Loving Mr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  Darcy shook his head, lips pursed. “No to the idol. I prefer to offer my worship upon your physical body. As for the hedge,” he said, nodding, “I shall give it some thought.”

  “Ha!” Lizzy pinched his side. “Good luck on that one. I am positive Mr. Clark would flatly refuse if you requested such an atrocity on his grounds.”

  “His grounds?” Darcy said with lifted brow.

  Lizzy laughed. “Make no mistake, William. You own the estate and pay the bills, but when it comes to the landscaping, Mr. Clark is king.”

  Chesterfield, although the second largest town in Derbyshire, was a third the size and population of Derby. Initially this disparity was not evident, the bustling activity along the streets fairly intense. Chesterfield's central location on the northeastern region of the county, coupled with lying on the northern road to Sheffield, ensured a steady traffic.

  “Why do you never travel here, William? Chesterfield is closer to Pemberley than Derby.”

  Darcy shrugged. “I have no business ventures here, and Derby has more to offer in both commerce and entertainment. Frankly, I tend not to travel there all that much. In the past, prior to marrying you”—he bent for a kiss to her brow—“I passed so much time in London that I had little need to venture afield once at Pemberley. You are correct that Chesterfield is nearer to us. One can be here in an hour by carriage, far less on a fast horse. We should keep this in mind as we wander about. It may be a more reasonable alternative, my love, if you need wares not attainable in Lambton or Matlock.”

  The carriage pulled into a long drive before a substantial sized inn entirely constructed of multihued river stones. Numerous singular stone cottages and moderate two-story buildings were scattered about the extensive, park-like property. The whole campus bordered the River Hipper.

  Lizzy was gazing out the carriage window in awe. “This is a lovely inn for such a modest town. Are they expecting us?” She turned to her husband with questioning eyes.

  “No, but that is immaterial. We are the Darcys. They will have a room for us.” He said it bluntly and absently, Lizzy taken aback momentarily; then she remembered with a start the truth of his words, especially as the carriage halted and five livery garbed servants leapt forward to assist with their luggage while Phillips hopped down and opened the door. They were greeted formally by the hotel's superintendent, the man fawning as if welcoming the Prince Regent himself. Darcy assumed his full Master of Pemberley pose, the semblance natural and anticipated in these sorts of situations.

  Lizzy, after months in London, was quite familiar with this presentation of her privately boyish, casual spouse. Therefore, it no longer shocked her and, in fact, sent little shivers of excitement up her spine. She adored both aspects of Darcy's personality: the charming, teasing, passionate man that he was when relaxed as well as the commanding, forceful, aristocratic man of means who was every inch a Darcy.

  Within minutes, they were escorted to a secluded cottage on the edge of the river. Samuel and Marguerite instantly set about unpacking Lizzy's and Darcy's personal effects; a maid arrived with freshly cut flowers and to open the windows; a servant with a tray of wine, cheeses, and bread appeared; and a last materialized to provide an orientation to the cottage's facilities. It was a whirlwind, and Lizzy was exhausted by the time they all departed.

  As soon as the door closed behind the last maid, Lizzy slumped onto the sofa with a heavy sigh. “My, my! What an ordeal. The rooms are delightful though. Have you stayed here before?”

  Darcy was at the sidebar pouring a whiskey. He shook his head, taking a large swallow. “No. I asked the manager at the Georgian in Derby for the best lodging Chesterfield had to offer, and he recommended this: the Royal Cottages. I shall have to send a note of thanks. The grounds alone are worth the expense.” He gazed out the window as he sipped his drink.

  “Well, I like the privacy of a separate dwelling with our own patio and river view.” Lizzy rose, approaching her daydreaming husband, slipping both arms about his waist, and nestling her head between his shoulder blades. “Lost in thought, my love?”

  “Forgive me, dearest. I was merely trying to decide what to do next. Stroll about the grounds? Walk into town and see the sights? Or remove all your clothes and make love?”

  “What a dilemma, Mr. Darcy. What shall you do?”

