Lizzy grinned salaciously, eyes brightening, and ran one foot seductively along his bare leg to inner thigh. “Hmmm… What sort of activity, Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy burst out laughing, again startling Alexander who jerked and fluttered his eyelids, wiggled and rubbed his tiny face into his father’s scratchy, hair-covered skin before capturing the first two fingers of his right hand and returning to slumber happily sucking. Darcy patted the infant’s back placatingly, attempting to croon amid the escaping chuckles.
“You, my insatiable love, have a wicked mind! I was referring to a competition over the backgammon board, as your fangs always come out with that game. However, I suppose my direction could be altered if you so desire. I intend to stay awake until Watson informs me the celebrants have returned anyway.”
Now he was grinning salaciously while Lizzy reddened slightly, but returned his smile. “Well, since we have until then I imagine we can do both. I have not properly trounced you in backgammon for weeks, so a humbling is in order.” She jumped up, leaning over husband and baby and bestowing a chaste kiss to inviting lips. “I will put him to bed while you set up the board. Say your prayers, Mr. Darcy, as I fully intend to spank you until you beg for mercy.”
Darcy grasped behind her neck, halting her mere inches away from his mouth. “Are we still talking about backgammon?”
But she did not answer, smirking instead with a lifted brow and tiny shrug.
The first three games were serious affairs. Darcy had discovered far back in his youth the horrid ill luck he possessed with dice and cards. It was a running jest for as long as he could remember and legendary amongst his peers. That is not to say he never prevailed in the rare game of chance or refused to partake altogether. Rory Sitwell, especially, was fond of gambling card games and Darcy had learned that even though he would likely eventually lose every last pence, the competition and male camaraderie could be moderately amusing. The main problem, aside from inherently being a man of financial sensibility, was that Darcy hated defeat.
Backgammon was a game that required a melding of both skill and luck at dice. Lizzy was blessed with an eerily magical talent for rolling doubles or the precise combination needed to either hit Darcy’s checker and send it to the bar or keep her checkers together. Darcy seldom rolled doubles and was forever forced to separate his checkers into lone blots on a pip just waiting for his ruthless wife to knock them back. Lizzy was a fierce competitor, which Darcy loved, as he was also. His saving grace was a patience and tactical strategy that Lizzy lacked. Her swift, impulsive moves often proved her undoing. Although in the long run Darcy lost more often than he won, the victories were enough to sustain his interest and retard utter humiliation. Plus, he simply adored any entertainment undertaken with his wife.
Darcy surprisingly won the first game, barely. Lizzy won the second by a fair margin and the third was a slaughter with Darcy passing three rolls of his dice unable to release the two checkers captured on the middle bar. Lizzy gloated while setting up the board yet again, Darcy suddenly distracted by the fact that during the intensity of the past rounds, the old, voluminous robe had loosened and was now gaping open to reveal tantalizing glimpses of a succulent bosom. He opted not to point out the fact, praying fervently that she would remain ignorant as the game commenced.
For the first time in a long while, Darcy paid not the slightest attention to plotting and maneuvering. In fact, he barely noticed the fall of the dice, absently relocating from pip to pip before returning his rapt gaze to the ever increasing view of flesh before him. Lizzy’s frown deepened as she studied the board with undisguised chagrin. Her husband was thwarting her every move, rolling the perfect combinations, and clearly on the road to annihilating her! With more than half her checkers still scattered about, Darcy rolled a shocking double six, taking his blood-deprived brain completely by surprise upon realizing that he had just won the game! He blinked several times, Lizzy releasing a snort of disgust as she fell back into her chair.
The abrupt movement and contact with the hard chair back caused her breasts to bounce delightfully above their stays, Lizzy flushing as she realized her entire front torso and one shoulder were exposed.
Darcy’s gaze was instantly riveted, the final checker falling randomly onto the board. “Stop,” he commanded when she reached to close the robe. In seconds he was beside her, Lizzy standing without thought, separating the robe completely and running warm hands around her waist toward the short corset’s ties in back. He pulled her tightly into his body and bent to administer lazy licks to her breasts; his pleased wife encircled his broad shoulders and moaning faintly. Darcy skillfully released the undergarment, never halting the delicious and highly arousing oral attention given to each breast.
