A Will of Iron

by Beutler Linda

  There was the track of a tear on her cheek. “This is married love?”

  “We can make of it whatever we wish.” His eyes were warm and adoring.

  She was incoherent—the lucid moment was gone—but she smiled, touching his chest, his shoulders, burying her hands in his hair, kissing him possessively when his mouth passed near hers.

  He could wait no longer, and spoke at her ear. “Dearest, loveliest. It is time.”

  She nodded against his shoulder. “I want to,” she whispered.

  He guided his ardent member to begin his advance. There was no doubt she was willing, but would she be hurt? Darcy knew hesitation might be the worst offence. He affected their union deliberately, evenly, refusing to forge ahead recklessly. He recognised a constriction and slowly pushed through it. He felt more than heard Elizabeth’s sudden sigh but she did not cry out or become tense. She continued to spread her legs.

  “Lizzy?”

  The little hands clinging to his back slid to his buttocks. One of her legs embraced his waist, the other wrapped over his thigh.

  “This is better.”

  “Better?”

  “Better than your hand.”

  Darcy had slightly withdrawn but her encouragement made him mindless, and he filled her again and again.

  She held him fiercely. It was far different from what she had imagined. There would be no describing it. The act of accepting him flooded her with love. At each whispered, “Yes!” from her, his strength seemed to increase. Elizabeth found herself overwhelmed with heat spreading throughout her limbs from where they were joined.

  One of his hands was at the top of her derriere, holding her steady as he buried himself inside the woman he loved. He met his release with a roar. “Elizabeth!”

  “Love!” she cried with him, excited by his completion. When he was quieter she whispered, “I love you,” over and over. She was relieved to not be the only one who was loudly indiscreet.

  Darcy was unaware of his potent cry. He only knew their joining was profound, and Elizabeth Bennet, the one thing in his life that had ever been unattainable, was now and forever his. As she cooed delicate words of love in his ear, he could scarce believe he was living his dreams. It was as if the waning spasms of his completion were echoing his heartbeat and the rhythmic murmur of her name, “Elizabeth… Elizabeth…”

  Moments or hours later, as he raised himself on one elbow, she looked up at him. “You were correct, my love,” she whispered, returning his smile. “There was nothing gentlemanly or ladylike about that.” She paused for breath. “I feel very sorry for Miss de Bourgh, to have never known this.”

  Rather than reveal he had read more of Anne’s tales than his wife had, Darcy simply laughed. He looked around them and his laughter increased.

  “What…?” Elizabeth grew apprehensive.

  “We have been at this wrong way round. Our heads are at the foot! We are lucky I did not knock myself cold on the bedpost.”

  Elizabeth began to giggle but stopped when he started to move from the bed, and she clutched at his arm. “Do not go. Please! I know husbands and wives sleep apart, but must you go tonight?” Her panic was plain in her eyes. “I have so rarely slept alone.”

  Darcy touched her hands. “I shall return directly, and I shall bring some towelling. I am…uh, sticky, and I think you might be too? But I intend to sleep with you—my head on the pillows. In that, at least, you will find me traditional.” He took the candlestick from the nightstand.

  He was gone just a moment, returning with pieces of moist cloth. He set the candle on the nightstand and stood with his back to her, washing.

  Elizabeth had covered herself with his robe when he arose, and now opened it, freshening herself. She noticed the moistened towel was tinged with blood. She moved her place on the bed and saw the same on her trailing nightgown. Darcy turned at her movement, seeing the evidence of her first bedding.

  “My love.” He sat next to her impulsively. “Were you more hurt than you said?”

  “No, truly I was not. It was a momentary stinging, and then…”

  “Then?” He took her hands and helped her to stand. He pushed his robe from her shoulders, and her nightgown fell with it to the floor, leaving her as naked as he.

  Elizabeth gave him a slow smile. “You know very well what happened then.” In betrayal of her knowing expression, her sudden nakedness made her blush.

  “That does not mean I do not wish to hear how you would say it…” He tried not to smile.

  “You became…” She was searching for a word. “You became my lover. In error, I thought you my enemy once, and then you became my friend and ally. You progressed with exquisite stealth to being the man I love without my realising it until knowing it saved my life.” She shook her head at him with merriment rather than censure. “Then you became my betrothed, and today my husband, but I think I prefer this above all else.” Elizabeth became impish. “I have taken Fitzwilliam Darcy as my lover, whom everyone thinks such a gentleman.” She looked in his eyes to see how he would respond to such an indecorous admission.