  He laughed, pulling her around and clasping her face. “First, I shall kiss you, my wife, as I have yearned to do all day.” He did, Lizzy rapidly growing weak in the knees from the power of his allure and love as poured was evident from his kiss. Such a simple thing a kiss is, yet potent to a degree unmatched by any other force on earth. Darcy encircled her waist, pressing her tightly to his body. Both allowed the magic of the kiss to course through their beings, the indescribable intimacy of this fundamental act of devotion bonding them.

  Darcy broke away with a contented sigh, resting his forehead on hers. “My Elizabeth, how tremendously I love you. So much so that I do not wish to rush loving you.” He brushed her lips tenderly with a feathering tickle of his tongue. “Let us walk a bit, my heart, explore, and enjoy each other's company. Tonight I shall make love to you slowly, no haste whatsoever, followed by endless hours of bliss in your arms.” He withdrew, meeting her eyes with a smile; Lizzy's expression suffused with passion and clearly undecided regarding waiting. Darcy chuckled softly, bestowed a brief buss to her nose. “Anticipation is sweet, lover. Now, write a note to the Sitwells, and then we shall survey the land.”

  They stopped at the lobby to obtain a general map of the town and information from the manager as to the main attractions. Darcy called for the coachman to deliver the missive to Reniswahl Hall, and then he and Lizzy set out. They walked through the immediate surrounds, highly impressed by the finely landscaped gardens so perfectly merged with the natural vegetation by the river. Enormous trees grew haphazardly, offering shade and providing the beginning carpet of autumn leaves of red and gold that padded the cobblestone pathways. An arched stone bridge spanned the narrow, placid river, Chesterfield proper looming on the far side. Ducks and swans paddled serenely across the still water.

  Like all English towns of ancient ancestry, there are always the occasional stories to tell. Chesterfield was no exception, although the vast majority of the town was fairly modern and the region relatively devoid of any truly exciting history. A narrow street known as The Shambles held the claim as the oldest part of town, dating from the twelfth century. It was an area of tea houses, small exclusive shops, and a pub called the Royal Oak, which was reputedly once a resting place for the medieval Knights Templar.

  The shopping district was inclusive, even boasting a small toy store that Lizzy forbid Darcy to enter. They did a bit of shopping, purchasing four baby outfits which were simply too adorable to resist. Darcy noticed the rare bookstore on the far side of the street prior to Lizzy, grasping her arm and propelling her onto the road, narrowly avoiding a pile of horse droppings in his enthusiasm. No doubt the highlight of that leg of their trip was finding a Chaucer, Thomas Paine's Rights of Man, and Molière's Le Misanthrope in the original French that he promised to read to Lizzy, who had read the English translation but nonetheless delighted in hearing his melodious voice speaking French.

  Late afternoon found them before another church. Here was the one true oddity and tourist attraction of Chesterfield. The thirteenth century church, dedicated to Saint Mary and all Saints, was beautifully constructed of grey and gold bricks in the typical cruciform formation, with tall arched windows gracing the sides and above the main entrance. Both the interior and exterior was a marvel of ornate craftsmanship at its finest. However, it was the spire atop the clock tower which lent the church its uniqueness and countrywide fame. Apparently, the architects erred in their engineering and erection. The two-hundred-foot spire of wood was built perfectly and then covered with over thirty tons of stunning lead tiles in a herringbone style, a massive cross at the pinnacle. It was brilliant and surely struck awe in all who beheld it. Un
fortunately, the error was in utilizing unseasoned wood, which, as it gradually dried over the centuries, had been twisted by the sheer weight of the tiles. Now, the once reportedly spectacular but standard spire, was yearly changing as it continued to spiral incrementally, creating a wonder both strange and extraordinary.

  They returned to the inn as dusk was descending. Deciding to dine early so they could spend the remainder of the evening in quiet, casual solitude was Darcy's idea and was met with his wife's smiling approval. Therefore, by eight, they were reclining in their sitting room in robes, Molière imparted in flawless resonant French to a rapt Lizzy. She sat propped against the sofa arm, her feet on her husband's lap being softly massaged while she knit a blue baby blanket. Lizzy did not understand a word, but this was inconsequential as far as she was concerned. The joy was in hearing Darcy's voice and the placid companionship engendered in these relaxed enterprises.

  “I finished!” she announced with pride and relief. “How does it look?”

  She held the small blanket up, Darcy reaching over to touch the edge. “It is so soft. Is this special yarn for infants?”

