by Iris Lim
“Elizabeth,” he whispered reverently and pressed a kiss to her brow.
“Fitzwilliam,” she replied. Her voice, like his heart, rose higher with every passing moment.
Darcy grinned.
“Shall we go as well?” He said softly. The room echoed and amplified his words.
“Yes,” she spoke and sighed in one breath. He glanced at her face to ensure the nature of her sigh was one of happiness.
Her beaming smile left no doubt.
“Let's go home, Fitzwilliam,” she proposed – eyes wide and bewitching.
“Yes.”
Chapter 13
She never left his embrace the entire time – from the moment she had collapsed in his arms at the meeting house to the moment he carried her into Brigham Park's shelter – he made sure to support her completely. Touching her thus, feeling the entirety of her reliance upon him, spurred him to greater heights of strength than he had ever thought he possessed. He never faltered, from court to carriage to courtyard. Her face, cradled against his chest, warmed his heart, hearth, and home.
“Charles!” A sleepy, surprised Caroline exclaimed as he carried Jane towards the family wing.
“Yes, I know. It is wonderful – is it not?” Bingley smiled despite the load he lifted. “Perhaps we can speak more in the morning?”
Caroline, in a vastly different mood than she had sported for weeks, nodded quickly. “Need you any assistance?”
“I shall suffice,” he replied proudly. Jane's slight squirming in his arms boosted rather than accosted his confidence. “Thank you for the offer.”
Shocked beyond words for perhaps the first time in years, Caroline merely nodded. She spoke again when he almost turned the corner. “If Jane – oh, dear Jane – if she needs me – please, let me know.”
Bingley turned only slightly to face his sister, and nodded his thanks before he marched on.
Servants appeared left and right – some assisting, some merely gossiping. The helpful ones cleared his way as he marched towards the masters' chambers. He was thankful, for once, that Elizabeth had never brought much clothing, or strewn about the ones she owned. It was a good thing to carry his bride to a room of her own.
“Charles,” Jane whispered faintly when he attempted to lay her upon the chaise. Her fragile hands clung to his clothes.
“You need rest, my dear.” He pressed a kiss to her brow – the first since alighting from their carriage. The ones he had bestowed in the carriage – he did not count. How could he when such joy and relief flooded his entire being? His mind had barely functioned, much less its logical parts.
“Stay,” Jane whimpered, pale face pressed to his chest. He gathered her close.
“You want to stay – with me,” he echoed weakly, more query than statement. A part of his mind – albeit a very small part – had felt apprehensive at arranging the switch without Jane's explicit approval. She was an angel who yielded to every other person's wants, of course. But did her temperament appoint her sister and grooms to make her decisions for her?
He prayed to God that she would not blame him in the morning.
“Stay,” she whispered again, eyes half-open. Her feeble grip on his lapels could be easily removed; it was simply he who did not wish to remove it.
“Yes,” he answered – smiling yet worried. After only a moment's hesitation, he lifted her off the window-side chaise and towards her bed. It was a bed he had ordered to have prepared two long months before. It was a bed he had not seen since.
It was a bed he was more than happy to have her occupy tonight.
“Here, here,” he urged gently as he slid her upon the covers. He kissed her brow, her cheek repeatedly – coaxing and tender. She, for her part, did not protest.
He hoped her lack of protestation was enough of a sign to warrant his subsequent actions.
Anxious to gain her solitary company, Bingley dismissed every servant – even those midway through a task. He waited patiently for the small crowd to slip away, and then he lay down upon the bed himself and drew his bride close.
Completion was the farthest thought from his mind tonight – it was not to be with her so frail. Comfort, however, was something he believed both of them duly needed – and he was ready to exchange just that.
“Jane,” he whispered softly when she snuggled against his side. His raging heart pumped blood into tired limbs. Quietly, he kissed her again.
• • •
Her heart had burnt before.
When she and Jane had been pulled from their first grooms and thrust into the arms of their second ones, when her first chance encounter with Fitzwilliam by the lake had resulted in his lips on her fingers, when their meeting in the library had evolved into so much more – each time, her heart had roared into fast and furious flames.
Tonight was different. The burning and aching she felt within her – barely contained by her body – dwarfed every past occasion as the ocean dwarfed a pond. The overcoming sensation of relief was challenged only by the even stronger sensation of paradisiacal felicity. She was his!
And he was hers.
The tight hold Fitzwilliam had upon her hand, as they sat side by side in his carriage, communicated the ardency of his feelings even as her own flooded her every limb. Had it all been true? Had the crowded meeting house and the Constable's court and the resulting sentences happened as she hoped and believed they did? Oh, what sorrow it would be to wake from such a joyous dream!
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, for the third time on the road. She smiled up at him again.
He never said more than her name. It seemed as if the single word encapsulated his affections more than any subsequent words he could have imparted. She was glad they were of one mind.
“Fitzwilliam,” she replied – yearning, hope, and adoration in her voice. Did he know how much she loved him? Did he know how eternally grateful she would be for the remainder of her life that he had chosen to speak when he did?
