Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife

by Linda Berdoll

  Alternatively, he could use withdrawal, that time-honoured test of a gentleman’s mettle. He understood it successful if used diligently. Could he trust himself to withdraw from the lush confines of her womanhood at the very brink of achievement?

  Each and every time?

  As a matter of life or death, he probably could.

  That was not certain enough. It would not do. To insure her safety, he must not chance what was probable. They must abstain entirely. He must not only be strong, he must be impervious to the temptation. Thus, he sat in an uncharacteristic slump pondering these harsh truths in the same large chair from whence he presided, with considerable stature, over their supper parties.

  The light was dim. The central candelabra had only a few candles yet burning, the rest had flamed out. He slouched there in the shadows, staring into the glass in his hand as if it were a quartz sphere. Finding his fortune untold, he emptied it, reached for the decanter and filled it again.

  Elizabeth was barefoot; hence, he did not hear her walk up behind him. When she put her arm across his chest, he was so surprised as to slosh some wine from his glass.

  “My intention was not to catch you so unawares,” she apologized, then asked, “Shall you retire soon?”

  “In a bit,” he said as he set down his glass.

  With a spontaneity he had not witnessed for some time, she plopped down upon his lap. Her legs draped over the arm of the chair, and she dangled them fetchingly.

  Very fetchingly.

  As he buried his face in her hair for the first time in months, a small little soughing sound came from the back of his throat. Not understanding that it was a moan born of a superb attempt to frustrate lust, not an announcement of its unleashing, she pressed her lips against his throat. This time his groan was more pronounced and convoluted in motive.

  “Did I ever tell you how very much I love your neck?” she asked in what could only be described as a purr.

  Not trusting his voice, he could do no better than give a shake of his head. His voice might have been suspect, but nothing else about him was. For he tangled her hair about his fingers and slowly drew her head back, determined to expose the lips that issued that exceedingly seductive utterance. Thereupon he, perhaps unwisely, endeavoured to cease their seduction by kissing them deeply. All the while, her fingers ploughed furrows in his hair.

  Good intentions losing a hard fought battle with proud flesh, he drew himself from their kiss long enough to hear his own ragged breath. Elizabeth used this fleeting respite to tug his shirttail loose, sneak her hand beneath it, and up across his chest. Seeking to belay its tantalising waltz, he grasped her hand through his shirt and held it still. He knew if she did not cease, there would not be enough blood remaining in his brain (he was quite certain it had all pooled in his groin) to say what he knew he must.

  “Lizzy, I fear if I give in to desire…”

  “You do not fancy my father will call you out…?”

  “I am quite serious, Lizzy!”

  She became quiet. And still.

  “Another baby might take your life,” he said solemnly. “I simply could not bear it if…”

  He started to say more, but fell silent. It was not a great leap for her to understand what he was telling her. Had he been able to look, he might have seen her countenance reflect that she, indeed, did know precisely what he meant and all that it implied.

  Carefully considering all that he had said, it was a long moment before she spoke. “I think you must agree that a choice of that nature should be mine and mine alone.”

  She stood up, facing him, her hips and hands resting upon the edge of the table. Thereupon, she reached out, gently stroking his cheek with the back of her fingers as if to soften what she said.

  “Surely, even you, Mr. Darcy, do not possess such wanton hubris as to question God’s will?”

  Not really expecting an answer, she waited a moment regardless, and then looked into his eyes.

  “I should sooner die than not be a wife to you.”

  He, however, could not hold such a gaze, so much was at stake and she gave him so little choice. As he thought of that, his hands found her thighs, then slid to her hips. Those his embrace engulfed and he pressed his face against her abdomen.

  The only warning he issued that a decision had been reached was the nip he took at her stomach. Thereupon, he stood up full. Her gaze devoured the length of that not inconsequential sight.

  Had the choice been celibacy, it would have had to have been endured. But if their love was to be relished, time was a-wasting.

