Darcy clenched her firmly against his chest with one arm under her neck and gripping her shoulder, while the other ceaselessly rubbed over her backside. He moaned breathlessly, exalting in the heady aroma of her hair so near his face and her skin as velvet under his hands.
“My love!” he rasped huskily. “Lord, how I wanted you. I need you, my Elizabeth, my precious wife. God… please… do not ever leave me… I cannot live… Beloved!” He pulled her away from his neck and deliriously engulfed her mouth, drowning in her taste, receiving nourishment from her breath. Their respirations came in ragged gasps. Lizzy’s nails dug into his flesh with rapacious need.
They rolled and danced in intimate communication, giving as well as receiving, the unimaginable sensations quivering throughout each nerve and cell. When they slipped blissfully over the threshold of rhapsody, the spasms and flutters buffeted over them stupendously, transporting their souls to a place of intense indescribable oneness.
Their eyes met, lips touching as hot breath commingled, and they merged in profound love and belonging. “I love you,” they whispered in one accord, “I love you, I love you…” without end, kissing tenderly as their passion crested, cascaded in a prolonged wave, and ebbed slowly. Even after their tremors had ceased, Darcy continued to move within her body, holding her tightly for a long while before finally rotating onto his back with Elizabeth enveloped in his arms.
Darcy sheltered her with a strong embrace, the emotions of the past weeks threatening to overwhelm him as tears welled. Inhaling deeply and kissing the top of her head to avoid bursting into sobs, he squeezed her so tenaciously that she released a small squeak.
“William, I cannot breathe!” she laughed, lifting to look at him. “My love,” smoothing his brow, “Are you alright?”
Smiling, he replied, “Yes, beloved, simply overcome with my emotions. I adore you so, Elizabeth, and shudder yet at how close I came to losing you. It haunts me still. I trust you will understand if I cling overly in the weeks to come.” His attempt at levity brought a smile to her lips.
“I imagine I can tolerate your presence if I must,” she teased, kissing his chest, laying her head over his pounding heart, and hugging firmly.
Contentment, relief, and joy so intensely swathed him that he fell into a doze, his perfect wife stretched on top of him. Her warmth soothed his residual fears.
They had every intention, initially, of joining their family for dinner, but time slipped away in the pleasure of their renewed love. It was well past the dinner hour before either of them felt any sensation other than sheer ecstasy. A tray was called for eventually; both of them needed their strength and Darcy especially worried as, he pointed out smugly, their child needed nourishment. As far as he was concerned, it was a fact and Lizzy was far too joyous to worry over his grief if she was found not to be with child. Besides, she had been convinced for the past week.
As the full moon touched the Peaks with glints of pale light, Lizzy lay gloriously contented in her sleep with her bare backside pressed firmly against Darcy’s chest and abdomen, legs entwined, while he embraced her and tickled her neck with his exhalations.
She dreamed.
Like many dreams, hers flowed from page to page without any true coherency. In one scene she was hugely pregnant and her husband was helping her up the stairs while laughing at her waddling gait. Then she was at their wedding, gazing into his sparkling blue eyes as she recited her vows. Next it was Christmas and Darcy was playing the violin as they all listened in amazement. In another, she sat with Harriet, Chloe, Marilyn, and Amelia with at least two dozen children of all ages climbing over the furniture, running amok, giggling, and screaming as their mothers placidly sipped their tea.
Suddenly the pages began to turn in a sequence that struck a chord of disquiet. She was storming shamefully into her husband’s study. She lay on a cold lonely bed sobbing and ill. Darcy was riding Parsifal briskly down the drive as he turned and smiled at her, warming her heart. She strolled down the avenue, humming in the bright sunlight with a bucket in her hand. She was lifting her welcoming face to an approaching carriage, freezing in terror upon spying the leering face of the Marquis of Orman.
With a scream she struggled out of Darcy’s grip, applying a twisting pressure to her ankle, as she jolted up in bed. “William!” she sobbed, grabbing her pounding head, the pages of her memory flipping rapidly, as she bent over her lap moaning.
