"How is Charles taking it?" Elizabeth said, settling in next to her sister. "And have you told Papa? Mama? I cannot wait to hear what Mother says. On second thought, perhaps I can."
Jane and Elizabeth laughed. As much as they loved their mother, Mrs. Bennet and her infamous nerves could be overwhelming.
"Charles is beyond happy. Mama and Papa are looking forward to their first grandchild."
"And you?" Elizabeth asked. "How do you feel, Jane?"
Jane gave her sister a small, tired smile as she placed her hand lightly over her belly. "I feel like napping all the time, but I'm ever so happy, Lizzy. A little nervous, but mostly excited. I can't wait to actually look pregnant. But Mama says to bite my tongue, because soon I will be as large as a house."
Elizabeth laughed. "I can't imagine that, Jane. Though if Charlotte is to be believed, you will feel that way."
"Oh Charlotte, poor Charlotte." Jane lay her head back on the pillows and closed her eyes. "How is our dear Mrs. Collins?"
Elizabeth shrugged and looked out the window. She wondered if Darcy was still riding, or if he had returned and was dressing to meet Charles and Jane. Darcy had been…distracted of late. She knew one of his new business ventures was causing him to sleep poorly and work late into the night.
Mr. Darcy was such a change from her father, a man who preferred reading in his library to doing, well, anything else. Elizabeth's husband had ten times the income of her own family, and yet, he never stopped working.
"Lizzy? Are Charlotte and the babe well?"
"Oh, my apologies." Elizabeth turned back toward her sister. "Yes, Charlotte is as happy as any new mother could be. Well, as happy as any woman married to Mr. Collins could be. They named the baby girl Catherine, of course."
Both sisters smiled, well aware of the many wonderful attributes of Mr. Collins' benefactor, Lady Catherine De Bourgh, as well as the many annoying elements of their cousin Mr. Collins' personality.
"Well, I am glad mother and child are doing well," Jane said. "But Lizzy, how are you? You seem…distracted. Is all well here at Pemberley?"
Elizabeth glanced around the well-appointed room. The carpets were lush, the china fine. There were no cracks in the paint or dusty stairwells, like at their childhood home of Longbourn.
"Pemberley is perfection," Elizabeth admitted. "I only hope I can fulfill my duties adequately." She was speaking of the house itself, but in her mind's eye, an image of the couple in the woods flashed.
She could not stop thinking of them.
His hand. The sound it made as it hit his wife.
The sounds the woman had made. In pleasure.
"You look flushed. Are you ill, Lizzy dear?"
"I—no. No." Elizabeth glanced at her sister. She had never in her life discussed intimate relations with Jane, or with anyone. Even on her wedding eve, her mother had instructed Elizabeth to take instruction from her husband and "not argue with him, as you are wont to do!"
Of course, Mr. Darcy had been gentle. He had taken things slowly, and was the perfect English gentleman, both in and out of their bedchambers. But.
But.
"I am not ill. I believe I am just—missing my sister."
Jane opened her eyes and studied Elizabeth. "I would never call you a liar. I miss you as well, terribly so. But perhaps you are omitting something, Lizzy? You have never been able to hide your emotions. I can tell something is upsetting you."
Elizabeth nodded and lay down on the pillows next to Jane. She missed the casual intimacy of her home. "I feel like I must be a proper lady at all times," she whispered into the pillow's perfect embroidery. "Pemberley is such a grand estate. Nothing at Longbourn has prepared me for this—this marriage."
"Oh, Lizzy! But I feel the same way. But Mama didn't get married and immediately know how to manage Longbourn! She had years to learn."
Lizzy grinned wickedly. "And she is learning still."
Jane sighed. "She does the best she can. As do we all. And you and I are lucky to have experienced housekeepers to help teach us, whom I know you are not too proud to use."
"Of course not!" Elizabeth said. "Mrs. Reynolds is a treasure. And I am her eager pupil. To be honest, it's not simply the household duties that intimidate me." She hesitated, pulling at a loose string on the pillow, then immediately regretting it as some of the jeweled embroidery became loose.