His free hand rose to her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. She longed to kiss him now – to act upon every desire flaming in her veins tonight. She wished to –
And why ever should she not?
She gazed into his eyes, feeling blessed beyond compare. It was true – was it not? He was her groom now, and she his bride. The law and society and her own blazing heart had unified in purpose at last. She had finally gained, with no small degree of heartache, the right to kiss, and touch, and love this man as much as she wanted.
Had there ever been a couple more blessed?
She kissed him then, her own free hand quickly finding his stubbled jaw. He kissed her back immediately – having no reason, after all, to refrain. Their kiss, the first shared as a bride and groom to each other at last, led without stopping to another, and another, and another still.
Had they brought all their heartbreak upon themselves? If they had chosen to share these caresses and sighs within their first two weeks together – would their tragic first trading of brides, and tonight's restoration, been entirely erased from existence?
She had little time or energy to ponder.
It was, after all, quite distracting to kiss a man as dashingly handsome and deliciously passionate as Fitzwilliam Darcy. Coherent thought fled her mind remarkably quickly with every passing kiss. When his hands decided to join in the exploration as well, she did not even bother thinking at all.
• • •
“Jane,” the gentle whisper brushed across her skin like the most subtle of breezes. She felt chilled, every inch of exposed skin bitten with invisible frost. The warmth in her chest, deep and abiding, glowed like an ember beneath her skin.
She felt the kiss to her brow – and all its accompanying thrills.
“Charles,” she whispered back, each sound barely slipping through her parched lips. “Char –”
“Yes, darling?” His response was immediate, as was his embrace.
His arms, despite the multiple layers between them, encased her in h
eated safety. His solid chest proved the best pillow upon which to rest her head. She, in her half-consciousness, leaned longingly against him.
“Be well, my dear, be well,” he muttered above her. The touch of his skin magnified his every word, each syllable reverberating in his chest. She found herself loved, wanted-home.
The comforting sensation of her current cocoon soothed her senses more powerfully than Mama's strongest salts and balms. The reality of this moment – blurry and distant until now – began to take form as her misty mind began to clear. Fully dressed in bed, in Charles' arms, nonetheless – every realization grew as unreal as it was palpable. Did she visit the meeting house at all? Was the Constable a person in the flesh?
Memories and nightmares, hopes and fears, mingled into one colossal field of whirling emotions. The world swam when her eyes closed; the world spun when she opened them.
“Jane,” Charles' whisper came again – its pacifying powers in full swing.
She rested against his body, torso scandalously aligned with his. When had she gained courage to act so brazenly?
Her drowsy mind had no ability left to ponder.
“Do you fault me, my dear?” The question, mumbled against her ear, came just before her sentience slipped away.
She sought to turn, but his arms confined her still.
“Should I have spoken and spared you your pain?” Her lack of response caused his words only to continue. “When Darcy spoke – oh, I wished to, Jane. Oh how I wished too! I was certain – I had convinced myself so wrongly that you wished to stay with Darcy. And why would you not? He is taller, older, wiser, and in every sense the man superior. I – oh how little I deserve you!”
The words impressed into her mind slowly, every other fragment blurred. Did he blame himself? Did Charles, her beloved Charles, consider himself the transgressor in this –
“Do you forgive me? Oh Jane, my Jane, if you suffer, I cannot bear it! Your kindness and compassion deserve far better than the actions I have dealt you. Oh how could you desire this life when I have proffered you nothing in exchange?”
Despite icy hands and freezing feet, Jane found her mind fanned into flames. How could Charles believe himself as having so little to –
“Will you forgive me for having used you so ill? I cannot bear – cannot suffer the thought of your departure. Would this fortnight be our last? Oh Jane, if I have but a day in your presence, an hour to be your husband, I shall be the happiest man upon the entire earth!”
His voice cracked, tears evident. Jane found her chest tightening speedily, air draining from her lungs at a frightening rate. She tried to turn once more, succeeding slightly more than she had before.
“And what if Darcy had not spoken,” he persisted, every word a dagger to her stiffened chest, “would we find ourselves eternally apart – meeting only as brother and sister when our hearts spoke of more? Was I truly so foolish as to believe that such a life would be one which both of us would be able to bear? Jane, forgive me – forgive me my liberties, my false confidence, my pride. Forgive me for allowing my fears to rule what my heart clearly knew. Forgive me for –”
“Charles!” She breathed at last, turning sufficiently to lift the arc of her nose to his chin. His responding actions posed his lips ever closer to hers. The whisper in her voice persisted. “Charles.”
“Jane?” His eyes – blue, wide, yearning – bore into hers.
She smiled weakly, air barely in her lungs. “Charles.”
“Yes? Yes, Jane – what – who – how can I –”
“Hush.” Her nose nudged his lips in gentle motion. “Do not.”
“Do not – do not what?” A wave of panic shifted through his features. “Do you not desire this? Jane, forgive me if I –”
“Charles.” Her slender fingers clasped his arms before he could truly pull away. “Charles.”
