Love Calls Again

by Lucianne Elsworth

  "Lizzy. I love you. You belong to me and no other," he repeated in her ear. Caressing her navel he promised, "Soon your belly will be carrying my seed."

  Perchance spurred by the effect of liquor, Elizabeth's bliss soon became increasingly evident, for she could not respond with words to his endearments, only with guttural sounds emanating from her throat. She was just about to beg him to fill her up immediately, when one straying hand came upon his angry flesh, which at her touch gave a sudden, though slight jerk as if with joy at the encounter. Her hand scurried hastily back away from his bulging hardness.

  He froze.

  She froze, too.

  "I am sorry. I am exceedingly sorry. I did not… I… I…"

  "Don't be," he said reassuringly. "'Tis perfectly normal. 'Tis only that I did not expect it to happen now. You would one day or the other touch me like so."

  He then took the offending hand and kissed it. "Will you do it again? 'Tis most pleasurable."

  "Is it?" she said, disbelieving him. Was it possible that such an unsophisticated touch would be to his liking?

  "Quite so," he admitted. He then, took her hand in his and showed her what to do to further his pleasure. She was so aroused that she did not mind the impropriety of his pledge in the least, for it felt the most natural thing in the world at the moment, and quite obediently followed the instructions his hand offered. Soon, the lesson was learnt, and she continued on her own, amazed at the power in her to bestow upon him such raptures his demeanour began to evidence. She could see in his face that he was enjoying himself. Immensely so. To her own delight, he was soon lost in a puddle of sighs and gasps, just like her under his enticing caresses.

  Oh, Joyful, joyful!!

  Suddenly, he said, a bit out of breath, "Pray, Lizzy. Stop." There was supplication in the tone of his voice. As if to persuade her of his urgent need for her to immediately abandon her ministrations, he caught a firm grip of her wrist and raised her hand over her head.

  "Lizzy, that was simply admirable." He then began to kiss her breasts, the tip of her nipples, while he caressed her thighs, his loins firmly pressed against her, acquiring a rhythm similar to the one he had taught her just then. Neither of them could resist too long. It took him a few kisses and caresses to help her find release. In an incredible peak of hot emotions she, most unconsciously, cried his name while, trembling with pleasure, she finally burned her passion the very moment his seed went, warm and angry, over the skin of her navel.

  "Do it again," he said in a whisper.

  "Do what?" she asked breathlessly.

  "Say my name the way you have done just now."

  "Did I say your name?"

  He laughed at her disconcerted demeanour.

  " 'Tis of no importance."

  They lay on the bed, side by side, for a while, Darcy hardly thinking until he felt the exertions of the day forcing him to sleep. He closed his eyes and fell in a deep slumber.

  What must have been Ponsonby's surprise to find a daughter of Eve as the good God had created her, lying alongside his master's naked body in bed in the Master bedchamber, one can only surmise. He was appalled, bewildered, shocked to an extent impossible to explain. The man had never found his Master in such a situation, not even while Mr. Darcy was married to Miss De Bourgh.

  Terrified to be caught ogling them, Ponsonby took his steps back with unbeknown caution, until he was safely outside the bedchamber. Once in the corridor, he glued himself against the wall, as if hiding from his worst enemy. What was he to do? He could not possibly enter again to perform his duty. Should he knock? But then again, why should he? If he did that, Mr Darcy would know he knew he was… with company. He could not allow his Master to know he knew he and… was that Miss Bennet? So, that mouse was easy to catch indeed!

  Much as Ponsonby had endeavoured not to make any noise, his master had heard him when he closed the door. Darcy opened his eyes and the day light blinded him momentarily, impelling him to close them back. When he opened them again, he turned his head to find Elizabeth's form beside him. The first sun rays coming through the curtains rested lazily over her white skin. The brightness of the day bestowed her naked beauty with a unique brilliancy. Dawn was telling him it was high time he took her to her bedchamber, lest they should be discovered by someone less discreet than his manservant. She was sleeping with a beautiful smile upon her lips. Without much hesitation, he robed himself and carrying Elizabeth in his arms safely wrapped in a pristine sheet, slipped through the corridor, passing a much amazed Ponsonby still glued to the wall, and placed her back in her bedchamber. To his amazement, she did not wake, nor did she stir during the process.