"Is it your…marital duties?"
Elizabeth glanced at Jane's serene face, and felt herself blushing. Obviously Jane had no concerns regarding her own marital relations. She was pregnant, and so obviously, everything was perfect!
"No!" Elizabeth shook her head, deciding that she couldn't possibly tell her sister about what she had seen in the woods.
His hand, coming down so hard. Her flesh, quivering...
And, somehow, trying to put into words her problem with Mr. Darcy was even worse that that.
Wait. She had no problems with Mr. Darcy. He was perfect.
If he sometimes felt…distant…then that was to be expected, was it not? They were newly married and, in truth, did not know each other yet. Yes, she admired him and loved him and enjoyed spending every moment she could with him. He was adoring when they went to visit friends. He held her hand easily. He thought of her often, anticipating her needs.
"Mr. Darcy is just—you know he is very quiet. And the perfect, proper man. He is everything a man should be."
Jane nodded, her forehead slightly creasing. "But?"
"But, I just thought that perhaps, once we were married and living together, he would…be a little more…like us?" Elizabeth shrugged. She did not know how to say that she felt her husband was holding something back from her.
Holding himself back from her.
"He doesn’t…at night he does not talk that much," Elizabeth said. "Of course, we converse at dinner, and afterwards. Then he prefers to read or work on his correspondence. He can be so very…aloof."
Jane exhaled as if in relief. "Darling Lizzy, you had me worried for a moment! You cannot expect four months' of marriage to change a man. You cannot, perhaps, expect marriage to change a man, at all! You remember how we all thought Mr. Darcy to be a cold, proud sort of man before we truly knew him?"
Elizabeth nodded. Three small, blue crystalline pieces had fallen off the pillow. She clutched them in her fist and made a mental note to have her maid repair the damage.
Jane continued. "And then, once he revealed his true character, we understood that what we had interpreted as pride was, in fact, simply a bit of shyness. He is not as talkative as we Bennet girls—and aren’t you glad of that?"
Elizabeth laughed. Anytime all her sisters—and their mother—had been in a room together, their father used to joke it sounded like fifty girls were locked in a room, not just five. "No, I cannot imagine my Mr. Darcy fighting over ribbons with me."
Jane smiled and patted Elizabeth's hand. "See, you have said it yourself. He is your Mr. Darcy. You know him well, and you know that while he might be quiet and independent at times, there is no one in the world he loves more than you, his Elizabeth."
Elizabeth smiled and nodded. "You are wise and kind and perfection itself, as always."
Jane rolled her eyes and made a face. "I am simply observing his character. My dear Charles has not changed one bit since marriage—if you would like a man who talks often and of everything, please, borrow him." She giggled. "But only for a day or two. I should miss him terribly for more than that. Now, for some reason, I am hungry!"
Elizabeth laughed and helped her sister stand. "Yes, for some mysterious reason. Let us go to the kitchens. The cook makes the most amazing fresh bread and herbed butter."
"That sounds divine," Jane agreed, and they walked arm-in-arm down the hall.
Elizabeth kept a smile on her face all afternoon and into the evening, and when she went to bed with William he kissed her gently. He took her sweetly. She loved how he moved so carefully inside her, asking if she felt well, making sure nothing h
urt.
It was all so entirely pleasant, and she was happy and fulfilled and grateful.
Darcy
He should not wake her.
Elizabeth was asleep in bed. Their bed. Darcy stood still at the edge, one hand holding a brandy, the other idly playing with the thick coverlets that covered the lower half of the bed. And his young wife.
It was unseasonably warm for April, and in her sleep, she had tossed off some of the bed coverings. She'd also managed to twist up her bed jacket and chemise, a fine silken garment that he had ordered from a French dressmaker in London.
Elizabeth moaned in her sleep, turned onto her side, then on her back again. Her movements twisted her chemise and opened up the jacket's ties. Darcy inhaled sharply at the lovely, sensuous image she made. With her loosened garments, the long, smooth column of her neck was exposed. He watched her lovely face in the flickering candlelight; shadows played over the gentle slope of her cheek, down her neck, between her perfect breasts.
