“Lizzy.”
He said it only once, but he said it huskily. That singular calling of her name disturbed the very depth of her being, and though she truly did not mean to moan, she did.
That announcement of her passion granted him every liberty. Hence, from that precarious perch she found herself at the mercy of a husband in full cry, the entire appetency of which he did not withhold. Further foreplay an irrelevance, he simply thrust into her with all the considerable insistence and dedication of a pile driver. She could do nothing but cling to his neck and pray he did not lose his grip upon her lest she be cast to the floor once again.
With a gasp, he convulsed into her. He stood pressed against her for a moment heaving breathlessly. Then, he hoarsely bade her do the unlikely.
“Pray, do not bathe. Do not cleanse yourself.”
She nodded. He still held her close, his breath hot against her ear.
“Every time I look upon you tonight, I want not only to know my seed is in you,” his lips grazed her hair as he whispered, “I want to know you feel it running down your legs.”
He kissed her hard upon the mouth, withdrew, then took leave of the room.
Dazed, she slid to her feet and stood leaning against the table for some few minutes mutely looking at the door that had closed behind him. Hannah’s return broke her trance and she hastily turned away.
Whilst Hannah busied herself, Elizabeth was able to lift her eyes and look at her dishevelled appearance in the mirror. She made a feeble attempt to repair her hair, but her arms were too heavy to hold aloft. Thus, she gave it up and just stood looking at her own reflection. It was apparent Hannah would have to repress her gown.
Calling to her to help unbutton it, she looked again into the mirror. Disguising the flush upon her cheeks would be a problem.
Not to mention what a sticky business dancing would be.
Georgiana had returned to Pemberley for the ball and stood in the entry with Darcy and Elizabeth to greet their guests. Elizabeth smiled and nodded happily when she first espied her powdered and bejeweled, for she wore a pretty, pink gown that complimented her complexion. Georgiana smiled demurely, clearly pleased at her sister-in-law’s approval. But when Elizabeth glanced at the handsome necklace Georgiana wore, she was mortified to see her own transcended Miss Darcy’s twofold.
Indeed, that must have been Darcy’s intent, for he did nothing that was not well-considered. She understood that his gift was for her, but realised, too, it was meant to send a message to the society that greeted her: “This is my wife.”
(She surmised the other gift he left her, the one she was now quite aware of beneath her newly pressed gown as it progressed down her legs, must have meant, “You are my wife.”)
Her presumption of curiosity from Derbyshire’s finest was not a miscalculation. She knew there had to be a great deal of gossip about her connexions, undoubtedly fuelled by Darcy’s aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. That lady’s chief occupation now seemed to be that of making it clear to all and sundry that she had not and would not contain her displeasure at the match.
Ignoring such rencontre, Darcy made the introductions to his wife, allowing Elizabeth to understand which families were friends to Pemberley and thus to them. The Lord and Lady Millhouse, the Ducketts, the Allenbys. Nodding to each, they were introduced not only by name, but also by estate. Pennyswope, Greygable, Keenlysyde Manor.
However, when the family Howgrave stood before them, Elizabeth thought it peculiar that Darcy introduced only the husband and wife and not the young man with them, for it was apparent he knew him. Nevertheless, Darcy held an air of decided disapproval (the one he had mastered so well, owing to a great deal of practise) and the family moved hastily on when no attempt at pleasantries was made. Elizabeth saw the young man look over his shoulder at them as they walked on. Knowing if she turned and asked about them immediately, she would announce herself a gossip, Elizabeth could not help but do just that.
“Who was that young man?”
Darcy did not say anything immediately, as if to weigh his words.
When he chose them, he said, “The young man is Mr. Howgrave’s son by his late housekeeper.”
“He married his housekeeper?”
No wonder Darcy’s disapproval.
“No, he did not.”