“Are we finished with backgammon then?” Lizzy whispered in a voice caught between breathless excitement and teasing sauciness, fingers tightly enmeshed in his thick brown hair.
Darcy’s husky voice rose from the depths of her cleavage, words spaced as lips continued their assault, “I am now more than ready to cry for mercy while you spank or in any way choose to exert your superiority over me, Mrs. Darcy. I am utterly at your disposal and in your power.”
“Careful what you wish for, my lover. I am very clever, remember?”
She tugged his head away, meeting darkly glittering orbs of blue before pulling in for a searing kiss, running forceful hands down his robe covered back until encountering a firm derriere.
Darcy’s knees buckled slightly at her rough clench to his bottom, gasping for air as he withdrew an inch or so from her devastating lips while simultaneously crushing her lower body into his with a grinding writhe. “Lizzy! Unbelievable minx and temptress. Anything… anything you want of me and it is yours!”
She answered with a tender bite to his lower lip. “I only want you, Fitzwilliam. Take me to bed.”
Darcy was no longer stupefied by the apparently bottomless depths of amorous arousal they both elicited in the other. He never took it for granted, but had gradually come to accept it as what was obviously a natural offshoot of their tremendous love. Perhaps in some small part of his psyche he sheltered an egotistical sliver of pride at his raging virility, but he gave the credit to her. The undeniable fact was that, although virtuous upon his marriage, Darcy was a functional man and never had he attained the levels of arousal, even when in the first blooms of manhood, that he did with Elizabeth.
Lizzy suffered no shock at her wantonness and was abundantly clear about how smug she was in the power to raise her husband’s passion. She wasted no mental effort in analyzing their desire for each other, simply employing every tactic that occurred to her at any given moment to please him, which always worked and in turn massively pleased her.
Their lovemaking had assumed a life of its own, and tonight they entered a place caught blissfully between wild, animalistic fervor and playful teasing. They reached heavenly completion in unity, their bodies not once more than inches apart and hands constantly moving.
Still gasping, sight and clarity slowly restored as Lizzy stroked the rigid thigh lying alongside hers while his sweaty and shaking body adhered to her backside and crushed her into the soft mattress. Lizzy murmured into the pillow, “This is far better than dancing at a ball.”
Darcy chuckled, breath tickling her ear and hoarse voice reverberating through her back. “No regrets, my lover?”
“Lord no! Only in that I must request you move as I cannot breathe.”
He chuckled again, kissing softly to the luscious bend of her neck before complying. He rolled away from her back, but brought her with him, wide palms supporting full breasts and fingers teasing sensitive nipples. She allowed this erotic after-play for a moment and then turned in his arms.
“I love you, William.”
“I love you, Elizabeth.” He kissed her nose.
“Do you still intend to stay awake until they return? After expending this much energy, I find it difficult to believe you will manage it.” She accen
tuated her tease with a well placed fondle, Darcy retrieving her gentle fingers with a heavenly sigh.
“You know me well, dearest. It will not be easy at all to hold you in my arms and not surrender to gratified slumber, but I want to make sure they arrive safely. The roads are slick in places.” He embraced her tighter, nestling into the bed as they naturally assumed their customary positions with her head lying perfectly on his inner shoulder with body loosely draped over and molding to his.
She idly played with the damp hairs on his chest, sleep rapidly consuming her malleable flesh, contentment and sheer sexual gratification overflowing. “You are a good man.” She yawned, snuggling even closer. “I fear you have expertly leeched every ounce of energy from my bones so I make no promise to wait with you.”
“Do not try, love.” He kissed her head. “Alexander will have you up soon enough. Sleep, my Lizzy.”
