panting breaths. “I love you, Jharna.” And before she could answer, he engulfed her mouth lightly but insistently, expressing the depth of his love with a kiss.

  Passion kept at bay flared instantly. Hearts already beating fast increased to a painful tempo. Warmth flowing through heightened nerves burst into a flaming inferno that miraculously did not scorch the sensitized endings but increased the impressions. Breathing already quickened leapt until harsh rasps were audible between the muffled exclamations of enjoyment as they kissed.

  The reaction was blissful and overwhelming. George flew with the tide, embracing Jharna and drawing her close to his body as his head whirled in the grips of savage craving. It was Jharna who restored a modicum of clarity when she stiffened ever so faintly before wiggling out of his arms.

  She only moved a half pace away, one hand curled around his shoulder and the other pressed against her lips. She stared at him with eyes dilated and wide. Wild passion radiated from her, a hunger every bit as uncontrollable as his written on her face. Yet there was something else that confused him.

  “What is it, Jharna?”

  “You,” she wheezed, “us… surprise me.”

  And then he understood.

  George recognized the depth of passion between them as something he had never experienced. He had known many lovers, some of whom were skilled and capable of instigating zealous excitement leading to immense satisfaction. Only one had he loved and that was so long ago and he so young that the memory was vague. He yearned for a mature relationship based on intense love, knew he had found that with Jharna, and relished discovering how that would affect the act of lovemaking.

  Jharna had only been with Kshitij, but they had loved deeply. From the startled cast to her eyes, it was clear that their love had not translated to uncontainable passion behind closed doors. George had assumed that what he felt with Jharna as new to him would be familiar to her. Obviously that was not the case. The abrupt rush of relief and rising gratification in knowing that together they would discover the secret of loving the one who owned your heart was heady.

  George tugged gently on her waist, bringing her back in contact with his body. He arched one brow and poured every ounce of his arrogant charm into his grin.

  “You should know by now, Jharna love, that I am full of surprises.”

  Her giggle quickly transformed into a gasp when he pressed his lips to the pulse at her neck. George was no less affected by the nearness of her than before—more so as he traveled leisurely along the delicious slope of her neck, tasting the jasmine and musk bathing her silky brown skin—but a measure of control had asserted itself.

  “This is one night of hundreds we shall share, priya,” he whispered against her ear, pausing to draw the lobe between his lips for a gentle suck, “but it is our first. Surprises are only beginning for us, and they shall all be wonderful.”

  While he spoke, one hand glided over her back with feathering pressure designed to soothe as well as thrill. By the susurrate noises she was emitting and dreamy writhing of her body, he knew she was responding positively to his lazy maneuvers and reassuring words. The pin holding the folds of her sari at her left shoulder was released, the satin sliding sensuously through his fingers as he lowered the fabric until it draped over his arm. He couldn’t resist leaving the pleasure of her neck to gaze down at her chest. The choli Jharna wore under her sari covered her torso to just above her navel, the linen dyed a bright blue and edged with the matching fabric of her sari. It was tight, as cholis typically were, and thus displayed the perfect contours of her full breasts and hard-peaked nipples, leaving little to the imagination. Desire to bare her completely so the final mystery of whether the fle
sh was as smoky as the rest of her made him salivate. Would her nipples be crimson as pagoda flowers or perhaps dark as ripe figs? His hands trembled with the urgency to rip the thin material away. Instead, he met her eyes, grinning once again before stepping back a pace and, with a small tug and push, made her pivot around as he unwrapped the sari from her waist.

  Jharna was caught up in his silliness, lifting her arms above her head and laughing as she twirled. Each circle added to the pile accumulating in George’s arms until the sari was undone, leaving nothing but her choli and thin drawstring skirt riding low on her hips. He could see the outline of her legs underneath, slim and shapely all the way to her curved buttocks. Snapping his eyes away from the dimly visible triangular patch at the apex of her legs before reason vacated his mind, George focused on her face. Jharna, to his surprise, seemed to have lost her momentary nervousness. She was standing tall and proud, not a hint of a blush on her cheeks and no attempt to hide her assets from his scrutiny. Rather she was unconscious of how her breasts rose and fell enticingly with each pant or that the sheen of perspiration moistening her skin caused the gossamer material to cling. She was too busy drinking in his body, George realizing that although still clothed in a loose kurta, sweat had dampened it against the hard ridges of his chest and the form-fitting shalwar worn for riding provided minimal room to hide the evidence of his arousal.

  Noting the unrestrained avarice washing across her face, George doubted at this point that Jharna wasn’t as excited as he and that any residual hesitancy would evaporate the second he touched her. Still, this humorous foreplay was rather enjoyable! With a grand flourish, he flipped the sari in the air and let it float down until covering his entire body, only his face visible.