  Darcy, you are a lucky man. On going into his bedchamber again, he discovered his manservant was still standing against the wall, with a perplexed look upon his face. Darcy could not help a smug smile upon his.

  "Good morning, Ponsonby," he greeted him cheerfully as he went in.

  "Good morning, sir."

  He then turned round and faced the manservant.

  "Ponsonby?"

  The poor man froze. "Yes, sir?"

  "Remember to knock from now on."

  "Yes, sir."

  Twenty-Three

  —

  The Blackest Day

  Colonel Fitzwilliam tossed and turned in bed. Much as he would like to rest his battered body, the excitement of the day had put his mind to work, and he simply found it impossible to get to sleep. He could not read a book to achieve it as his cousin Darcy did. He had never tried, though. So, he downed half the bottle of brandy that he had brought from the library with him, and closed his eyes while lying on his bed.

  He wished he had not seen Elizabeth again. Because now that he had, he knew he would find it exceedingly difficult to resign her. And resign her, he must.

  He did not dream of a perfect wife, or envision a family portrait. He thought only of her. Heavens! He had never felt so much for any woman! Every time he had had the favours of a lady, he had felt frustrated it was not Elizabeth. He had desired her passionately in the past, and he feared the situation had not changed much. He dreamt about her in his life, in his bed, on his lap, beneath him, on top of him. At any rate, he knew he could not have her, not now that Darcy was between them.

  Their first meeting in the music room had been so encouraging. Why! She had run towards him and he had opened his arms and gripped her waist. The next moment she had been tightly embraced to him. Bewitching as it was, the delicate scent of roses of her hair had filled his nostrils reviving, oh so many enchanting memories of his youth, when he had thought they were meant to be together. For the shortest moment, he had given way to temptation and kissed her on the lips. Nay, not on the lips, in the mouth. He had found impossible to bridle his emotions and quite shamefully almost carried her outside and sunk his face into her magnificent bosom. He had gone to the garden, in fact, knowing too well that his cousin might descend the stairs at the most inappropriate moment.

  Which, as a matter of fact, he did. Only Richard had already carried out his musing.

  Richard fidgeted in his bed. No, he would not go back to sleep that night. He was still savouring the exquisite feeling of having held her for that brief moment a few hours ago, the vision of their meeting in his bedroom replaying in his mind over and over.

  A distinct pain in his heart told him of his innermost feelings. He wanted to feel her in his arms the whole night through, to hold her and caress her lovely face, her tantalising curves. He wished he could burn forever in the fire that was being held behind the layers of her clothes. One by one, until all of them were gone, he wished he could divest her of them, every single moment of his life. And then, every single night, ever so slowly make her his.

  But it would not be. Elizabeth was now Darcy's. That truth was stabbing his chest mercilessly, and every single moment for the rest of the night he thought he would choke with anguish.

  No longer his, but Darcy's.

  Darcy, who loved her passionately
. Darcy who had almost lost himself with the pain of having lost her. Darcy, whose proposal she would surely have accepted had he not intervened. Darcy, who would have been wedded to her but for Fitzwilliam's own pretentious interference.

  Fitzwilliam owed that to Darcy. Hence, he had to step aside.

  It was fortunate that she was to leave so early in the morning. He would have found it excessively difficult to endure her presence without closer interaction. Inebriation notwithstanding, her attack on his person had triggered feelings he had thought were buried. Her fierce reaction in their encounter, he knew, had they met at Longbourn when he first called that winter, would have resolved him not to hesitate to make her completely his.