  She nodded. “Yes. It is woven to be pliable and tender to their delicate skin. Harsh wool would be scratchy and leave a rash.”

  “Oh. I did not remember that their skin was so sensitive. It makes sense, I suppose. Foals have fine hair and delicate hides initially.”

  Lizzy laughed. “Well, I do not expect our child will be covered with hair nor have a hide necessarily, but his skin will be fair and very soft, like velvet.” She cocked her head. “Have you truly not seen or touched a baby, William?”

  He shrugged. “I remember Georgie when she was small. Her skin was nearly translucent it was so fair. Minute veins visible and she had little hair. I recall mother bemoaning in jest how bald she was.” He smiled in memory. “Mother said I was born with a mass of dark hair, so perhaps our son will be as well.” He paused, still stroking the blanket with faraway eyes. “The blanket is beautiful, my love. You knit masterfully despite your disdain for the activity. As for the answer to your question, I have seen infants in perambulators about the park, held by parents as they stroll, that sort of thing. However, I have not, since Georgiana, actually touched nor really examined one. I confess this with trepidation as you will likely decide I am unfit to hold our child, and you would be wise to do so.” He smiled, laying one hand on her belly.

  Lizzy shook her head. “You are mistaken, love. I have no fears whatsoever as to your competence as a father.” Darcy beamed, leaning forward to initiate his ritualistic conversation with his child, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  He rose with a frown, tightening his robe as he walked to the door. Lizzy observed him, always delighting in his fine figure so perfectly displayed when robed. It was a servant delivering an envelope. “It is from the Sitwells,” he declared, handing the letter to Lizzy and promptly resuming his interrupted task.

  Darcy spoke French endearments, Lizzy reading Julia Sitwell's letter with a giggle. “Julia insists we visit tomorrow afternoon and stay for dinner. She even enclosed a sketch map with noted interesting sights between here and there. She says Mr. Sitwell is already chalking his cue, determined to triumph over you.”

  Darcy snorted. “Highly unlikely that. Rory has never been proficient at billiards. I taught him when we were at Cambridge, but he never readily grasped the game. His hand to eye coordination is horrendous. Now, give the man a deck of cards or dice and a genius emerges. His tactic is to mellow me by gracefully losing several billiard sets then roping me into faro and emptying my money clip.” He kissed above her navel, resting his cheek on her mound. “I shall ensure I have adequate funds on hand so our host will feel vindicated. Ah, there you are my son! He was being very sedate tonight.”

  “Perhaps he did not recognize your voice in French. You confused his fragile mind.” Lizzy ran her fingers through Darcy's hair, smiling at the sweet vision of her husband's head lying on her abdomen, one hand gently stroking her belly.

  “Pardonnez-moi, mon petit fils, mon enfant précieux. English hereafter, until you are older. Then, alas, you must learn French, and more.” He lifted slightly, peeling Lizzy's gown upward until bare flesh was revealed. He kissed her belly again, stroking and talking quietly. “How big do you think he is? Do you recall what the book said for the sixth month?” He glanced up at Lizzy, who shook her head.

  “I believe it said a little over a pound. Still so small to cause me to swell so,” she finished with a frown.

  Darcy raised a brow. “Are you concerned, beloved? You should not be, as you are beautiful. This”—he kissed her belly once more—“is beautiful. It is only for a short span of time, my heart, and then you shall be thin again.”

  “How can you be so certain of that, William? Women's bodies do alter dramatically after childbirth, or so I am told.”

  He rose, threading his way up her body until fully over her and caressing her face. “Not always, Elizabeth. My mother birthed three children and was as tiny as when a maiden. You have seen the portraits. Aunt Madeline is comely and she has birthed four. I imagine there are alterations. Subtle changes a husband would notice such as those stretches Uncle George spoke of. In the end, these marks are a part of aging and a God-given reminder of human travails and, in the case of childbirth, the miracles of motherhood and life.” He smiled into his wife's eyes and kissed her softly.

  “All that being said,” he continued, “my love and desire for you is not based on the appearance of your body. That is not to say I do not adore your shape, your perfect breasts and lush bottom, and all points head to toe. However, it is your heart I love, my wife. Whatever the flesh encasing the soul, it is you I yearn for and need to survive. This will never diminish.”