Her lips formed the word “oh,” but she did not make the sound. Far too hastily, the next guests approached. The many questions Elizabeth would have liked to ask her husband about the odd circumstance of the Howgraves were set temporarily at rest for before them stood Mrs. Dalrymple and her nephew. The lady was of a certain age and had a forefront whose gravity defied her corset (her breasts were so pendulous, had they been prehensile they might well have been useful). The young man, a Horace Chombly, employed a manner of dress that paid compliment to rather undeniable foppery and did little to disguise that he suffered a decided curvature of the spine. Together, they presented quite a sight.
Mrs. Dalrymple announced herself, “A dear friend of Lady Catherine’s.”
Even so, Elizabeth would not have taken half such delight at making note of the quite unbelievably broad backside of the Dowager Dalrymple as she waddled away, had not the good lady taken out her monocle and with a slight (though audible) snort, so openly inspected Elizabeth’s person.
“I hope her report to her good friend, your aunt, is appropriately wanting of my appeal,” Elizabeth asided, “for her escort does not lend her any generosity of taste.”
Very nearly sniggering, Darcy agreed, “The good lady, I fear, has a finer estate and more worthless relatives than anyone else who comes to mind.”
As time and the reception line wore on, Elizabeth found a great deal of amusement in gauging the time a lady (and indeed, invariably it was a lady) was introduced to her before that lady’s gaze dropped to the choker about her neck. Never having any particular interest in gems nor the bejeweled herself, she noticed some women more subtle than others at appraising it. But the sight apparently struck one poor woman senseless. With any number of faces straining to see why the reception line was at a standstill, this lady appeared to be taking a carat count of the diamonds in her hostess’s necklace.
In want of hurrying her, Elizabeth charitably leaned forward slightly and tilted up her chin to present a better look. It was then that she observed a frown cross Darcy’s face and feared he thought her too frank with the woman. But when the lady moved on, Darcy’s distaste left as well. It occurred to Elizabeth that her husband wanted his society to make as good an impression upon his wife as she did upon it.
Hitherto, the most extravagant ball Elizabeth had attended had been at Bingley’s estate, Netherfield. She had then, most incorrectly, thought nothing could surpass it for elegance. Pemberley unadorned was unbelievably impressive. Pemberley in want of a ball was indescribably sumptuous.
The foyer alone was as large as many ballrooms and festooned to the hilt. The grandeur of the floral arrangements and the beauty of the decorations were far beyond even her fertile imagination. A seventeen-piece orchestra’s overture announced the first dance, and Darcy took Elizabeth’s gloved hand and led her to the dance floor for the first quadrille. The spontaneous applause was quite unexpected by Elizabeth, but was no surprise to her husband.
Such gestures of respect were to be presumed. Of course, their guests would applaud the first dance by the master and new mistress of Pemberley. From the first time he asked her to dance (or rather the first time she accepted) she had been very aware of the homage paid to her as his partner. The air of deference then was absolutely palpable. Unnerved to be the focus of such singular attention, Elizabeth was happy not to be forced to display a dancing form that stretched her capabilities. For her husband was the dancer she remembered. Graceful, but far too reserved to be called particular.
As the evening aged, the deference did not wane. Thus, Elizabeth began to see more clearly than she had ever before why Darcy had held himself in so proud and disdainful a manner
as he had, for he had known no other life than one of opulent deference. Master of Pemberley was far more magnificent than any other station she could have imagined.
The vastness of the crowd precluded any intimacy betwixt them beyond an inconspicuous holding of hands. That chance alone was enough to keep Elizabeth near to her husband, but that he ran his thumb across her knuckles whilst they did was added inducement. When she was not at his side, giddy as a schoolgirl, she searched the room for sight of him. For her reward was sweet. Inevitably, as he had before they married, he would be looking upon her as well.
One of the greatest delights the evening held for her was the pleasure of seeing her husband take her Aunt Gardiner’s hand and lead her out onto the floor. Her aunt, for all her life, had admired Pemberley from afar, and to see such a deserving lady honoured in such a manner was a true delight.
In her right as hostess, Elizabeth danced twice with Bingley, although he was kept quite busy chasing down dance partners for both his sisters and Jane’s like coursing hares. Darcy even stood up with Maria Lucas. That her husband bespoke a dance with one who was neither an in-law nor of his station demonstrated that, now safely married, he had not forsaken his new-found (if only by a few degrees) humility.