Chapter Ten
Masquerade
The Cole family was a Derbyshire staple for nearly as long as the Darcys. Only slightly less wealthy and with acreage roughly three-fourths the size of Pemberley, the Coles were the second largest landowners of the region. As one of the foremost landed gentry for centuries, the Coles—even without Sir Walter Cole’s honorary title gained as a reward for bravery during the Anglo-Dutch War of 1780—were a prestigious family and their home reflected their prominence. Not quite as grand as Pemberley, Melcourt Hall was nonetheless an imposing structure and currently extravagantly festooned and ablaze with light.
Caroline Bingley did not approach tonight’s ball with the thinly veiled contempt felt at the Meryton assemblies. She had never resided at Pemberley during the winter season so had not attended one of Sir Cole’s masquerades, but she knew the family’s reputation as a distinguished one. Moreover, the opportunity to dazzle and further advance her fame was always grasped onto with vigor. One never knew what possibilities could arise at such an affair.
Kitty was innocently exuberant. The thought of dancing and being amid a festival atmosphere was enough to enthuse, and despite the caution impressed upon her over the past week as to proper society behavior, she was musing on little besides the potential fun to be had. Georgiana felt residuals of nervousness, but excitement had overtaken the jitters. Warm, encouraging smiles from Richard greatly calmed her fears. Jane Bingley, much like Lizzy the year before, felt the need to present herself in the most positive light feasible. Charles Bingley’s residence was recent, but with the hope of constructing the foundation for a future in the community, this Derbyshire societal fête was step one in establishing those roots.
The annual masque truly was an event with a capital E. Peers of the realm and elite gentry from all over Derbyshire as well as a handful from nearby Cheshire, Nottinghamshire, and South Yorkshire attended. Hazardous weather often influenced the resultant luminaries, but never was the ball a failure. Thankfully, the climate over the past several days had mellowed somewhat, with no fresh snow falling and the skies fairly clear. It remained bitterly cold, but this fact inhibited no one from traveling nor affected the abundant display of female flesh in stylish gowns. Rather, it provided the excuse to don fine furs as an additional example of one’s wealth and prestige.
Fashions alter during a year, both men’s and women’s. Hairstyles change, trendy accessories vary, topics of gossip fluctuate, dance techniques and music transform, entertainments differ, and even the privileged bon ton suffer vacillating membership. Certain traditions do persevere, however, and one was the apparent necessity for the youthful single ladies to collect strategically, so as to chatter about the latest happenings while unobtrusively observing the arrivals. Strict, unwritten codes of etiquette meant that the now married ladies who had contributed to the rumor mongering last year now stood with their peers. This in no way diminished the group, as there were always new additions to take their place. Thus a knot of glitteringly dressed and adorned debutantes on the prowl stood in several loose clusters about the foyer edges.
“Oh! Here comes Miss Vernor!” Miss Hattie Kennan declared. All eyes turned to the doorway with enthusiasm as the Vernors, older and younger, completed their greetings with the Coles. Miss Bertha broke away from her parents, smile brilliant and left hand extended as she dashed to meet her friends. Finally putting aside her acute disappointment and anguish over losing Mr. Darcy, Bertha had discovered a wealth of suitors clamoring for her attention. The past year had been quite a delightful one for the stunned young lady, and her maneuvering mother, as the prospective choices multiplied. Sadly for Mr. Bates and Mr. Sitwell, Bertha was not inclined toward either. Rather, she had immersed herself in the exhilarating amusement to be found with a myriad of beaus, waiting patiently for the right one. That place was eventually inhabited by the eminently worthy and deliciously handsome Baronet Niles Ramsey from Nottinghamshire, the engagement having been announced just last month.
“Dear Bertha!” Miss Astin Fairholm cried. “I have been dying to talk to you and see the ring! Look! Oh, how beautiful.”
Congratulations and swooning persisted for quite some time, other friends meandering by to gush over the ring and her conquest. Miss Vernor was not the only newly affianced, Miss Ewell and Miss Irvine also receiving and accepting proposals in recent months. Of course, as exciting as secured engagements, and they most assuredly were since every last maiden there dreamed of little else, the discussions involved a glut of intriguing material with voices frequently colliding.
“My brother tells me that Lord Blaisdale is coming to the Masque,” Miss Amy Hughes offered into the clamor, to the united gasp of each girl.
