Mr. Darcy’s Secret Desires
A Pride and Prejudice Variation
Caitlin Marie Carrington
Contents
1. Elizabeth
2. Elizabeth
3. Elizabeth
4. Darcy
5. Elizabeth
6. Elizabeth
7. Elizabeth
8. Darcy
9. Darcy
10. Elizabeth
11. Elizabeth
12. Elizabeth
13. Elizabeth
Epilogue
Thank You for Reading!
Also by Caitlin Marie Carrington
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by Caitlin Marie Carrington.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Elizabeth
Elizabeth tugged her cloak more firmly around her shoulders and moved quickly into the fierce spring wind. She loved days like these, when the seasons were changing. Winter gone, but spring not yet fully here.
But this was not a sunny spring day full of flowers and baby lambs.
This was the wild, fierce spring, when the wind was so strong it seemed to become its own, incarnate force. She could lean into it—lean, truly—and the powerful breezes almost held her upright.
One end of her cornflower-blue cloak came loose, and the wind took swift advantage; it billowed behind her like a trail of dark blue watercolor across the pale blue sky. Elizabeth glanced behind her; she was half a mile from Pemberley. There was no one here, on the vale, to see her now. No responsibilities, no servants to command, no housekeeper to meet with.
And, no husband.
Not that she didn't adore Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Elizabeth, in fact, more than adored her husband. Though it was not modest or perhaps proper to admit it to her friends, she was wildly in love. She had made a love match. She could not ask for a better, stronger man, or a more gentle, loving companion. He made her laugh. He admired her mind.
He admired her body.
Not only had he shown her a whole new world, in the form of his great estate and lofty connections—he had ushered her into wedded bliss. She had not known what joys a woman could find in her husband's arms.
But still.
Becoming the mistress of Pemberley was a daunting task. And although four months had passed since their marriage vows, Elizabeth certainly did not feel like she knew what she was doing as Pemberley's mistress, or, truth be told, even as her William's wife.
She knew he loved his sister, his staff, his lands and estates, his strong tea that was one level below scalding. He took his responsibilities to heart, had a secret proclivity towards chocolate, and tended to stay up too late reading, a habit she adored.
He hated to be called Fitzwilliam, instead preferring William or—in the privacy of their bedchamber—Will.
And he loved her. He told her so, every day. Every night.
But there was still a properness to her husband, to all of Pemberley. Perhaps it's my own fault, she thought. Perhaps I am acting too quiet, too stilted. She loved William; she was grateful and excited for her new life.
But.
Right now.
The wind was bracing and she was alone and she felt—she felt—free. In a way she had not, not in a long time, perhaps.
Elizabeth let her long blue shawl fly up and into the breeze, holding it with just one hand. She watched the color and listened to the quick, harsh whipping sound of the fabric, entranced. For one moment, all thoughts of her new duties and the stress of a new marriage left her, whipped up, up, and away—along with her scarf.
And then, just as she was about to tug the fabric down and return home, the mischievous wind grew stronger and ripped the soft silk from her fingertips!
"Oh no," Elizabeth whispered, watching the cloak sail across the sky. Mr. Darcy had had the cloak made for her in London. He said the blue made her brown eyes even more bright and lovely.
"Oh, oh no!"
Elizabeth watched in horror as the gust stole the fabric, floating it up over her head, higher and higher. It has to come down, she told herself. But, she was on top of one of the small hills on Pemberley's massive estate. When the cloak began to descend, it did not fall at her feet.
The wind whipped it up high, over her head. Elizabeth was on the top of a small rise, with a copse of fir trees to her right that led down into the wooded grounds below. The scarf traveled up the sides of the trees, almost catching on the pine needles—but no, it escaped.
Oh, I hope no one sees this, Elizabeth prayed as she took one deep breath—and then ran down the hill after her garment. Within a few moments, she couldn't hide the joy she felt at running free. She lifted her skirts, thankful she'd worn a plain, old dress for her morning ramble. She reached the bottom of the hill, unable to hide her wide smile or care that her pins had come undone.
Oh, the breeze in her hair felt marvelous. She almost didn't care that the shawl had disappeared into the woods—almost. She knew her dear Mr. Darcy would not be mad. But she didn't want to even slightly disappoint him. There was something about him, an indefinable quality that she had never encountered before in another person: she wanted to please him. He never demanded anything of her, but it was a subtle strength of spirit—she found herself so attentive to the smallest changes in his mood, his posture.
When he kissed her in bed, or moved between her legs, sometimes she felt she pleased him especially well. Sometimes she felt he was on the verge of—of commanding her to do things. She sighed and shook her head, coming to a breathless stop at the bottom of the hill.
She was just newly married and becoming accustomed to her husband. She was sure he was the same as any other good man—but special to her, because she loved him.
Elizabeth slowed to a ramble, breathless and merry and feeling younger and more carefree than she had in a long, long time. Not just because of the strains of learning how to run a great household—or live with a great man, and his esteemed family. (Or, in contrast, how to manage a wayward younger sister like Lydia, who had nearly brought shame to them all.)