Indeed, he danced more than society at large had ever known of him. He stood up not only with Jane (not at all a punishment for him), but also Kitty (who was). Although Fitzwilliam bespoke a dance with Elizabeth, he honoured Kitty and Maria once each as well. If it was thought particularly kind of Darcy for favouring Kitty and Maria with a dance, of Fitzwilliam it was not. His propitious temperament instructed him to choose a partner not by rank, but to avail himself as a single man to those most slighted. It was upon the conclusion of their dance when Elizabeth remarked upon that to him.
“Colonel, for a man who has little volition in whom he marries, you could serve yourself better by selecting your dancing partner by fortune rather than need. I believe the reverse is good enough for lesser young men.”
Elizabeth was unafraid her comment was overly frank, for Fitzwilliam had often addressed his misfortune of being a second son. She was not unwitting that his prospects were limited to how well he married. Thus, her observation was a compliment, not a criticism. In recognition of that, he bowed formally. As he did, Elizabeth admired both his grace and goodness. Fervently, she wished Kitty were older. Less flighty. Not so silly. Possessed of a fortune. Colonel Fitzwilliam would be a kind and agreeable husband.
Elizabeth’s little matchmaking reverie was interrupted by espying Jane, hence she forsook Fitzwilliam’s company. In the tumult of travel and preparations, Elizabeth had scarcely had time to exchange words with her aunt or Jane. However, no sooner did the new Mrs. Darcy and the new Mrs. Bingley converge than they were besieged by a bevy of veteran wives, who, weary of their own company, had awaited opportunity to take the novices in as members of their privileged tribe.
Their initiation was inaugurated by the time-honoured tradition of exchanging articles of mostly unfounded news. Although gossip in and of itself was not unknown to Elizabeth and Jane, they were taken aback by the level of intrigue they had become privy to by reason of their elevation to wifedom.
One lady, pursy either from dancing, her corpulence, or the lascivious nature of her information, told the newly devirginated sisters that her middle-aged houseman evidently held dual duty as husband to their cook and lover to the second floor chambermaid. Perhaps incredulousness crossed Elizabeth’s countenance when this information was proffered, for the lady offered a hasty reassurance.
“There have been no children by either encounter.”
Not actually having leapt to that enquiry, Elizabeth could find no other comment than, “I see.”
Upon this declaration, Elizabeth looked at Jane. Her eyes, not surprisingly, had widened to a precipitous degree. (Their office of maiden so recently discarded, it was clear they would both have to practise a more inscrutable expression.)
Elizabeth’s own jaw very nearly rested upon the floor when further discussion disclosed that a lady, unrepresented in the conversing group, had barely found enthusiasm to attend the ball, so dissipated was she by the birthing of her ninth offspring. The happenstance of her predicament was not without sympathetic voice.
“I should think she might consider locking the door to her bedroom.”
“Yes, if she is to find any peace at all.”
Immediate upon this postulation, it was offered (behind the back of a hand) that the oft-engaged woman’s husband had also impregnated any number of their servants.
A chorus of “tsks, tsks” was accorded. (It seemed that particular house’s chief evil was fecundity.)
“And she has no idea it was her husband who had handled the maids?” asked one woman.
“He told her it was the gardener! That poor man suffered cruelly from the wife’s displeasure, for the lord would not allow the man let go.”
“And lose the seducer of record? Never!”
Tittering all about.
Much to Elizabeth’s bemused disappointment, this conversation was quieted, for “maidens” approached their group (and maiden ears must be protected at all costs). As Mrs. Hurst and the maidens, Georgiana Darcy and Caroline Bingley, joined them, talk immediately turned to the more universally benign topics of matches and matrimony.
Miss Bingley, in her unceasing promotion of herself, said she understood that a baronet attended that night. Titles always piqued Caroline’s interest, but it was the information that the baronet was two years into widowerhood that propelled him from diversion into outright quarry. Indisputably, such a man was in want of a wife. Thus, Caroline bade him pointed out to her.
