Love Calls Again

by Lucianne Elsworth

  Of his feelings he was certain, though. He loved Elizabeth dearly. He did not expect her to love him as much in return. He would be content to have her in his bed; sure as he was he would be able to satisfy her womanly needs. As long as he could have her sex and her respect, the Colonel would not aspire to more. Yet the phantom of her relationship with Darcy was too grand for him to pass over. The certainty of a breach between his cousin and himself, should he choose to further his relation with Elizabeth, was now a terrible obstacle, the colonel surmised, too elevated to surmount.

  He fixed his eyes on the letter. Perchance that was the answer to his problem. He could leave everything behind. It would be the perfect excuse to put a stop to his betrothal without exposing Elizabeth to shame. He could not face her with the truth! He could very well tell her that he could neither avoid his responsibilities to the Crown nor subject her to the pains of waiting for a man sent to war. He knew his life was not to be endangered, yet Elizabeth did not need to know.

  He closed his eyes, covered them with one hand and pressed his brow in a painful gesture. As he imagined his life without Elizabeth, he felt a lump in his throat. All he had ever wished for in a woman was in the soft touch of her white skin, the exuberance of her bosom, the wit of her mind. He loved her and, as far as he was concerned, she loved him well enough.

  ~•~

  Mary Bennet was certainly not clever. Still, she had a docile, grateful disposition, totally free of conceit, great inclination for spiritual matters and moral issues, particularly fond of reading the Book of Prayers and sermons. She was not the kind of girl, however, who would wake up earlier than the rest, and go on a ramble outside before breakfast. But today, this was exactly what Mary Bennet did. She had never gone beyond the shrubbery on her own device unless, of course, she had been compelled to accompany one of her sisters. Today, she had ventured alone for a walk in the woods.

  Scarcely had she taken the path thither, when, quite unexpectedly she met Mr Forester, on his way to Longbourn. He was on foot, and he looked very much satisfied in finding her there. His appearance was very neat, and he looked like a sensible young man without a mask, but his person had no other advantage. Still, Mary had such happiness in seeing him, such a flutter of spirits, that she found it very difficult to look composed while addressing him.

  "I dare say, Miss Mary, I am very lucky to find you up and about so early in the morning. Is it your custom to walk in the garden before morning prayers?"

  "Aye, sir. I found the exertion most invigorating."

  "So do I, Miss Mary. So do I. Is it not a happy coincidence?"

  "Indeed, it is, sir. Most happy."

  "May I join you in your morning stroll?"

  "You may, sir," she quickly added," would you like to come home for breakfast afterwards? Unless, of course, that you are wanted at Netherfield Park."

  "I doubt it, dear madam. Netherfield Park is bound to remain quite a solitary place for the rest of the morning. Do you not think it ungentlemanly of me to abuse of your family's hospitality by coming upon you at such early hour?"

  "No, indeed, sir. Not at all. In fact, quite the opposite. I am quite pleased you have come."

  "Thank you."

  "Not at all, sir."

  ~•~

  Mr Bennet woke up to find his mind still engaged in last night's affairs. Amazed at his own capacity to see through her, he berated himself for not having been able to prevent her from falling into Mr Darcy's claws. Deep inside, he felt he had done his duty in that respect. Had he not talked to the man personally? Still, he was much concerned that a matter of such serious connotations had his own favourite daughter as the main character, and was extremely angry at his own indolence in the face of so obvious an endeavour. What was he thinking when he left Mr Darcy unattended? His own follies had endangered Elizabeth's respectability.

  Still, he reckoned not one guest had missed either Elizabeth or Mr Darcy, except himself, such was the state of inebriation that pervaded the majority of the assembly. Perchance there was a possibility that not everything had been lost.