“Elizabeth, beloved, I am here! Shhh…” She was in his arms, trembling and gulping for air. “It is merely a dream, my love. Lizzy, look at me,” he grasped her chin and she peered at him with glazed eyes, “All is well, dearest, relax on my chest. Breathe slowly. Shhhh. I am here, love, I am here…” He continued to murmur soothing words interspersed with tender kisses as he rocked gently until she calmed. He reclined her onto the pillow, one arm about her as he stroked her cheek and hair.
Her eyes were distant and staring and filled with pain. He could not be certain she was fully awake, so he maintained his calming caresses and mollifying professions until her eyes unclouded and she focused on his face. She shivered still, anguish in her expression when she spoke.
“I remember, William. I recall what happened to me.”
“You do? Are you sure, beloved, that you were not dreaming?”
“No, no! I can see it and feel it… I remember running and falling and… the turkey…” she was panting and clutching his arms roughly. Darcy was seriously alarmed at her agitation and tried to console her to no avail. She was frantic. He attempted to move away, intent on mixing laudanum to ease her suffering and distress, but she grasped him tighter. “It was him!”
“Who?”
“Orman! He encountered me on the road and… grabbed me… and tried to… Oh, William! I was so frightened! I hit him and ran. It was so foolish of me and I was so cruel to you before and I have caused you such torment and I may have harmed our baby and…” She was sobbing and hysterical. Darcy was stunned, furious, and despondent.
Elizabeth first, he thought. He poured a generous glass of brandy laced with laudanum, forced her to drink it all, and held her until she drifted into a drugged sleep. Darcy remained wide awake. His burning fury had ebbed, substituted with cold calculation and determination. He may not have all the finer details as yet, but simply the knowledge that Orman was the catalyst to Elizabeth’s accident and near death brought graphic images of murder to his mind.
At the first hint of dawn, Darcy slipped out of bed. He sought out Marguerite, informing her that the Mistress had suffered a nightmare requiring a liberal dose of sedative. He instructed Lizzy’s maid to stay with her and notify him the instant she roused. He dressed quickly and marched straight to his cousin’s door. Richard was ill pleased to be woken so early but quickly overcame his irritation when he heard Darcy’s information.
Darcy paced as he spoke, a robed Richard sitting in a chair with an increasingly grim cast to his mien. “She said he grabbed her?” he repeated in shock, “and tried… what do you think?”
“I do not know! Nor does it matter, Richard! He has accosted her, twice now, and she almost died! I insist on justice!”
“Well, of course, cousin! If you did not, I would horsewhip you myself, and then happily deal with the blackguard. All I meant is that you must ascertain the full scope of the charges against him. Orman is a knave, we all know this; however, he is a gentleman and will abide by the rules of engagement once publicly confronted. Especially coming from you since he has loathed you for years.”
Darcy continued to pace but his stride slowed as he mused. “I will not allow this to become another Wickham. Orman has run wild for too long, and he must be revealed for the villain he is. If we are fortunate, then I shall succeed in killing him, sparing all of England his offenses. At the very least I will maim him and run him out of Derbyshire.”
“How are you to handle Elizabeth? She has been through enough distress and her health is precarious.”
Darcy sighed and stopped at
the window, staring sightlessly at the glowing Peaks. “More than you are aware, cousin. She may be with child.” He turned to the colonel with a delighted smile.
Richard beamed and rushed to clap Darcy on the back. “Congratulations! Watching the two of you, well, let us say I am not surprised.” He teased and Darcy blushed faintly, but then turned serious.
“Thank you, however, we are not certain so I beg your discretion. Richard, I abhor secrets and it pains me to even contemplate it, but she must not know until it is over. I am a terrible liar, as you know, so will need your support.”
“You have it, naturally.”
Darcy nodded. “Once I learn all that transpired, I will tell Elizabeth I am dealing with the matter through legal channels. I will challenge Orman this afternoon, if the coward is still in the vicinity, and I can dispatch him tomorrow.”
“Awfully sure of yourself, cousin,” Richard grinned.