“Yes?” He hovered close, yet not as close as before. “Jane, my dear, if you –”
“I forgive you,” she said instead, smiling faintly still. “Please – stay.”
His watery eyes were the last sight she remembered before drifting asleep.
• • •
Great and grave was the restraint required of the new Master and Mistress of Pemberley when their carriage drew at last to a halt. Fingers caught between layers of fabric returned unwillingly to the open air. Kisses and groans – ignored in the flimsy privacy of their rolling transport – had each to be tucked away until solitude was restored. The servants gazed openly at both their tousled hair. Thankfully, none complained.
A few did, small to blame them, express surprise – albeit pleasant surprise – at the identity of the current Mrs. Darcy. With no small measure of pride did Darcy introduce Elizabeth again to the servants who still fondly recalled her time in Pemberley. With a little less pride, he pursued a straight path towards the family wing. So help him God if the help could not divulge them of their meeting clothes within the upcoming hour.
He had never been able to vouch for his temper.
“Fitzwilliam, stop – slow!” The laughter interspersed with each of Elizabeth's words only served to spur his impatience further. “Fitzwilliam, I am about to fall!”
He slackened his steps at her warning, his hand still strongly gripping hers. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” Her laughter and smile brightened even the corridor. The snickering servants he could ignore. Her radiant beauty, he could not. “Yes, I am well – more than ever.”
The weight of her words served only to lighten his heart.
“Elizabeth!” He pulled her close and pressed yet another kiss on her head. He watched her, heart sailing as high as the wispiest clouds. “Shall we?”
She nodded firmly, her certainty his pride – and he launched them yet again towards their chambers.
There was happiness and thrill; there was clarity and joy.
Never in his entire life in Pemberley had Darcy ever found this path to his rooms as welcoming as he did tonight. Every turn brought with it a swirling thrill. Every door seemed to open of its own accord.
He pulled Elizabeth close whenever he could, shrinking arm's length to a mere hair's breadth between them. They were acting quite scandalously, one may say – with hugs and caresses in full view of their servants.
He did not care at the meeting house.
He surely did not care now.
He kissed her on the lips, hands on her jaw, before they tumbled into their suite at last. The tentative restraint dissipated – any fear of her unwillingness vanished. She had had her chance as a guest politely touring the grounds.
Tonight, she was his – and he was not about to yield her to anything less than the night they both deserved.
“Elizabeth,” he hissed when their lips met again, the doors slipping closed behind them. Her willing response to every caress spoke of passion, hope, and eternity. Her feminine hands around his waist and his large ones on her neck tugged each other ever closer. All clothing proved superfluous, and he cursed whoever invented such heavy garments for men to begin with.
“Stenton!” he barked for his valet when he and Elizabeth parted for breath. She smiled knowingly, willingly. “Blasted night, let us – let me –”
He choked upon his tongue when the moment came. The hallowed wonder of what lay before them – no words could adequately express.
“Lizzy, let me – allow me to –”
“Of course.” She smiled, panting too. “I shall see you soon?”
He nodded mutely, unable to find any phrase worthy of the hour.
“I love you, Lizzy.” He kissed her before Stenton and Lilieth could make their way through the door and the lopsided furniture in its way.
“I love you –”
Their respective servants whisked them away, slightly too knowingly, when she was yet to finish.
For one long, torturous hour, Darcy endured the bath, the undressing, and the cladding of his nightshirt with stifled impatience. Stenton, than
k God, knew his master well enough to keep his peace – and Darcy was left to his own dangerous thoughts.
He dared not close his eyes, lest he whisper Elizabeth's name to an empty room. He dared occasionally to picture where she was tonight – perhaps equally undressed in her own chambers.
The tightening in his groin was no accident.
It was a blessing to have sleeping clothes as loose as they were.
His curses for the inventor of the cravat were as keen tonight as his thanks to whoever had designed one's sleeping apparel. It was – convenient, most definitely so.
“Mrs. Darcy awaits, sir.” Lilieth mumbled before leaving the stifling master suite.
Darcy nodded slightly, mind elsewhere.
She was not here in their sitting room. There was no reason, he supposed, for her to be. Patiently, he approached her door – hand already outstretched. His knock was quiet, careful. His calculated strength ensured no cause for shock or fear. Heaven forbid, after all, that he should have endured all suffering only to rue his chances himself.
She did not respond at first, and he waited – the patient bridegroom.
When he knocked again, he heard a sniffle, a sob.
The fire in his chest mingled with worry – and he opened the door to the image of a wispily clad Elizabeth, seated on the bed in tears.
Chapter 14
“Elizabeth.” His voice betrayed both conflicting emotions surging in his heart – every pang of surprise and sting of worry evident in his quivering tone. His wide steps made quick work of the space between them.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered when he slid gently beside her on the bed. His hands took time before resting on her shoulders. Her sobs subsided slightly at his approach, though she sniffed still.
Was there to be no end to their trouble and angst?
For several long, quiet moments, he remained as he did – a harsh presence in the feminine room. He hoped she did not protest.