  But, what in the name of God was Elizabeth thinking to have agreed to spend the whole night in the company of a married man? To have disappeared in the middle of the night and forget all sense of propriety and decorum? Mr Bennet could hardly comprehend it. The sense of shame that his daughter Lydia's elopement and consequent marriage to the most undeserving gentleman for miles around was still too fresh in his mind. Still, Elizabeth could not be considered guilty of the charge until he had clear, factual evidence of a bad action. For, as long as it concerned him, Elizabeth had merely been out of sight for a long period, which coincidentally matched the very same period Mr Darcy had also been out of sight, thus arousing consistent suspicious of their being together.

  Doing what?

  In truth, he would rather not think of it.

  ~•~

  Elizabeth Bennet woke up in her room in Longbourn, her eyes red from crying. She touched her lips, and she noticed she could still feel the warmth of Mr Darcy's ardent kissing. The scent of his spicy breath was all over the skin of her neck, her face, and her lips. She had spent half the night crying, she did not know exactly what for.

  Truth be told, her amorous meeting with Mr Darcy in the orangery proved to have been the most exhilarating experience that she had ever had. Quite enlightening, she must say. Had she known the Pandora's box he was opening when administering his caresses, she would have never entered the place. How would she bear to live with the torture of what had been denied to her? Or would she have entered more readily? For his touch had been delicious, his kisses exceedingly arousing, his breath intoxicating. Her emotions for him, she found beyond comparison. She tossed and turned in bed unwilling to get up. Mr Darcy was still her sister's guest at Netherfield, and she would not risk seeing him again, so she decided she would plead a headache and would remain enclosed in her room for the rest of the day. There was so much to ponder.

  There was no doubt now she was deeply in love with Mr Darcy. She could not deny that. He was exceedingly handsome. So tall, and sensual. And he loved her, so he had professed. The problem was that he was a married man and absolutely out of reach.

  It was time for her to turn her thoughts to her fiancée, Richard Fitzwilliam. She loved him, too. He was bewitchingly handsome, gentlemanly mannered, loving, caring and above all, single. He had professed his endless love and promised to marry her as soon as he could. The problem was that Richard was cousin to Darcy.

  But did she really love them both? Was it possible to love two men at the same time?

  Being so young and inexperienced, Elizabeth wondered how she would ever know the difference. Which way should she go? She knew she must make up her mind. Mr Darcy had made it very clear to her that he did not expect nor did he want, to enter into an adulterous relationship with her. She was relieved he did not, for she would have never agreed to such a scheme, would she? No, of course she would not. The only way they would end up together was on his becoming a widower. Hardly likely considering their luck! If she chose that path, then she should resign herself to spinsterhood and loneliness.

  On the other hand, she evaluated her role as Mr Darcy's cousin, should she resolved herself to marry Fitzwilliam. How would they ever face each other as such after the overwhelming passion unleashed on Twelfth Night? Certainly it would be unthinkable to confess the orangery affair to her betrothed. It would all end up in a duel. So, she would begin her connubial life with a lie and a rather adulterous encounter with a relative.

  It would not do.

  She rose from bed and wrapped herself in a heavy woollen quilt. Thusly warmed, she stood in front of the mirror and watched her own reflection with curious eyes. What was it that Mr Darcy saw in her that had awakened such passionate feelings? Was not Jane more beautiful than her? Yet she had quietly entered marriage without so much noise. She shifted a little and arranged the cloth to wrap her feet. The movement she made with her arms somehow liberated M
r Darcy's masculine scent that still lingered on the back of her hand. On reaching her nostrils, said aroma sent shivers down her spine, causing her whole body to tremble. Instantly, the recollection of his hands all over her assaulted her mind.

  She felt wet betwixt her legs and a purring feeling ran through her body. Resting both her hands on her shoulders, she moaned in ecstasy. Oh Mr Darcy. What have you done to me?

  ~•~

  Fitzwilliam Darcy woke up in his bedchamber at Netherfield, and he immediately regretted opening his eyes. A splitting headache announced to him that his morning would be a very difficult one. He tried to remember how he came to be in his nightshift and in his bed, but his memory escaped him. Feeling uneasy, he tried to sit up in bed but the pain on his forehead was simply too much for him to bear. He sank his head onto the pillow and closed his eyes.