  Richard endeavoured to put an end to this torment. He had to find a distraction, a salvation stone. Regrettably, there was no war to which he could flee (he seemed to have this suicidal tendency to solve his problems by getting into more dangerous ones). Perchance matrimony would be it (it seemed just as dangerous as war, or at least similarly painful, a welcome affliction to keep him distracted). Yes, settling down might do the trick.

  He thought of Georgiana. His whole family, with the exception of Darcy, had been toying with the idea of his marrying her. If only he could and be done with it! At least he would have his family content. But the more he thought of it, the more the idea seemed far-fetched. Georgiana was too young for him. He conceded her to be beautiful. She had grown into a most desirable young woman. But Richard was too affected by brotherly affection towards her to even dream of ever touching her in a sensual way. No. That would definitely not do.

  Out of the blue, the gorgeous figure of Mrs Bingley came to his mind. Now that was a distraction!

  Obviously, beauty ran in the Bennet family. Mrs Bingley's was a living proof of that. The Colonel had noticed that Jane was exceedingly handsome, even more so than Elizabeth. The more he thought of it, the more he cursed his luck. Such a woman to be married to so idiotic a fellow! Albeit Bingley was Darcy's best friend, the Colonel perceived in him a weakness of character, and a certain degree of carelessness with his wife. Had he been fortunate enough to claim such beauty as his, he would have never allowed her to go to her bedchamber alone, not one night.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a feeling of emptiness in his stomach. On sleepless nights, when drowsiness resulting from spirits had failed to help him sleep, he had found that filling his stomach would do the trick. It was very late in the night, and he knew the servants would have to wake up at any moment now to begin their duties. Nevertheless, he hesitated to ring for one. Used as he was, after all that time in campaigns, to providing for himself, he rose from the bed and headed for the kitchen.

  Georgiana counted the hours that separated her from Richard.

  ~•~

  It would still take her the whole morning. The three-day trip from Matlock had tired her considerably, and the excitement of the arrival was hardly tolerable. The very idea of seeing Richard again had kept her awake the whole night through.

  "Pray, uncle. How long until we are there?"

  "We will arrive in three hours, dearest."

  "Three hours? That long?"

  "Georgiana. May I be so bold so as to remind you 'tis a funeral we are in attendance, dearest? Not a ball."

  "Did you say cousin Richard will still be there?"

  "Indeed he will, dearest. He will be helping Darcy."

  "Aunt? Do you think it improper to go riding while mourning?"

  "Riding?"

  Georgiana nodded with vehemence.

  "Indeed I do not. Horse riding is perfectly acceptable and decorous. But not in a large group, I dare say. And of course, no fox hunting."

  "Do you think cousin Richard will find me taller?"

  "You have certainly grown up, Georgiana. Richard will find you quite tall and healthy. I have rarely seen your cheeks with such blooms."

  "Why this sudden interest in Richard?" asked her uncle.

  "Oh, 'Tis only that I have missed him so!"

  "Richard? Not your brother?"

  "Pray, how old is your son?" asked Lord Matlock into his wife's ear.

  "Our son is five and thirty," she whispered into his.

  "Why is he not wedded yet?"

  "Oh, he is in love," said Lady Matlock matter-of-factly.

  "Indeed! Is that not good reason to get married?"

  "The lady in question has practically no dowry, unfortunately."

  "Oh!" It was the only thing Lord Matlock said on the subject.

  ~•~

  Just as he was to resume his way back to his bed chamber, while nibbling at a chicken sandwich, Richard saw the figure of a woman walking away from him towards the door that led from the kitchen out into to the back garden. Was it possible that Elizabeth was once again up and about? He paused for a moment, and then walked a bit faster so as to catch up with her, but when he reached the door, she was nowhere to be seen. The first rays of dawn were filtering through a light fog and the birds were chirping merrily; Colonel Fitzwilliam squinted his eyes and detected a movement in the path leading to the grove. He stepped outside, his bare feet suddenly making contact with wet grass, the unpleasant feeling sending a chill through his back. Going after her was an impulse he had not learned to restrain yet.