No, Elizabeth mused, as the sun came out and the winds hid away and she suddenly found herself in a warm and gentle spring day—for many, many years she had felt nervous. Afraid. In her teenage years, there was always, always the threat of the entail on her family's estate, of what would become of them all when her beloved father died and the estate went to their loathsome cousin Mr. Collins.
Now, she could finally breathe. She was safe. They were all safe, and saved! And if she still felt constricted, and at times terrified of whether she was doing everything properly—from ordering quail for dinner to speaking to the household staff to touching her husband—well, she would meet each challenge. And move on.
And be happy.
But oh. How lovely, for one afternoon, to be free and at ease.
It was then that she heard the woman scream.
Elizabeth
Elizabeth froze, instinctively ducking down into the underbrush. Someone—clearly a woman—had just cried out in pain. For one second, Elizabeth considered running back to Pemberley and getting help. But the house was far—too far if it was an emergency.
Horrible images of highwaymen and escaped criminals filled her mind as she crept slowly forward. But, she was the mistress of this land. If someone was in need, Elizabeth woul
d help them. She must!
Breathing hard, her skirt catching in last autumn's dead branches, she moved deeper into the woods. The world was now so still and silent, warm and full of sunshine, that Lizzy began to think she had imagined the awful cry.
And then she heard it again.
"God help me," Elizabeth whispered. She moved more quickly, grabbing a stick from the forest floor. She was not sure what she herself might do against evil men, but she would not let her fear overwhelm her now.
Not when a woman was pleading for help.
She was closer now. Elizabeth could hear her breathy moans, and then the unseen woman cried out, "Oh, God! No, no, no, please!"
Emboldened, breathless, and panicked, Elizabeth ran now, straight for the sound. And there, just ahead of her, in the cleaning, she saw them: a man, holding a struggling woman down on his lap.
Elizabeth was about to cry out, to command him to stop hurting her—when she got close enough to recognize them. This was no highwayman! It was Mr. Mills, the gamekeeper, a quiet but strong older man with a distinguished air, despite his poor background.
And the woman—he was not attacking a stranger.
He was attacking his wife.
Mr. and Mrs. Mills had just wed, not a month before Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth had visited with Mrs. Mills twice, and found her to be a cheerful girl who had warmed to her immediately. Mrs. Mills was, like Elizabeth, almost ten years younger than her new husband.
They had seemed so happy together. In fact, Mr. Mills seemed to worship the wooded forest floor his wife walked on.
But here, now. Elizabeth could not believe what she saw. Mr. Mills sat on a felled log, his stance wide and strong. And Mrs. Mills—Elizabeth clapped her hand to her mouth, and felt her eyes fill with tears—Mrs. Mills lay across his lap, face down. Her plain, homespun dress was flipped up and—good gracious—the bottom half of her was completely exposed.
And then Mr. Mills raised his hand high in the air, and brought it down with a great, resounding slap, directly on her exposed skin!
"No!" Mrs. Mills shouted, struggling to escape.
I must rescue her, Elizabeth thought. She knew she had no right to interfere in someone's marriage, but she could not stand by and watch a man beat a woman, even if he had the law on his side. Elizabeth could not imagine any transgression the woman might have done, that would have earned her this painful—and public—humiliation!
The couple had not seen her. Elizabeth was still in the shadows of the thick trees, while they were highlighted in a small glen, the sun shining down on them like some strange benediction.
Elizabeth took two steps forward, and with each step the man sternly spanked his wife. Again. Again. Elizabeth flinched each time, trying to gather her flyaway thoughts so that she might accost him and ask—command!—that he unhand his young bride.
But on her third long stride toward them, something changed. Mrs. Mills was crying quietly, begging for him to stop—but now his hand did not rise. Instead, he moved his large, right hand deftly between her legs. And then Mrs. Mills made that sound—that first sound that had drawn Elizabeth here.
But now that she stood not twenty feet from them, Elizabeth could see that Mrs. Mills was not in pain. Her buttocks were bright red and looked inflamed, but that noise—that moan—did not come from pain.
Mrs. Mills raised her head up, and Elizabeth was struck that her lovely face was just as pink as the flesh Mr. Mills had slapped, over and over again. But Mrs. Mills' face was a study in ecstasy. Her mouth was open, her panting audible in the glen. Elizabeth's eyes traveled rapidly between husband and wife; Mr. Mills seemed to move his hand more furiously between his wife's legs, but he was not spanking her this time. In fact, his hand was hidden between her clenched thighs. What was he doing?
Mrs. Mills quivered and sputtered, writhing on his lap as if she wished to escape—and yet, she did not try to flee. Elizabeth, instinctually, stepped behind a tree, suddenly thankful that her beautiful blue shawl was lost and that she was wearing her older, pre-marriage clothing. Drab brown wool blended into the woods.
I should turn and walk away, Elizabeth told herself. Obviously, there was no one in need of rescuing here. She was about to turn to leave—or, that's what she told herself—when Mrs. Mills began talking.
"Don't stop. Please," she panted. She was still facedown, her stomach resting on her husband's thighs, her legs splayed with his hand between them.