He wished he could touch her like that, explore her every sweet, hidden valley as easily as the light and shadows did.
Good God, was he jealous of a candle. He was losing his mind.
Darcy took a step back, his cock hardening underneath his banyan. He longed to slip into bed beside his wife, kiss that pristine neck, the expanse of her collarbone, suckle the spot where a beauty mark nestled, just above her left breast.
Suckle her, kiss her, taste her…everywhere.
But he had to restrain himself. Restrain his dark urges.
Elizabeth was too young. Too innocent. Maybe someday he could ask her to—
No. She was a gentleman's daughter. And he loved her. It was enough that she responded to his kisses with a surprising passion. He would be happy that Elizabeth opened her arms, her legs, her entire body to him. She even let him pet her, tease her, between her legs—though she would never call it that. She didn't know that he delighted in giving her pleasure, bringing her to the brink—higher and higher, until she bit her lip and looked at him with smoky, half-lidded pleasure that drove him wild—and then taking his hand away. Making her gasp.
She would never beg.
She didn't know how to. Didn't know she could.
Didn't know how much he wanted to train her to do so.
But…he could not.
Things that Darcy had discovered as a young man—with an older, widowed partner who led the way—these delights were too crude for husband and wife. Especially the perfect wife, his Elizabeth.
Darcy took another sip of his brandy, enjoying the burn it created in his throat and chest. He'd spent all day trying to salvage a tenant's failing finances. The man had made a series of poor choices, including gambling, that left him unable to pay his debts—including to Pemberley. Darcy was less concerned about that aspect of the man's failings. His tenant had four small children and a sickly wife.
And the man had been drunk when Darcy had surprised him with a visit.
Darcy took another sip, aware of the slight hypocrisy in his actions. He'd spent hours helping Mr. Grant plan out a path for his future. He'd sent for a physician for the man's wife and children. And he'd lectured Mr. Grant on abstaining—completely—from gambling and alcohol.
And now here, at the end of the day, Darcy stood, drinking his third brandy and contemplating taking the biggest gamble of his life.
His wife. His sweet wife. Darcy's heart ached. He should be satisfied—completely satisfied, blast it all! He should not still have this dark, wicked wanting. When he was younger, after his introduction into a sordid sexual world by his older, widowed lover, he had enjoyed exploring deviant sexual behavior.
There was clubs—private clubs—for gentlemen and men of means. Darcy had learned anything could be bought. Anything. And while compared to some of the men he had met and sights he had seen, Darcy's own proclivities would be considered somewhat bland, to a gentlewoman—to his wife—he was, frankly, terrified of…terrifying her.
What would Elizabeth say if he told her all the ways he had imagined her sweet, lithe body? How he had taken himself in hand, picturing all the while her fine, sculpted legs—so perfect and petite but strong, from her lifetime of long walks—tied at the ankles?
Black silk, he would prefer. Her left ankle bound and tied to the bed's post. Her right ankle tied to the right. Ah, yes, and her wrists—above her head. Perhaps with blood-red silk, an intricate knot that would protect her wrists but from which there would be no escape.
And then he would spread her legs and begin kissing her, first down on the bottom of her feet. Explore her toes, run his nail up the very center of her arch. Would she be ticklish? Would she squeal and try to escape from his touch?
But there would be no escape. Not from his hands. Not from his lips, or the scratch of chin and cheeks, facial hair slightly grown out by the end of the night. He would kiss his way up her calf, the inside of her knee, and the sweet expanse of her thighs. He could imagine her shocked intake of breath as he nuzzled her there. He could imagine she would fight him, just slightly, as he put a hand under each thigh, her buttocks. As he spread her open, spread her folds open with his thumbs, and then his tongue. As he held her there, hot and writhing and ready, as he made her wet with his mouth.