Darcy looked at him with contempt, “Please, do not insult me! I know never to underestimate one’s opponent, but he cannot best me.” Col. Fitzwilliam laughed and Darcy had the good grace to smile sheepishly. “With that piece of grandiose braggadocio out of the way, I shall be cautious, never fear. I have far too much to live for.”
Marguerite sent for Darcy shortly thereafter. He promptly entered their chambers to discover his wife holed up in her water closet being ill. When she emerged, pale and aquiver, Darcy was there to support her unsteady mobility. They spent most of the morning together in their sitting room.
Lizzy told him everything. His rage at what Orman had said and done was nearly uncontrollable, and once again the famous Darcy self-control and reserve were called into action. As she continued recounting her harrowing dash through the woods, her fear at being lost, and her fright at the turkey that caused her fall, Darcy lived it with her as well as reviving the succeeding week of torment. They held one another close, needing to sense the vibrant life and unwavering love oozing from every pore.
Lizzy was anxious at what Darcy planned in retribution. He tried to conceal his wrath but she knew him too intimately. In the end, he skirted the truth by confessing his overwhelming need to confront Orman and exact physical vengeance by satisfyingly smashing in his nose, but then he would wield his considerable power and influence to have the cur lawfully punished. Lizzy was no fool and perceived that he was evading, but she wisely ruled it was his right to protect his wife as he saw fit.
Of course, she had no suspicion of what he planned.
The next morning, one hour after dawn, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley confidently stood several feet across from the Marquis of Orman on an open field at Lord Matlock’s estate, Rivallain.
After Lizzy’s violent resistance and escape into the woods, Orman had driven home rapidly. In part, this haste was due to the significant gash over his left cheekbone, which was bleeding profusely and ultimately required eight stitches to repair, yet largely due to the sober rationality restored along with the whack from Lizzy’s bucket.
Orman was a relatively brave man, tough when the situation called, but also a dandy, foolhardy and brash. Elizabeth was not the first woman to receive unwanted advances from the Marquis; however, generally he was wiser in his choices and had, therefore, managed to avoid severe unpleasantries. Electing Elizabeth as the object of his seduction was no doubt primarily prompted by his hatred of Darcy, rather than an overwhelming attraction to her. Darcy’s and Orman’s mutual discord was not based on any particular incident but was merely one of those loathing-at-first-sight relationships strengthened over time by further revelations of their widely divergent characters and morals.
Orman may have been foolhardy, but he was not a complete imbecile. Sober rationality told him that, without the slightest doubt, Darcy would exact revenge for this recent impropriety. Therefore, as soon as his wound was treated, he departed with alacrity to a friend’s manor in Nottingham. When he received the news that Mrs. Darcy had suffered an accident, he trembled in fear.
His spies kept close watch on the situation and although information was nearly impossible to ferret out of the tight-lipped, loyal staff of Pemberley, it soon became clear that, for reasons unknown, Orman’s name was not associated with the event. With a false sense of security and atrociously poor timing, the Marquis brazenly returned to his Derbyshire manor the very day that Lizzy’s memory was reinstituted.
Thus, when Darcy, along with Col. Fitzwilliam and Lord Matlock, rode up to his house and ordered the butler to summon his master, Orman was utterly unprepared. Nonetheless, when Lord Matlock coldly intoned the charges and Darcy imperiously issued the challenge, Orman bristled and the miniscule amount of honor he possessed impelled him pridefully to accept.
As the challenger, Darcy had set the rules: duel with short swords to incapacitation, at Lord Matlock’s estate one hour after dawn on the morrow, and seconds as appointed by each party. So, here they now stood. Their swords had been inspected by their seconds—Col. Fitzwilliam and Mr. Gerald Vernor in Darcy’s case, the rules and charges had been reiterated, the ground canvassed for hazards, and coats removed.
Lord Matlock announced the onset of the duel with a loud, “Allez.” The combatants studied each other, circling slowly with their swords forward on point. Darcy had well buried his burning rage. He was calm, heart beating normally, and absolutely focused with emotions tightly controlled.
“So, Darcy,” Orman taunted, “your foolish wife loses herself in the forest, nearly dies, and you must trump charges against me! Such pride. Darcy of Pemberley would never admit to choosing poorly in the country bumpkin of Hertfordshire!”