“Are you certain?”
“Here in Derbyshire?”
“You tease!”
“I think I shall faint!”
“Have you seen him?”
“Is he not yet in mourning?”
“Is he alone?”
The questions and exclamations surged forth, Miss Hughes flushing at the barrage of attention. This was truly momentous news, as she had known prior to breaking it, but the response quite took her breath away. It was several minutes before anyone gave her the chance to answer.
“He is reportedly a guest of Lord Mather for the Christmas holiday, thus invited to the Masque. No, I have not seen him. I do believe his sister is accompanying him, and their mourning is not officially over, but I am sure they will adhere to the proper customs.”
John Clay-Powell, the Earl of Blaisdale, was one of hundreds of titled peers of the Realm known by name and reputation. No one could possibly list all of them. Certainly those ladies currently gathered at Melcourt Hall had no interest in the vast number of royalty, or non-royalty for that matter, who ran the country. It was a perhaps sad reality that immature females of society were abundantly fascinated by the trappings that wealth and prestige provided, but bored by how that wealth was acquired. Therefore, it was only those noble gentlemen of available status who piqued their interest. Lord Blaisdale was one such man.
New to his title and seat in the House of Lords as of eight months ago, Lord Blaisdale was a childless widower in his late thirties with an enormous estate in Staffordshire; a country home in Fife, Scotland; a townhouse in London; tremendous affluence and prominence; and considerable magnetism and attractiveness. If the murmurings of his womanizing, gambling, and borderline roguish behavior had reached their innocent ears, each young lady chose to ignore it. It was an accepted fact that a man in Lord Blaisdale’s position needed only one thing: a wife. And nearly every girl there judged herself up to fulfilling that post.
Georgiana and Kitty alighted from the Darcy carriage with sparkling eyes darting everywhere at once in a vain attempt to absorb it all. Two years ago the fashionable ball gown choice had been white. Not so this year. Color abounded in every hue imaginable with elaborate masks prominently veiling many faces. No real attempt at disguise was intended, the embellishments an amusement. Strains of music filtered through the raised voices and laughter. Crowds of bodies occupied nearly every available spac
e with the line of carriages without visible end. Not a single fireplace burned, a supplementary heat source unnecessary even on this chill night in early January.
Lord and Lady Matlock were found in the parlor, George and Richard gradually drifting to join them with numerous halts along the path to engage in conversation. It had been three years since Colonel Fitzwilliam had been able to attend the Masque, many of the Derbyshire residents having not seen him in years. Dr. Darcy was remembered by dozens of old friends and anxiously accosted by strangers who merely desired meeting the legendary, world traveling, eccentric Darcy.
Richard suffered a momentary panic when Georgiana, with Kitty in tow, was waylaid immediately after passing through the formal reception line by Miss Vernor and Miss Hughes. Cognizant of the promise he had made to his cousin, he fully intended to be a chaperone, of sorts; but it quickly became clear that she was managing fine. George kept one eye centered on his niece no matter where she and Kitty migrated.
The young ladies sincerely welcomed Miss Darcy into the fold, thrilled to have a new member and confident in the indisputable reality that she was of the highest class. Miss Bennet was welcomed equally without question, few even remembering in the sprightliness of the moment that she was of a lower class. As Darcy had predicted to Lizzy, these inconsequentials disintegrated in time. This was especially true in what was, for all its glamour, nonetheless a country gathering far removed from the inherent snobbishness of a London society event.
The Bingleys arrived shortly thereafter. After long years of association with Darcy, Bingley was passably acquainted with several of the male citizens of Derbyshire. The short months of his and Jane’s residence had not afforded them the opportunity to socialize too often except for a handful of dinner invitations with prominent families near Hasberry Hall and the village of Winster. Jane’s exposure to the women of the region was limited to the aforementioned local couples and the friends of Lizzy, who had embraced her readily as Mrs. Darcy’s sister, but also on her own merits. Gerald and Harriet Vernor greeted them effusively, including Caroline in the welcome, and each took a Bingley under their wing for the evening.
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