Bargain With the Devil

by Enid Wilson

  “You know perfectly well why I could not go out,” Elizabeth hissed.

  “Well yes, you know, and I know, but they do not know. They were really quite…amusing. They said I should…teach you how to scratch your bulge. Start young, scratch young, and the bulge will…grow larger.” He laughed again.

  “Mr. Darcy, you are drunk! This is not a discussion you should be conducting with a lady."

  “Ah, but you said yourself that you were…not a lady now. And I told you already that I am not drunk. I can still teach you how to…scratch. I know how to do it, though I do not do it as…often as they do. And, of course, I only do it…in private. Still, I can instruct you.”

  “No!” Elizabeth protested, but she felt him take her hand and pull it down to the front of her trousers. She tried to struggle free but he was too strong.

  “Now, scratch like this. All men must…do this, once in awhile, or else they do not look…manly.” As Elizabeth’s hand hung resolutely limp, he used his own fingertips to scratch lightly at the fabric between her legs. Elizabeth felt her blood draining from her head, rushing down to the area beneath his touch.

  “Got that? Good. And when you…sit, you must sit with legs apart. The wider…you part your legs, the bigger…you imply your bulge to be. Then the others will see your manly assets."

  “Mr. Darcy, indeed, you quite forget yourself!”

  “Up!” Darcy sat up and pulled the bed sheet away, then tugged at Elizabeth to sit on the edge of the bed.

  Shocked, she tried to cover her breasts.

  “That is…no way for a man to sit,” Darcy insisted, and parted her legs. “Yes, men sit like that, with legs apart."

  Elizabeth struggled, trying to cross her legs, but he would not have it. He arranged her limbs once again, in the position he liked. “Now, that is it.” He stopped and peered at her in the darkness. “But I fear you still look like…a milksop.” He moved his hand, tracing his fingers over her naked chest. “You have a bosom! Definitely a milksop!” Abruptly, his hand dropped, and he pushed her down to lie back on the bed. Elizabeth was afraid of what he might do next, but she heard him murmur, “Now sleep.” He pulled the bed sheet up to cover them both, then hugged her tight, his hands caressing her naked flesh while he whispered to her ear, “I do love you, Elizabeth.” Then his breathing became deep and even as he finally fell soundly to sleep.

  Chapter Three

  Elizabeth could not fall asleep with Mr. Darcy hugging her so tightly. His hot breath blew near her earlobe; his manly, woody scent flooded her nostrils, sending shivers down her spine. From time to time, his hands would slide over her body, caressing her flesh, making her tremble with delightful yet disturbing new sensations. His legs were tangled with hers, transferring heat to her core.

  She thought back over recent events: his surprise proposal in Hunsford; their angry exchange; his letter; the dreadful news about Lydia’s elopement; her plea for his help; his devilish demand for a reward; the relief of finding her sister; the second disappearance of the greedy pair; her father’s collapse; and, finally, her decision to follow him in his search.

  Did I act in a flirtatious manner at Netherfield or in Kent? Did I falsely lead him into falling in love with me? How could he love me without conversing much with me? How could I not have known of his intention? Was my reproof at his proposal too harsh? How could I not have been harsh? He was truly arrogant, conceited and insensitive to the feelings of all others in Meryton.

  What about the astonishment, apprehension and even horror which oppressed me when I read his letter? How could I have been so mistaken about his character? And what of his compliment to me? He appeared to truly admire me. And his shocking claim for recompense! I shall never debase myself to become his mistress. And yet he shall not want to marry me now. What did he mean by wanting to make his ardent admiration more thoroughly known by me? Does he desire to make me love him and then suffer at his rejection?

  Was I wrong to follow him? He will undoubtedly be furious when he finds out what I told Georgiana. Was I attempting to force his hand by telling his sister we were secretly engaged? What else could I have done? I felt certain he would call the scoundrel out. How could I allow him to be harmed? Am I really hindering the search?