  One swipe of his arm cleared away the crystal, rendering the table a jackleg love-bed. He pressed her back upon it. So hastily was she upended, her head barely missed a rather ornate candelabra. (It only escaped the carnage by taking a precarious tottering trip down the length of the table.)

  She said, “Should we not go upstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  That was in apparent concurrence with what they should do, but not what they would. For he did not release her.

  Instead, his hands slid beneath her gown, glided over her again, and then drew her to him. By the time that he struggled his inflamed member free from his nether garments (the rigidity of his arousal and tautness of his breeches had rendered him temporarily trapped), he was in such a state of heat that prudence for possible infirmity of her innards did not come to mind. Which was perchance fortunate, in that once he obtruded them with a substantial degree of vigour, the moan she elicited was not misidentified as pain.

  Rather, that sound from her was as familiar to him as her voice. Hearing it again inspirited him well-nigh to the point of pain himself. Upon such a fevered union, the rather sturdy Chippendale table began to tremble. What little crystal that had -persevered through the initial assault of his long arm began to fall. Even so, the crescendo that ensued was from their passion, not the breaking glasses. However, that was not clear to a servant who transgressed onto the scene until it was too late to go undetected.

  Without a pause, Darcy managed to choke out the gruff command, “Begone!”

  Whoever had been there hastily retreated. As they were in great distraction, neither participant of this exceedingly well-explored act of passion cared to conjecture it might have been anyone other than old Morton.

  Indeed, it was only after this fit of fever was spent that they discovered mahogany was not comfortable. He drew her back down off the table, her bottom sliding rather smoothly in their common pool of perspiration. With Elizabeth atop him, they sank back into the relative comfort of the armchair. Technically, they had been sated, but affection reigned yet. They continued to kiss until her wine-saturated gown was -discovered to be a bit sticky. With a groan that this time was unmistakably exertion, he gathered her in his arms and carried her upstairs.

  He did not think again of leaving her bed.

  *

  Fittingly, the first sunlight to be seen for many weeks awoke him as it streamed into the room. He raised upon one elbow and unabashedly drew the sheet from his wife’s naked form.

  She stirred.

  At first, he smiled at such impenetrable somnolence, thereupon, quite involuntarily, recoiled as he gazed upon her. Not only was she thin, but well-nigh diaphanous. He had been sensible of her loss of appetite (he covertly inspected her half-eaten trays). But this.

  Even lying in such close quarters, he had not seen how ravaged she had been in both body and soul. She looked so frail, his chastening was compleat.

  How could he have ravished such a fragile flower with such vehemence?

  A fluttering of eyelids announced her awakening. As he looked down upon her, she opened her eyes full and a happy dance of a smile began at the corner of her mouth. She, however, did not see happiness upon his countenance as he gazed upon her spindly frame. He looked nothing less than appalled. And he realised that directly.

  Retrieving the sheet, she drew it up to her chin and stared sullenly at the ceiling, saying, “Could you no
t have contained your revulsion even a little?”

  “Lizzy,” he said, drawing her close, “how you have suffered.”

  Well aware that being the object of pity was possibly her least favourite pastime, he knew he bestowed it upon her at some risk.

  “Are you now to return from this devastating hegira you have been thrust upon?” he asked her.

  That utterance both quieted her resentment and invoked love.

  “I fear my restoration demands less of me than of you.”

  As she said this, she stroked him in a manner that persuaded him that however weighty was his duty, it would not be remotely objectionable. Moreover, he thought he might commence this reparation forthwith. Laying himself more against her than upon, he tenderly stroked her limbs.

  “You finger me as if I shall shatter at your touch. You had no such compunction last night.”

  “Forgive me that.”

  Betimes obtuseness afflicted him more keenly than at others.

  It became necessary for her to disabuse him of the notion of her fragility. There were several ways she could have made him witting. She could have told him outright. But she did not.

  Rather, she chose to show him.

  This was accomplished by embarking an assault of his body that befitted a love-starved Amazon. Admittedly, his purblindness bade him weather this siege for a moment before he understood it was, indeed, a siege. However, when enlightment came, it was compleat.