As he kissed her between her legs, suckled her and put his tongue where his cock usually went. As he licked and teased and nipped her quim and clit until she came, screaming, her legs locked around his head—
Darcy realized he was about to crush his brandy glass, his grip was so tight around. He took a deep breath and adjusted himself beneath his banyan. He had to stop allowing himself to fantasize about introducing Elizabeth to his secret past.And all these thoughts, these desires—they had to be in the past now.
He was married. He was an adult. He had obligations and duties. He had to protect his family, his tenants, his sister—his wife. Who, he reminded himself, was not even one and twenty. She had never kissed a man before him.
She had never even seen a man naked, having been raised with only sisters.
And he loved that about her. He loved her zest, her verve, her innocence.
So why in God's name did he want to corrupt her?
He reminded himself again of his duties, his work—but this was a mistake, as well. Because the more he thought about how people's entire livelihoods—and their actual lives, as well—rested on his shoulders, on his success, on his ability to weather all storms—and how this had been the case since he was entirely too young and his parents had passed…
The more he wanted that release.
He had whipped women before. Not hard, not cruelly.
Well, a little cruelly.
But they had begged for it.
And he had grown to like it, to crave it. To have a woman be submissive. To have a lady kneel before him, look up at him. To be able to put all the pressures of the world behind him, and lose himself as he helped a woman lose herself to pleasure.
It was…addicting.
Perhaps that was it. He was an addict. And he would never allow himself, Fitzwilliam Darcy, to need anything he could not control. He could control himself. He could control this.
Darcy remembered, suddenly, one of the older men at that club—that first, private club—telling stories. The man was married and Darcy, young and naïve, had been horrified. "Why are you here?" Darcy had demanded. "Your wife is at home. Do you not love her?" He knew the man's wife. She was amiable and wise. They had appeared to be in love, when Darcy had seen them at balls and dinners.
The man had laughed in Darcy's face. "Love and sex do not have to co-exist. And listen to me well, boy: if there's one thing I've learned, it's that your wife will not want any part of this, here. Wives are for kissing and procreating. They'll take care of you when you're old and frail. But don't expect them to take care of your cock, not like these lightskirts do here. You buy your wife ribbons. You don't tie her up with 'em."
Darcy had stared down the man, who—despite their a
ge difference—had been the first to look away. Years ago, Darcy had vowed that when he married, he would never take a mistress. Never seek pleasures outside of his marriage bed.
But the older he got, the more he knew: married women would not take kindly to his wanting to come all over their—
Dammit. It was an impossible situation. For a moment, Darcy considered waking Elizabeth. She was not like other ladies of the Ton. She was as fearless in her thinking as she was in her wandering over hills and dale. For a moment, he had a spark of hope. That was it! Elizabeth was an explorer. Why should she not want to explore this? With him?
He put his brandy down and went back to the bed. He could wake her, now. She would accept him with open arms. Perhaps he could even wake her with his tongue on her quim…
Then he thought of Elizabeth's face when she had described what Lydia had told her of Wickham. The thought of Wickham was enough to put an end to any amorous feelings Darcy had. But it had been Elizabeth's words, the displeasure on her pretty face, when she'd said, "And Lydia tells us awful stories! I don't want to hear any of it, but she said Wickham puts her on all fours and uses her in—I can't even speak of it. I wish I could erase it from my mind!"
Darcy left the bedroom and went to the library. There, in a locked drawer at his desk, were two books. He studied the illustrations for a few minutes, then put the candle flame out between his finger and thumb. He used those same, stinging appendages to take himself in hand. He used his shaft roughly, wildly, coming before he could stop himself, thinking of the impossible all the while:
Of Elizabeth, bound and blindfolded and perfect, on her knees before him.
Eager to submit.
Elizabeth
"Mrs. Darcy."
Elizabeth turned to find Darcy walking into her parlor, smiling mischievously. He looked so handsome he almost took her breath away. His blue eyes were sparkling and his dark hair was slightly mussed, as he had the tendency to run his fingers through it when thinking.
Mr. Darcy's Secret Desires: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 2