  There is also this situation here. We are spending a night together, in the same bed. He has seen and touched my body. I am truly compromised. Does he still desire to marry me?

  And do I truly wish to marry him, if he still has the same feelings for me? I know now that it was he who was wronged by Mr. Wickham, not the other way around. He has promised to rectify the situation with Jane and Bingley. And he was not arrogant to Uncle’s servants. What, if anything, do I still hold against him?

  By following him today, I have taken the decision out of his hands. If he is honourable, he will have to ask for my hand again. Did I underestimate his love for me? Would it be of long duration? Was he just being honest when he told me he overcame tremendous objections to ask for my hand? And when he kissed and… caressed me, my heart seemed to burst out and my blood felt inflamed within my body. Oh, his mouth, his tongue, his hands – they were like magic! But how can I think about these things when Lydia is still lost? Am I as wanton and undisciplined as my sister?

  I had never supposed Mr. Darcy to have a humorous side, teaching me to scratch myself and part my legs. It was embarrassing… and yet, I must admit, quite hilarious. Indeed, I cannot help grinning now, thinking of the haughty Mr. Darcy scratching himself in private. He probably will not remember what happened when he wakes up tomorrow, or will not admit it, if he does. He is usually far too serious for his own good. It would be a pleasure to teach him to take life less seriously and to enjoy making gentle sport of both our neighbours and ourselves. Am I the right person to teach him?

  The hour was late indeed when, after exploring ever more pleasant thoughts about Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth finally fell asleep.

  * * *

  When Darcy woke up to the light of the next day’s dawn, he felt heavy headed. Slowly, he remembered the events the day before: finding the distasteful note from Wickham, Mr. Bennet’s collapse, the private meeting with Mr. Gardiner, and the kiss at the Gardiner’s townhouse.

  Yes, that hot, rough, punishing kiss I bestowed upon her. I can still feel the sensation of connecting to her mouth and pleasuring her body. The stubborn woman! She ignored my warning completely! Why has she followed me? Does she not have any respect for my word? Does she not trust my abilities at all?

  He remembered seeing her lying on the bed at the fishermen’s hut, her body covered by the bed sheet. My drinking and singing, did it happen? I was singing with the fishermen. And then…what followed next? I cannot remember clearly…

  A faint lavender smell tantalised his senses. He could feel his head on a soft, moving… was it really a moving pillow?

  When he raised his body and looked down at the… pillow, his eyes widened. It was Elizabeth’s bosom! Her naked bosom had been his pillow for the night. He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. Then, unable to help himself, he pulled the bed sheet lower, allowing the brightening sunlight to display her treasures. The hat she had worn had become dislodged in the course of the night, and her hair escaped the bounds of its pins. With her dishevelled tresses framing her lovely face, she looked young and adorable.

  And her breasts! Darcy swallowed again, totally mesmerised by the sight. Even though faint traces of dirt were smeared here and there over the porcelain smoothness of her skin, she could hardly have appeared more desirable to him. Her steady breathing thrust her bosom up and down, drawing his attention to her twin peaks.

  He had long imagined devouring her body in his dreams. Now that he could do so freely, he could not seem to take the final step across the boundary. Taking a deep breath and calming himself, he held out his hand, wanting to caress her bosom. But before his fingertips could reach her enticing body, he withdrew his hand, folding it tightly into a fist at his side. Still, the tempta
tion was very great indeed. He teased the bed sheet down further, gazing at her smooth, slender abdomen. When he drew the sheet a few inches lower, he encountered the sight of her trousers!

  Remembering the other incidence, he raised his hands to cradle his muzzy head. Dear Heaven, did I actually instruct her on how to scratch ‘her’ bulge, and teach her to sit with her legs apart? Oh, Lord, how can I ever remedy my shameful behaviour? Getting drunk and talking ridiculously is bound to have destroyed the last of her respect of me, if she ever truly had any for me at all.