  The coupling to which he found himself party had all the single-minded intensity of their tabletop savagery, but with the benefit of no glassware. Too, the additional advantage of a soft foundation should have suppositioned. But as their passion came to fruition on the floor upon the far side of the room (and halfway under a chiffonier), that luxury must be discounted.

  Finally spent once again, they both lay there upon the floor in a quivering heap. It was a few minutes before he regained his breath enough to inquire (his wits not yet gifting his senses the information that his partner in love was exceedingly hardy) of the unlikely injury to Elizabeth’s health. Reasonably, but breathlessly, she assured him she was quite well, thank you.

  Civilities rendered, they lay there for a few minutes more. He was unable to find any additional comment in his yet misfiring brain. Indeed, his senses had rendered no further contemplation than that the friction from the wool rug might issue a resultant rash upon his hindquarters. (He abhorred itching.)

  In his silence, she reminded him, “You said you favour me coming to you.”

  This prompting allowed him to re-enter the realm of the functioning mind. He agreed, indeed, yes he did.

  Eventually, they made an attempt to quit the floor. But this initial effort was aborted when Darcy (perchance senses yet altered) slightly misaligned their position, reared his head and struck it forthwith upon the overhanging bureau. They lay there another fifteen minutes, before venturing upright. Upon the second, the unsteadiness of their legs suggested a duo of drunken sailors but managed, nonetheless, to deposit them atop the bed. There, limbs akimbo, they collapsed in slumber.

  When she awoke, she found herself quite alone. It was unusual for him to rise before her under such circumstances, coitus most often rendering him more drained (literally) than she. Hence, she allowed herself to consider that perhaps she was not so strong as she had professed. Then, as the act that had incited her fatigue came to mind, a mischievous smile overspread her face.

  Indeed, it was hard for her not to think of him without overt carnality just then.

  For months, he had showered her with endless and tender attention. She had been so disquieted by recent events, she had been happy just to have that. Once it had been rediscovered, however, her passion was in high colour.

  Lying in resplendent satisfaction, she could think of nothing but the man and his manhood. His manhood and its lather betwixt her legs. It was glorious to be totally witting of when he spent inside her. Not once had she thought of it an act of generation. Just one of shared pleasure. If repeated carnal infusions rendered her with child, so be it. She just wanted him near. And if in that closeness, he was inside her, all the better.

  She had lounged about, mooning and musing, for the better part of an hour when she heard a whistle from outside. A very loud whistle, a skirl unlike any she had ever heard from the interior of Pemberley. Indeed, it came from outside and sounded exactly the same as the two-fingered whistle of someone calling a dog.

  Holding curiosity only minutely less dear than venturing outside in the all-together, she grabbed the first item of clothing discernible in the mess of covers. Prancing to the double doors of the balcony, she peered out. Again, she heard the whistle.

  Eagerness to uncover just who perpetrated such an intrusion beneath her room bade her to the stone railing and look down. Whereupon, she espied her husband upon Blackjack on the turf below. He put his fingers to his mouth and let out another shrill whistle. Her countenance accomplished the considerable feat of raising one eyebrow, dropping her jaw, and shaking her head concurrently.

  Of all the many and diverse talents she knew he possessed, this was the most outrageous.

  Only then did she realise he had Boots saddled for her to join him. They had not ridden since…before.

  She rose upon her tiptoes to lean across the wide balustrade quite unwittingly revealing to him a bedazzling sight. It would have been her premise that she looked quite silly, be-robed in his oversized shirt and her hair an unkempt scandal. All that he saw was the sun glinting off a vision in white. One whose dark hair tousled and tumbled down her shoulder as if directing his attention to just how thin the gauze of his shirt was. The darkness of her hair and the shadow of her breasts contrasted against the brilliance of the shirt in the sun. All conspired to make the healthy glow she wore from a night of lovemaking even rosier.

  From below, his eyes made the triangular trip down her hair, across her breasts and back to her face more than once. If he cleared his throat before he entreated her to join him, it could be understood.

  “Come,” he beckoned hoarsely.