  "Elizabeth?"

  "Colonel?"

  "Oh, Mrs Bingley!"

  "I am so sorry, Colonel. I did not mean to startle you. I was a bit peckish and came downstairs for something to eat. I did not wish to bother the servants."

  "Nor did I," said he, raising the hand sporting the sandwich.

  "When I noticed your coming through the corridor, I did not wish to disquiet you, so I endeavoured to pass unnoticed. It was all for naught, I see."

  "Disquiet me? How so?"

  "Well, I am not properly dressed sir. Neither are you."

  "Indeed. But that does not disquiet me in the least, I assure you. Care for some chicken?" he said while he offered half a sandwich to her.

  She accepted gladly.

  "Is it not cold for you here?" She shook her head and smiled timidly. "Not in the least. I always walk in the morning, before everyone else is up."

  "Sleepless?" asked Fitzwilliam as he unconsciously began to walk along the path in the garden, darkness slowly surrendering to daylight; sweet pungent shafts of mingled flower scents forayed their lungs while they passed the many different beds of roses, jasmines and orange blossoms.

  She explained most casually: "Aye! I am not used to… (gasp) I should not say this, I am sorry."

  "Pray, continue."

  Looking intently at him, she hesitated for a moment. Her eyes began to avoid his gaze. "I am not used to… sharing my bedchamber with… with…" she finally breathed her husband's name. "Charles." She bit her bottom lip and averted her eyes nervously. "He snores. Terribly so."

  He chuckled.

  "I should not have said that. Pray, excuse me."

  "No, it is all right." He then lowered his voice as if telling her a secret. "I will not tell anyone of your indiscretion." He laughed. "Although I must say it is pretty obvious to the whole house. Your waking at unseemly hours is quite comprehensible. You are not used to a man's presence in your… ahem… bed."

  Blushing furiously, Jane gasped.

  "What I am trying to say is that… If Mr Bingley would share his… never mind. Pray, you must forgive me. I am merely used to talking to men. Not ladies. I seem to keep forgetting you are not one of my officers."

  She giggled.

  They stopped in front of the grove. He stood facing her. The morning breeze was playing with her plait and she looked girlish and sweet, and fetching. Richard felt temptation invading his system.

  No.

  She suddenly raised one hand to reach his lips. His eyes followed her movement. When she was about to reach them she hesitated. Their eyes locked.

  "There is… a crumb on your… of bread… there is…"

  "Oh." He licked his lips with his tongue, biting his b
ottom lip in an endeavour to clean them. Jane almost stopped breathing, wishing she were one of those crumbs of bread lingering on his unshaven chin. He brushed the remaining ones with his fingers.

  "There," she smiled demurely, and sighed. There was an awkward silence and both looked down to the floor, searching their minds for something to say.

  "Shall we go in?" he finally said. He offered her his arm, and they both went back into the house.

  ~•~

  Morning found Colonel Fitzwilliam in the worst of moods. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected to spend a night such as the previous one. Never had a woman surrendered to him in such brazen a manner without him fulfilling the requirements of the occasion to his complete satisfaction. She had worshipped him begged him to make her his, and showed him what it meant to feel passion and love, and yet he had refused to make her his.

  Judging from the exertions of the night, he would not call his sacrifice loyalty. For he had made love to her, and enjoyed every moment of her surrender.

  Yet to the influence of the spirits could the exuberant bliss which they had exerted only be attributed. He reckoned he had not sought her, neither had she sought him, their wantonness freed under the influence of the brandy. He was relieved his drowsiness had not been such that it had obliterated his common sense which, in the end, had prevailed him from retrieving her honour. She had remained untouched, so to speak.

  Howbeit he had meant to cool his feelings, the good Colonel rose from his bath with a proud manhood in all its glory. Too adamant to hide it, he lordily paraded his way to the dressing room in full view of his servant, in his ire bumping any object that might be on his way. The manservant, in noticing his black mood, exited the room for a while to allow his master to regain his temper.