  He knew something important had occurred the night before, but as much as he tried to elicit the information from his subconscious, recollections of the previous night came back in pieces. Judging from his aroused pride, Darcy reckoned a lady must have been involved. He made an inward resolution to avoid spirited beverages from then on. The idea of having fallen into a dissolute way of life worried him exceedingly.

  He opened one eye and peered around. He was not in his bedchamber. Yet the surroundings were familiar.

  Netherfield! Twelfth Night!

  The sudden recollection made him smile. He was with friends. He had come here for the purpose of seeing Miss Bennet at least from a distance.

  Miss Bennet!

  A sudden fear assaulted him. Had he been dreaming again? It would not be the first time he had awoken with a rock betwixt his legs after dreaming of Miss Bennet. Yet today he felt different. An exhilarating sense of achievement invaded his whole self. He could taste a distinctive flavour in his mouth. Was it possible that he had really kissed her, held her, made her his? A lump the size of his fist stuck in his throat. His pulse began to race. Forgetting his painful situation, he rose to his feet and almost fell to the floor.

  The throbbing migraine compelled him to keep motionless and for a moment he resorted to remaining perfectly still where his feet had landed him. Tentatively, he began to drag first one foot forward, then the other, until he reached the window. He managed to open a pane and peek his head out for a while. A freezing breeze washed his face. Regrettably, said breeze was dragging the odours of the kitchen, and Darcy almost puked as they reached his nose. On realising the lateness of the hour, he took a deep breath and head first pulled his battered soul towards the bedside. Reaching out for the bell-pull, he rang for his manservant.

  "My bath," were the only words he could utter. It was enough to send the man in frantic motion for the preparation of the hot bath.

  Once the bath was ready, Darcy stepped into the water. He was just about to sit in the slipper tub, when a delicate scent of roses emanating from his own skin forayed his nose. Quick as a fish, he stepped back and out of the tub. It had not been a dream! He had held her close enough for her perfume to have instilled itself into the pores of his skin. He tentatively touched his neck. Yes. She had been there. Where else? Unless… No, no, no. That was unthinkable. Miss Bennet was incapable of wrongdoing. Still, he had to admit he had also thought himself incapable of… Good God! What have I done?

  The unsettling emotion of having enjoyed a woman's favour for the first time, quickly invaded his body and soul. He felt both an overwhelming and unknown satisfaction. Tentatively, his hand still covering the skin of his neck, Darcy approached the mirror, drenched in mist. With a trembling hand, he wiped the glass clear to see his own reflection. As he inspected the exposed skin of his neck, a self-satisfied grin blossomed on his face. Could she have done this? Images assaulted his senses, but recollections of his last night's exertions simply escaped his mind. Everything came to him in confusing pictures. Still, such recollections could only have one effect on him.

  Contrary to all expectations, he panicked. All the blood drained from his face as a dreadful thought assaulted him.

  "Heaven forbid," he said aloud.

  "Is there anything wrong, sir?" the voice of his manservant made him jump.

  "No, no. Leave me." He bade the man out with an urgent wave of his hand. Then he slowly sank into the warmth of his bath, carefully leaving the skin of his neck out of the water's reach.

  Fourteen

  —

  Between the Dark Debil and the Deep Blue Sea

  Fitzwilliam Darcy arrived at his house in Kent on the third day after what he chose to consider his bizarre dream about Elizabeth Bennet. The suspicion that his musing might have been a real fact of life had been carefully weighed, at times discarded, then again accepted as a wonderful truth, since a distinctive scent of roses had stubbornly adhered to the coat he had worn for the Twelfth Night ball. Finally, after all had been said and done, he dismissed the idea as compleatly preposterous. In lieu, he preferred to think of the whole affair as a dream, the red marks on his neck blamed on some southern bug bite, lest he have to answer to the rather unsettling notion of having taken too much licence over Miss Bennet's innocence.