  He lay back down on the bed, not daring to touch her. His mind was filled with embarrassment about the incidence and regret for drinking too much. He thought back with despair over recent events: the disastrous proposal in Hunsford; the letter; their meeting in the park; the search for Wickham; his audacious demand for reward.

  How could I get everything so wrong? I was so certain she was hoping for and expecting my address. But, in fact, she felt that I was the last man in the world whom she could ever be prevailed upon to marry! How could she not have noticed the attention and honour I bestowed upon her? I danced with no one but her at the Netherfield ball! I found every opportunity to meet up with her during her rambles at Rosings. How could she think that the pain of her rejection would be of only short duration for me? I shall never forget her words: “Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner…” How those words have tortured me!

  How could she have been so wrong about my character? How could she ever have believed Wickham? Did she have feelings for the scoundrel? How could she think that I persuaded Bingley purely because of an arrogant assumption?

  And my letter! Did it make her think better of me? It must have, for why else would she have begged me for intelligence of Wickham? Why could I not suppress my anger and help her, without insisting on repayment? Now she must think me devoid of honour and integrity. She actually believed me capable of offering her the arrangement of a mistress, or of demanding that she do something immoral. How much lower can I sink in her opinion?

  And now there is this situation here. We have spent a night together, on the same bed. I have seen and touched her body. I have truly compromised her. What can I do now but to offer for her again? And yet how can I be certain, if she accepts me, that it was not because she felt she had no other choice, but because she has genuine feelings for me?

  And last night! The astonishing liberties that I took! Did I truly confess that I had fantasised her body from the very beginning of our acquaintance? Did I really pleasure her bosom? Oh, Lord! I feel sick.

  Thinking about her diminishing opinion of him, he could not bear lying next to her any longer. Instead, he left the bed and went in search of their clothes.

  When he returned to the room, he changed back into his clothes quickly, then placed Elizabeth’s clothes by the bed. He was just preparing to leave the room again when he heard her call out to him in a low voice.

  “Good morning, Mr. Darcy.”

  Darcy was unwilling to turn to greet her. He whispered, “Good morning, Miss Bennet. I trust you slept well.” His face turned red when he heard his own ill-chosen words. How could she sleep well with you by her side, idiot?

  “Indeed, I slept well. Thank you. I… I may require your assistance… to dress.”

  Surprised by her request, he turned to look at her.

  Elizabeth was sitting up on the bed, the sheet pulled up to cover her body. She was a vision of loveliness and enticement, though she still looked dishevelled and groggy from just awakening.

  He looked away from the alluring picture she portrayed and murmured, “…To dress?”

  “I fear I will need your assistance to…bind myself up."

  “…bind up?” He asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh!” Comprehension dawned on him. He glanced back at her, and at the cloth she held in her hand. “Of course,” With trembling legs, he sat on the bed again.

  She turned away from him, then let the bed sheet drop, presenting her smooth back to him. Then she started wrapping the cloth around her body from the front. When she pushed the cloth to the back under her right arm, she turned and asked him silently for assistance, with her eloquent eyes.

  He moved closer, took the cloth and pulled it to her left until her hand touched his, near the underside of her left breast. Heat emitted from both their hands. He lowered his head, sorely tempted to kiss her shoulder.

  She gasped, sensing his nearness.

  Remembering her low opinion of him, especially after the previous night, he straightened immediately, but her forbidden proximity during the following few moments as he helped her to bind up her bosom were pure torture.

  As soon as the task was completed, he left her alone to dress. Needing a breath of air in which to collect himself, he walked down to the beach, where he stood, skipping stones on the water.

  Not long thereafter, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and turned to see a little boy grinning at him. The boy had blond hair and a sweet face, reminding him of Georgiana when she was young.

  “I luv ta t’row stones," the boy said.

  “Yes, I love to throw stones, too,” Darcy replied.

  “Come! See crab.” The boy, continuing to smile, ran toward him, took his hand and pulled him in the general direction of the hut. When they finally stopped at the end of the beach where the sand met the grass, the boy crouched down and pointed his finger eagerly at some moving crabs.