  Darcy was delighted and chuckled deeply as he embraced her. “I have married a rascal! A far cry from the block of ice who invited me to this bed an hour ago.”

  “Then I must assume you prefer being married to a rascal?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Darcy, I do. I most certainly do. Ah, Lizzy…”

  They were properly under the bedclothes, still giddy. It took surprisingly little effort for Darcy to coax his new wife to couple with him again before they slept.

  Elizabeth awoke in the night. They had rolled apart after the heat of their second joining, but she continued to hold the hand she had taken as fatigue consumed her. She raised his knuckles to her lips. It was everything a man’s hand should be, and she held it up to appraise it in the moonlight. How was she ever to look at his hands in company again without blushing and wishing them to be at her for her pleasure?

  Darcy awoke feeling soft lips upon the back of his hand. Elizabeth was so intent upon her study that she did not notice his eyes open as he smiled. Saying nothing, for he thought he understood her rightly enough, he wrapped his other hand over hers and settled his arm between her breasts as he rolled to his side and curled around her.

  “This is far superior to sleeping with Jane,” Elizabeth observed.

  Darcy chuckled when he felt her laughing in his arms. “I am a success, then, as a husband?”

  Her response was to wiggle herself against him, tucking her head under his chin, her cheek against his warm skin. Within moments, Elizabeth was asleep.

  He was not accustomed to sleeping with anyone, but he fully intended to become so. Darcy lay awake for much longer, smiling into the moonlit night.

  30 March 1812

  Darcy is much worse. His eyes follow her everywhere. He is as besotted and moonstruck as I have ever seen a man. Poor fellow! The lamb is completely lost, yet she is unaware, and he fights his inclination when he can.

  She is just the sort of woman he needs. She is lively and intelligent. She has a conceited independence to match his, which I’d have thought impossible to find. Her pride glows from within yet does not overcome her charming manners. Darcy is quite the opposite, donning his haughtiness to conceal the warmth that now leaks from him like the breach of a dam when she is in our company. I fear he will not, yet hope he will crack apart like an egg and allow himself to be the man his father was.

  In fact, I believe with a well-chosen wife, a wife of personal merit and quick wits, he could be a better man. Elizabeth Bennet is just the thing for him, and so healthy! One can only imagine what a passionate husband might draw out of her. But my cousin is no Wickham. Would he be troubled to make enquiries as Wickham did? Would he learn those delicate manoeuvres? I cannot imagine it of Darcy.

  But
how are Darcy and EB to manage it? How is such a match ever to be realised? I would manipulate and direct them if I could, but I cannot see how the thing is to be done —A de B

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  This story was born during the editing process for The Red Chrysanthemum, just a little aside that grew. Perhaps I enquired of Gail Warner, my editor-beyond-price, what-if Darcy had to return to Rosings while Elizabeth was still at Hunsford? Why would he? Perhaps someone had died and he returned for the funeral? Who was likely to have died? Anne is sickly; let’s kill her off! And so, one thing led to another down a decidedly macabre lover’s lane. I started collecting snippets of conversations that came to mind, reading Elizabeth’s stay in Hunsford in Pride and Prejudice, An Annotated Edition (Patricia Meyer Spacks, editor) carefully, and making notes of Regency funeral customs.

  Much to my amazement, Anne de Bourgh began to keep a journal, which added tremendously to what was initially a little trifle of a Pride and Prejudice meets A Midsummer Night’s Dream mash-up. Dear wise, frail, flawed Anne, who accomplished much for her cousins with her determination and iron will but did not live to see it!

  Once hearing of A Will of Iron (which started its life as “Death Comes to Rosings” but morphed into the present title for obvious reasons), my friend Jacqueline Mitzel began researching Regency funeral habits and customs, and to her I am greatly indebted for many of the arcane details she was able to exhume.

  My best friends in the A Happy Assembly chat room were also invaluable for their often not too gentle reminders for me to give this story my attention when other temptations loomed. Thanks especially to redhead, beezie, and our chat chap, Chris Polk. Every, “Anything new in AWOI lately?” spurred me and kept me on task.

  As ever, I thank the team at Meryton Press for their wholehearted support of this story, although now the cover artists run when they see me coming. I make them do things like stare at desserts, major gemstones, and Colin Firth’s legs.