Darcy did not flinch, although Col. Fitzwilliam swore, detained by his father from personally running Orman through.
“Esteem her quite highly, do you not, old friend?” Orman sneered, “Favor her so beautiful that all men will fall at her feet? Whom else will you accuse…” He lunged abruptly, sword aimed straight for Darcy’s heart.
Darcy had expected this tactic. Not swayed one iota by Orman’s blustering, Darcy parried easily, knocking Orman’s sword to the left and then nimbly pivoting to the right and rapidly raising his sword upwards. He sunk the edge deeply into Orman’s left arm just below the shoulder and then stepped away, sword instantly again at the ready.
Orman was taken by surprise but, to his credit, recovered immediately, sword again on point as the adversaries stalked with eyes locked. Blood soaked his sleeve but he ignored it, face no longer mocking.
The cat and mouse games were finished. Darcy lunged next, deflected by Orman with ease, initiating a round of furious thrusts, parries, and rapid ripostes. They tested each other’s strengths and weaknesses, having never fenced together in the past. Darcy scored again with a glancing cut to Orman’s neck, promptly followed with another superficial graze across his chest.
Orman howled in fury; Darcy baring his teeth in a snarl, the only show of emotion thus far. Orman attacked with rage, normally not a wise tactic and one that would have proven to be his ultimate undoing, as Darcy was primed. Unfortunately, as he stepped to the left, Darcy’s foot landed hard on a sharp stone and he faltered. Orman’s sword was averted poorly and, although not reaching its intended location, sunk completely into the flesh along the edge of Darcy’s right side, neatly gliding all the way through and exiting the back.
Darcy grunted and grimaced in pain, staggering as he jerked backward with his arm pressed tightly to the bleeding wound. Amazingly, he still somehow managed to score a penetrating stab into Orman’s right shoulder. Both men staggered backward a few paces, eyeing each other with rabid hatred and panting harshly.
“Is she honestly worth it, Darcy? A woman?”
“Vermin such as you, Orman, would never comprehend.”
“True love, is it? How touching. Never would have suspected you to be the romantic type. Perhaps her gracing me with her lovely smiles was more than you could bear?”
Darcy merely smiled, a chilling smile without humor that unsettled the Marquis, who fro
wned. His attempts to rouse Darcy’s anger and ruffle his composure were failing miserably. Orman began to sweat. He knew Darcy’s reputation as a superb fencer and had dwelt on little else all night, in fact. Orman was stouter than Darcy, muscular and potent. However, Darcy had the advantage of height with subsequently longer legs and greater reach. Orman could likely outlast Darcy in a contest requiring endurance, but his skill level with swords did not near Darcy’s and he knew it. He must alter his stratagem.
With a plan in mind, he engaged and another round of vicious thrusts and parries ensued. Darcy received a gash across his chest, not terribly deep, but a scar would remain to match the two on his waist. Orman pressed with a steady barrage, driving Darcy back. He applied no particular finesse, trusting to sheer brute force and stamina to wear his opponent down. Darcy landed three more superficial blows, leaving Orman bleeding from several sites.
Despite the fury of his assault, Orman was unable to connect with the nimble Darcy. Both men suffered from loss of blood and pain, but Darcy was a man vastly more familiar with the rigors of hard labor and the trial of persevering with injury after years of training horses. His breathing was only mildly labored and a light sheen of perspiration covered his brow. Orman, on the other hand, was wheezing and sweating liberally.
After a wild thrust, which Darcy parried with his free hand, earning a shallow slice to his palm, he was successful in piercing Orman’s thigh scant inches below his groin and less than a fingerbreadth from his femoral vein. Orman screamed and pitched forward, the duelists grabbing each other’s sword arms at the wrist, clinched tenaciously nearly nose to nose. They grappled together in a back-and-forth dance of engagement. All of a sudden, Darcy vehemently twisted his right arm free, aggressively smashing his elbow squarely onto Orman’s nose, feeling and hearing the satisfying crunch he had promised Elizabeth, followed by a gush of blood and lusty bellow.
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