  “Yes,” Darcy agreed, “I can see a few crabs here.”

  “Why d’they walk sideways?” the boy asked, looking up at him.

  Darcy sat down on the grass, watching them scuffle.

  “Ye d' know?” the boy asked, and sat besides him.

  “Well, a long time ago, crabs walked like you and I. But there was one shy crab who did not like to talk to strangers.”

  “Crabs ken talk?"

  “Yes, they speak crab language, which we humans do not understand.”

  “What 'bout dat shy crab?”

  “Well, one day, a dozen strange crabs set upon him, walking straight in front of him, asking him to dance with them. He was shy and wanted to avoid them, so he started walking sideways. Of course, the other crabs laughed and threw sand at him. Since then, he could only walk sideways.”

  “Dems 'twer bad crabs!”

  “Ah, but one day, the shy crab came upon an injured crab stuck between two rocks. He helped her out and took her back to her home. When the injured crab asked him why he walked sideways, he did not explain but simply bid her goodbye.”

  “Din't da crab git bedder?"

  “Yes, she got better and came to find him. They became good friends and she began to walk sideways, as he did. Do you know who she was?”

  The boy shook his head zealously.

  “She was the daughter of the King Crab.”

  “A princiss?!" ” the boy exclaimed.

  “Yes. And when the princess started to walk sideways, it became the fashion. Ever since then, everyone in the crab kingdom has been walking sideways too.”

  “I dunna like the princiss crab ! Girls trouble, like sister.”

  “Why do you not like her?"

  “ She bad. Pinch me.”

  Mr. Darcy smiled and ruffled his hair. “Why did she pinch you? Did you do something to annoy her?”

  The boy shook his head fervently.

  “Even if she is not nice, you still must take good care of her. She is your sister and she is a girl. We men have to take care of our girls and women.”

  “Papa say wemen's trouble!”

  Darcy laughed out loud. “He jests. He loves your mother and your sister.”

  “I dunna luv girls. Dey’s trouble!”

  “You will love them when you grow older.”

  The boy wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Yer older. De ye luv girls?”

  “I do not love all girls. I love just two.”

  The conversation between the man and the boy was interrupted by th
e arrival of Margaret and Elizabeth. The latter was still dressed as a young boy, hat concealing her hair, and she leaned on her good foot. After a few pleasantries, the travellers bid the host and his family goodbye. Mr. Darcy took Elizabeth onto his back again and started up the hill.

  Riding on his back, her hands around his neck, her legs around his waist, Elizabeth felt the warmth from his body heating up her chest. She had been standing near him and the boy for quite sometime, without them noticing it. She thought back to the story he had told the little boy, and his declaration of love, and her heart felt the warmth, as well. She laid her head onto his shoulder and breathed out a big sigh.

  Mr. Darcy walked on silently. He could feel her soft body pressed against his back, her head on his shoulder, her breath tingling against his neck, and he wished he could carry her forever.

  * * *

  After an hour of silent walking, they arrived near the inn at Whitstable. Mr. Darcy, finding his servants, asked them to bring a carriage around to meet him in the woods. When it arrived, he asked the servants to walk away for a few minutes. As soon as they had done so, he pulled down the shades over the windows so that he and Elizabeth could change into gentlemen's clothes inside the carriage. Then he went out to recall the servants and give instructions for the journey back to London.

  On seeing the direction of the carriage, Elizabeth asked, “Are we not to search for Lydia?”

  Darcy scowled. “I shall take you back to Gracechurch Street and return tomorrow.”

  “But you shall waste an entire day! Mr. Wickham and Lydia may disappear by then.”

  His lips thinned. “Madam, do not try my temper any more than you have already.”

  “Pray turn back the carriage. I can just as well wait for you at the inn. I promise not to follow you. I could not, anyway, with my injured foot.”

  “You know that you cannot remain with me without a chaperone.”