"You naughty minx," he growled. Elizabeth could not ignore the affection on his face, even as his voice sounded harsh and stern. She wondered what Mrs. Mills thought, as the woman could not see her husband's face, only hear his low voice.
"Please, Sir, I will never do it again!" Mrs. Mills cried.
"Ah, I'd like to believe you, lass. Truly I would. But you have proved yourself to me, over and over again. You need discipline. In fact, I could almost swear you spilled my lunch on purpose—just to make me come out here and find you."
“No, I would not—”
Mr. Mills raised his hand suddenly and brought it down on her bare thighs with a resounding slap, That filled the Glen and made Elizabeth jump slightly in her hiding place.
But if Elizabeth jumped, that was nothing compared to the reaction of Mrs. Mills. She shrieked, violently.
But then—then—
“Do it again, Husband,” she whispered. Her hips bucked of their own accord. “Please, please. I need—”
“I know what you need, lass,” was all he said, in that deep, gruff voice.
And then Mr. Mills moved his hand, again, between his wife’s legs. Elizabeth realized now that he must be doing something similar to what Mr. Darcy had done to her. Not all the time, not every night in which they coupled, but her own husband had touched her like this.
Well, not exactly like this. But he had played with that small, strange bud between her legs, and it had felt—divine. Elizabeth’s very thighs had trembled, quivered. She had felt herself grow embarrassingly wet, and she recognized the movements of Mrs. Mills’ hips.
Why, that was how Elizabeth herself had moved when Mr. Darcy touched her in such a way! But Elizabeth had not made the sounds, the animalistic noises that Mrs. Mills currently was making. And Mr. Darcy had not touched Elizabeth for nearly this long, or this roughly.
In fact, sometimes when Mr. Darcy touched her like this, she seemed to lose himself in her body, in their pleasures. But then he would come to his senses, and pull back…and apologize!
And then they would join together and attempt to make a baby.
Which also felt good.
Very good, Elizabeth thought to herself.
…But nothing like this.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Mrs. Mills panted. “You know what I need. Please, please—”
“Aye, I’ll give you what you need, you naughty lass.”
Mr. Mills withdrew his hand from between his wife’s legs, and she cried out in anger or pain or loss. But he ignored her noises, simply pulling her up to a standing position. Elizabeth blushed. The woman’s dress was caught up around her waist, and she was nearly naked here, in public, in the woods!
But they did not seem to mind, nor seem to fear anything.
Mr. Mills grabbed his wife and roughly pulled her to him. She did not seem to mind that, either! This time she straddled him, their chests pressed to each other. He lifted her up, and Elizabeth had to slap her hand over her mouth to keep from gasping aloud.
She watched as the man lowered his wife onto what had to be his manhood. And then—then!—sweet, innocent Mrs. Mills began riding him like a horse! Mrs. Mills threw back her head and began making those earthy, unbidden sounds again. If anything, it seemed to delight and drive on her partner. He put his two, huge hands on her buttocks and pulled her to him, then up and down. It looked rough and violent and horrible and—Mrs. Mills appeared to be delighted.
"I'm close," she panted.
"Ye won't find your pleasure yet," Mr. Mills said, ever stern. "Ye've
been a bad girl and ye don't get to come until tonight."
"No!" Mrs. Mills shrieked. And then she shocked Elizabeth even further by raising up her fists and pummeling Mr. Mills shoulders. He just laughed, and then grabbed her face and kissed her. And they kissed, and kissed, and—
Elizabeth saw her blue scarf, innocent and beautiful, caught in the branch of a tree five feet to the couple's left.
She turned and ran home.
Elizabeth
Two days later, Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy ride his stallion across the meadow. The sun reflected off the horse's gleaming black coat, the fine horseflesh almost as proud and beautiful as the man atop it.
"And how is married life treating you, Lizzy?"
Elizabeth turned from the parlor window and smiled at her beloved sister. "I might ask the same of you, Jane! Oh, how I've missed you. Thank you for coming to Pemberley. It's especially quiet, with Georgiana gone all month at Lady Catherine's."
Jane returned her younger sister's smile and poured two steaming cups of tea. "You know I will visit you any time I can. Though Charles is buying a new house in London and, well, Lizzy: prepare yourself. You will have a niece or nephew come this fall."
Elizabeth gasped, shouted, and clapped her hands—then ran to her sister and hugged her fiercely.
"Oh, Jane. I'm so happy for you! And Charles!" She hugged her tighter, then pulled back to examine Jane's joyful face. Her sister had always been the most beautiful of the Bennet daughters, with her fine golden curls and bright blue eyes. But now, yes, Elizabeth could see a change in her. She had attributed Jane's glow to being in love, or a happy newly married state. Now she knew it was love and happiness—and something more.
"And how are you feeling? You must sit down!" Elizabeth rushed Jane over to the settee, her sister laughing but letting Lizzy settle her with pillows and prop up her feet.
"I am not an invalid," Jane protested, but she took the cup of tea from Elizabeth's hand with a smile, and did not try to stand again. "But I am tired."
Mr. Darcy's Secret Desires: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 1