  After spending a couple of days at Rosings Park, suffering the company of his wife and aunt, Darcy followed his plans and left for London together with Georgiana to spend the rest of the winter season there. He would have to talk to his aunt, Lady Matlock, to start preparations for Georgiana's coming out ball. The girl was very excited about the prospect and longed to arrive in Town to begin shopping for her gown and laces.

  Darcy made a mental map of his many duties in Town. Calling on Lady Matlock and the Earl at their house in London was of greatest importance. Then it was his solicitor, the fencing club, and, of course, his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  However little Darcy comprehended why, Miss Elizabeth Bennet was uppermost in his reflections. He tortured himself with the thought that it might have been Elizabeth's task to accompany his sister to the main shops, instead of Mrs Annesley, had she not refused his hand. To both his chagrin and delight, the image of Miss Bennet's face became his constant partner, penetrating into his soul, the intoxicating scent of rose water in her hair, in her bosom, returning unpredictably to his senses (his knowing the scent emanating from her cleavage he did not dwell on, for fear he would arrive at the conclusion that his nose had been there). All that would assault each of his waking hours.

  In attending to the preparation of the ball room in his town house for Georgiana's coming out, he more than once lost himself in the idea of enjoying that special night with Elizabeth as his wife. He imagined a whole night dancing with her, singling her out as his rightful dance partner, even waltzing with her till they felt dizzy with the exertion. Somehow, he had the sensation he had recently done that, as fading pictures of hazy recollections timidly insinuated themselves into his mind. His musing soon took them even further to the master's bedchamber where, after all the guests had gone home, he made love to her the whole night through. He could even hear her softly purring at his touch as his hands roamed the enticing path of her skin.

  Had these meditations overcome him before their encounter in the orangery, had he not felt after that meeting an unknown, even incomprehensible feeling of contentedness, he would have most probably sunk into deep depression and in all likelihood ended up with his hands on the decanter, drowned in brandy to forget his frustration.

  Yet, this time he felt jubilant, cheerful and, above all, hopeful.

  He could not tell why.

  Before calling on his relatives regarding the preparations of the ball, Darcy sent a card to Fitzwilliam house, and requested to see Colonel Fitzwilliam in private at Darcy house. He wished to have a word with him. In truth, Darcy found in his cousin, the only confidante to whom disclose his fears of having transgressed the line of propriety with Miss Bennet. Little did he realize the great danger his friendship with his cousin would be exposed to in such a disclosure.

  While waiting for Fitzwilliam, Darcy endeavoured to talk
with Georgiana. Surely his sister would require all his attention thinking of the menu for the dinner and the creation of the invitations for the guests, though Lady Matlock's assistance would certainly be more important there. They had scarcely begun to discuss the main course when a footman announced the arrival of the colonel. As ever, his cousin wore a smile on his face, as well as a jubilant expression in his eyes. Georgina's face lit up and Darcy's demeanour was more than welcoming.

  "So, how did the ball go?" Fitzwilliam inquired when they were left alone.

  "Hmmm."

  "Hmmm?" Fitzwilliam echoed. "Indeed. Too much brandy," he muttered in comprehension.

  "I suppose I might have abused a little," Darcy admitted lightly.

  Fitzwilliam chuckled. "A little, huh? What are your recollections of your actions so far?"

  Sighing soundly, Darcy readied himself for his avowal. "I confess I have no recollections of either my actions or of any other person's around me. I compleatly fail to remember even having been there at the ball. Though, I am almost certain I did see a certain person, for she left an exquisite trail upon my senses."

  Colonel Fitzwilliam's alertness rose.

  "Whom do you mean?" he asked with evident apprehension.

  "I mean her."

  "Darcy, I do not wish to discuss Miss Bennet. Pray change the subject."

  "Change it? That is certainly easier said than done! Fitzwilliam, she is in my system, in my heart, in my soul, all over me. I somehow know I saw her and yet, I was so drunk I remember but her scent… which by the way is stubbornly adhered to my coat."