  In answer, she put one bare leg over the rail as if she meant to jump down then and there. He put his hands over his face in feigned mortification. Thereupon, forsaking that tease, he urged Blackjack and Boots up the incline directly beneath the low balcony.

  “Pray, would you dare do such a thing, Mrs. Darcy?”

  A challenge such as that could not be ignored. So leap she did. He could just reach her outstretched arms and drew her onto Blackjack in front of him then over to Boots. Such was the nature of their ride that she threw one leg across Boots’ withers and sat astraddle.

  In defence of such daring (though he truly did not look as if to protest), she said, “At this moment, I think my costume defies any attempt at propriety. Would you not agree?”

  Aiming Blackjack toward a crown of wood atop a small rise at the back of the house, their little party trailed to it. Thereupon they dismounted. In a small clearing at the crest of the hill, they sat, she betwixt his legs. Drawing her knees up to her breasts beneath his shirt she wore, she let it cover her legs and rested her fingers upon his knees. There, they crept beneath the tops of his boots.

  She said, “I shall never rename my horse.”

  He put his arms about her and rested his chin upon her shoulder.

  “I know.”

  This was how they sat as they looked across at the great house, the stream, the lake and beyond. Neither spoke for some time. It was never said in so many words, but both felt as if they had crossed some darkened, fiery land and had managed to come out alive, if only by each other’s help.

  They were scarred, but unbowed.

  47

  Georgiana leapt from poetess to novelist with such ease, it was unbeknownst to her family. Thus, Elizabeth was taken quite unawares when she set a compleated manuscript in her lap. It was not a thin work. Moreover, the publication of a novel entailed a great deal more fuss and bother than sending verse to a magaz
ine. For this weighty endeavour, Newton Hinchcliffe was contacted.

  Having forsaken his own purple prose, he thenceforward sought loftier service as a scribe for a news publication (a vocation that did not improve his standing with Mr. Darcy). His writing inclinations bent more in the direction of the inflammatory, but his connexions were impeccable. And as the single common trait he shared with his aunt was the allurement of subterfuge of any kind, he hand-carried the manuscript to a publishing house of repute. Not seeking to borrow future bother (which was by that time well-nigh a mantra for Georgiana and Elizabeth when it came to putting certain matters before Darcy), the Darcy women reasoned it best to wait for it to be accepted before assaulting the will of the Master of Pemberley.

  *

  It was a toe-tapping time of wait for both of them. Georgiana awaited word from a publisher; Elizabeth, her body. For, although it had been more than two years since the loss of the baby, Elizabeth had not yet conceived again. She did not speak of it to her husband, for he produced worry lines yet betwixt his eyebrows upon any allusion to her begetting another baby. As each fallow month passed, however, so escalated her fear that the difficulty of the breech birth had somehow rendered her barren. The physician told her only time might tell, and time seemed to be telling her naught.

  *

  As close as she and her sister were, Jane knew Elizabeth fretted for her unfruitfulness and, as was her nature, worried excessively upon her behalf. When she became enceinte for the third time, Jane had been disinclined even to tell Elizabeth. That, of course, would be folly, for even if she could disguise her blossoming form, she could not conceal how many children she had. Elizabeth could count.

  Jane was not moved to consider such an elabourate charade because she believed her sister to be envious. Coveting was a sin and, in Jane’s eyes, her dear sister Elizabeth was simply incapable of peccavi of any kind.

  It was capricious nature to blame. It had bestowed an overabundance of fertility upon her (indeed, it seemed she and Charles only needed to breathe the same air for her to become with child) and cruelly slighted Elizabeth. Jane could find no way to share her good fortune with her sister save one. As she was twice, soon thrice, -successfully a mother, Jane reasoned that her method of confinement must be superior to Elizabeth’s. But loathe was she to speak of it. For Elizabeth had always remained peculiarly silent about the loss of her baby, this pattern having been instituted from the inception of their bereavement. Jane had respected her wishes. Nothing other than her sincerest concern would have moved Jane to broach that delicate subject to her.