  He kissed her deeply, hand stroking down her side and pulling one leg over his waist. Breathlessly, lips near her ear, he resumed, “When I become aroused by you, my precious love, I am not thinking of your flesh, but of you. Who you are, how you love me and touch my soul. How your gorgeous eyes caress me and gaze with love upon me. How I am fulfilled by your presence in my life. How you have gifted me with your devotion and promises and commitment.”

  He withdrew, fingering over her parted lips. “Elizabeth, my eternal love. Your body is rapturous to me not because it is perfection, but because it is yours. I fell in love with you ere I began imagining what figure hid under your clothing. Your luscious shape has exceeded my imaginings, but I know my love and passion for you would be as strong if you had eleven toes or a big birthmark or hairs on your chest or…”

  Lizzy chuckled softly, halting him with a kiss. “Fitzwilliam,” she purred, delving deeply into his blue eyes that shone with pure love, “I love you.”

  He smiled. “There is to what I refer. No one on this earth says my name so that I melt as heated wax while becoming hard as iron simultaneously. Only you, my Lizzy, now and forever.” He claimed her mouth with fervid passion yet caressed gently, robe opened as he joined with his wife in blissful harmony.

  Lizzy sighed in happiness, his adoring professions coupled with the feel of him loving her bathing her in joy and reassurance. He moved slowly, caressing—always caressing—as he kissed her. Lizzy pulled the robe off his shoulder, gliding a hand over his back and hugging him closer. Traveling lips along his jaw to ear and shifting to encompass his body with all her limbs, Darcy moaned faintly as Lizzy whispered, “Fitzwilliam, how do you know precisely what to say to fill my heart and restore my confidence?”

  He lifted his upper body so he could see her face, halting all movement momentarily, fingers fondling each feature and kissing tenderly. “I only speak the truth in my heart, Elizabeth. You have no reason to suffer negative emotions regarding my love for you and undying devotion, but I shall offer comfort and assurance every waking second if necessary.” He resumed his steady rhythm with a breathy growl. “Additionally, I shall make love to you endlessly and adoringly. My wife, my own love. So beautiful you are to me. Elizab
eth,” he finished in a reverent whisper.

  Grasping his face with a sudden burst of passionate enthusiasm, Lizzy pressed into his mouth, Darcy responding immediately. Never relenting in her kiss, Lizzy next attacked his robe, struggling to free his arms to her touch. Darcy attempted to assist yet refused to cease kissing or moving, the conjoint endeavor on the narrow sofa humorously spiraling.

  They both began to giggle, the robe catching on his elbows so that when he tried to rise he began to sway off the couch. Desperately seeking a grip on something to correct his precarious perch and imbalance, he clutched the only thing at hand: her thigh. As a result, they both tumbled onto the floor in a heap, laughing hysterically.

  His laughter, combined with the breath being knocked from his lungs as a result of hitting the hardwood floor and Lizzy's legs squashing his chest, had Darcy gasping. Laughing, Lizzy strived to right herself, silken robe and gown tangled about her legs.

  At length she knelt beside her teary-eyed, wheezing spouse. “William? Are you all right? Oh my goodness, you look so ridiculous!” She dissolved in further giggles, bending to kiss his cheeks and reaching to disencumber him. His arms were trapped at odd angles under his body, robe askew and bunched bizarrely about his nakedness. She sat him up; his robe finally slipped from arms that he instantly threw about her waist with hands flattened on her back, pressing in for a thorough kiss. Still snickering, she captured his lower lip between her teeth and fondled his groin.

  Darcy groaned, hands sliding to her bottom but Lizzy jumped up and stepped back. The puzzled pout crossing his features escalated her humor. “Elizabeth?” She shushed him, flouncing as she removed her robe with a twirl, trailing the ends over his face before releasing the silk to fall as a cloud onto his head.

  “Come, lover. Catch me if you can.” The gown followed the robe in a pile on his head, Darcy sweeping blindly for her legs but she was gone. Moments later, entering the modest bedchamber Darcy found his lovely bride stretched languidly and deliciously in the middle of the bed. “What took you so long?” she teased, opening her arms with hands reaching.