“I dare say you could not do better if dullness is the true proprietor of distinction,” declared a firm voice from the edge of the group.
Lady Winifred Millhouse had stood inconspicuously amidst them until she broke her silence with that observation. Caroline looked as if she wanted to huff, but apparently thought better of it.
Candidly, Elizabeth soon determined, was the only way Lady Millhouse knew how to speak. Of Derbyshire society in general, and Pemberley friends more specifically, Elizabeth thought she would like the Millhouses. The lord was interested in little but riding to hunt. His lady, a sturdy woman of middle age whose demeanour said she did not suffer fools gladly, was similarly inclined. As Elizabeth found considerable amusement in her remark about the baronet, Lady Millhouse clearly approved of her. Ignoring Caroline’s petulance, she addressed the only issue of any import to her by asking Elizabeth when they would next ride to hounds at Pemberley.
“I fancy my husband would be the one to answer that question,” Elizabeth told her.
Lady Millhouse found this not only a reasonable response, but a perfectly good excuse to leave the little enclave of prattlers. She abruptly took hold of Elizabeth’s hand and set out to find good Mr. Darcy and inquire. They ventured not far before spying him talking amongst a group of gentlemen. Elizabeth would never have dared walk the distance of the room to join them. But Lady Millhouse’s grip upon her was tenacious and she had little choice but to follow in her wake as she parted the crowd.
Darcy did not seem confounded that Lady Millhouse suddenly appeared in the midst of the coterie of men, nor that his wife was in tow.
“Darcy,” Lady Millhouse said, forgoing Elizabeth’s arm for his, “you have not told your sweet wife here when we will next have a hunt at Pemberley? Shame upon you. We must remedy this situation at once.”
“We will within the month. I will send my cards around directly, Lady Millhouse.”
As he spoke, he bore an expression of amusement that astonished Elizabeth. Lady Millhouse obviously had a position of friendship with Darcy that did not require the level of obsequious decorum of others. Quite probably, the lady was unlikely to offer it. This liberty was certainly not due to her station. Elizabeth surmised it something more significant. Indeed, Lady Millhouse enthusiastically took the reins of the conv
ersation in a pertinacious detailing of their most recent ride to covert. Darcy seemed amused at this as well. But as the story became increasingly lengthy and convoluted, Elizabeth let her attention wander to the doings of the other guests.
The son of Mr. Howgrave’s housekeeper passed by. Surreptitiously, Elizabeth watched him cross the floor. Darcy, who she had thought was in rapt attention to Mrs. Millhouse’s recitation glanced at, then affixed a rancorous glare upon young Howgrave as he stopped before Georgiana. He spoke to her but a moment, then moved away. Upon his retreat, Darcy apparently quitted him as well.
Forthwith of the overture to the next promenade, Howgrave returned to Georgiana, apparently having bespoken the next dance. Obviously, Darcy had not quite let the young man out of his eye. For by the time Howgrave returned to claim his dance, Darcy had stridden halfway across the floor toward them.
Lady Millhouse stopped mid-sentence at the distraction. She looked at Elizabeth quizzically. Then they both watched Darcy as he advanced upon the couple. He spoke to his sister, took her hand, and walked her onto the dance floor, leaving young Howgrave standing rather flatfooted. The cut was not unapparent to the guests nearest, and even from a distance, Elizabeth could see the young man’s face redden. That the young man’s history was known to Lady Millhouse was betrayed when she spoke, not of him, but of Darcy, for there was the drama.
“Because he has never forgiven himself any fault, he can forgive no one else’s,” she sighed.
The remark was bestowed with affectionate understanding from someone who knew Darcy well. That the observation rode with such accuracy upon him made it all the more unsettling for his wife to hear. She had little time to ponder it, for just then Lord Millhouse took her attention, perhaps at his wife’s silent instruction, and asked Elizabeth to dance. Of this she was most grateful, happy to have reason to move about. The air had suddenly become a little stale where she stood.
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