by Emma East
Her thighs shook and her intoxicating scent multiplied and when he lifted his head, he found her taking in great heaving breaths, her face covered with her hands. He smiled, pleased, and licked the edge of his thumb before rising.
“You look flushed, my dear,” he said, putting his knee on the bed beside her and leaning over her. The pink floral coverlet complemented what he could see of her cheeks and he said as much when he brought her hands away from her face. He touched the edge of her mask and then bit back his curiosity and withdrew.
“What—was that?”
“You look the very picture of surprise. Has no man done for you before?”
His pleasure heightened at her head shake. He was the first to taste between her thighs. And what a taste.
He expected her to draw away when he attempted to kiss her—other women, after being pleasured, disliked to share in their own taste—but she clung to him regardless, her hands twisting in his shirt, murmuring incomprehensibly into his mouth. The heat emanating from her could have lit the coverlet on fire and the tightness in his breeches urged him further, until they were comfortably settled on the bed together, one arm all that kept him from overwhelming her with his weight.
Her breasts were awaiting his pleasure, and he took his time releasing them from their restrictions. “No, no, it is your pretty, pert nipples that match the cover’s flowers,” he told her, and learned that her blush did indeed extend to her breasts.
“Sir,” she murmured. She whispered it as he traced her little buds with his tongue, paying equal attention to each. Her nails scratched along his scalp and he let out an anxious puff of air. He may be drunk—intoxicated on brandy and her lips—but he refused to rush the encounter. Not when she said sir in that breathy voice of hers.
But his lover did not have the same expectations. She wriggled underneath him, twisting and writhing against him to the point where he could feel his own heartbeat in his arousal.
“Are you attempting to make me spend myself in my breeches?”
She stopped writhing suddenly, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and stared up at him with wild eyes. “It is just… I want… oh, I do not know what else I want.”
Her hesitancy to name it sent a torrent of pleasure through him, straight down to his manhood. An experienced woman who still retained her virginal innocence. How could two such attractive contrasts exist within one woman?
“Do not fear,” he said, bringing her hand away from his shoulder and pressing it to the mattress. “I will give you all that you need.”
He swore to himself that he would hear the gasp she emitted again—this time elicited by his manhood, not his eloquence. The layers of her dress were still around her waist and she was ready for him still, devilishly so. Her groan as he tested her readiness could have been heard from downstairs, so loudly did she respond to him.
Responsive. Erotic. Innocent. She is definitely the right woman to indulge myself with, as eager as any nymph.
She stiffened as he pressed himself against her entrance. He glanced up, briefly, from watching the entrancing view of their joining. “Madam? Are you prepared?”
But the vision between her thighs, the warmth as she engulfed the tip of him, drew his gaze away. He only heard her murmur, “I-I think so, yes.”
Then he was sheathed completely, seated firmly inside her, and in her outcry was a hint of pain. Panic gripped him, but so overwhelming was her grip upon his manhood that he could only spare her a comforting word. Her reply was only a reproachful whisper, her eyes clenched tightly closed. He pulled out agonizingly slow.
He realized his error as he saw a hint, just a hint, of blood upon his member.
Blood. Red blood.
“Kitten?”
Surprise, and then shock, hit him with the force of a runaway stallion.
She said she had been there before… but that did not mean she was experienced.
“I am terribly—grievously—sorry for…”
But he drew off into silence. Why in the world had she accompanied him upstairs? Why would she sacrifice her virginity to a masked stranger? Why would she give him absolutely no warning? He had not tried to romance her beyond perfunctorily pleasuring her. A woman’s virtue deserved much, much more than this sorry attempt.
“It is a small matter,” she whispered, wrapping her hand around his wrist. “Please, pay it no mind. It does not hurt too badly.”
“You are certain? If it is too uncomfortable…”
She shook her head, but still Darcy hesitated. But the damage was already done, was it not? And he, Fitzwilliam Darcy, was responsible. To retreat now would be like taking a slice of a beautifully decorated, sumptuous-looking cake and leaving it on the table for the flies.
Her gaze, sweet and worried now, entreated him. “I would urge you to continue, sir. It is barely a pinch in my memory now.”
Darcy released his breath and nodded shortly. He could at least salvage her first taste of the bedroom.
And to be the first, her first—
Darcy groaned. To be the one introducing her to the world, to the touch of a gentleman… He could at least be certain she did not leave the encounter disappointed. He, after all, had the experience, and he could savor her innocent wonder. “You will tell me if it hurts,” Darcy told her, his tone severe, and he satisfied himself with her nod. Then he looked at where they joined and wondered if he would have the wherewithal to restrain himself. No woman so far had accused him of being a gentle lover.
But she had no complaints at his first thrust, nor his second or the ones that followed. Then he noticed her tightly clenched jaw and Darcy bent down, capturing her lips in an effort to distract her. It also distracted him. Without the evidence of her pain, he could immerse himself in the feel of her around him, tight and searing hot and perfect for him. Despite still being completely clothed, every inch of his skin warmed with the heat of her. Fabric rustled around them, between them, accompanied by her quiet murmurs into his mouth. It was the most erotic song he had ever heard sung.
She clung to him, her hips arching to meet him as she shed her discomfort. Her golden brown hair had escaped her pins and spread in loose curls across the pillows. Darcy found his control slipping already at the sight of her well-kissed, plump lips. Her dark, wet eyelashes swept across her cheeks.
“Look at me, kitten.”
Her warm gaze sparkled with wonder and his fingers dug into her hips. Heavens, he wished he could see her full expression, but to see her gaze was enough to stir him into a fever pitch. She looked like she had just unraveled a mystery or come across a pool full of flitting fairies. Darcy’s possessive nature rose to meet the challenge; he wanted not just her expressive gaze, but everything. Every gasp, every curl of her toes against his thigh, every bounce of her beautiful breasts. Mine and first repeated in his mind to the beat of the headboard against the wall.
He could feel it coming upon him, spurred by her nails piercing the tender skin on his neck, spurred by her hips arching to meet his, spurred by her cut off shrieks, muffled by biting her lip.
“No, no, do not d-do that. Let me hear you.”
To her credit, she immediately released her torturous hold on her lip and her next outcry was loud enough to drown out the music drifting in from below. Tender and responsive, he took charge of her pleasure and, with one hand in between them, brought her back to the brink of ecstasy.
“I am about—”
He cut off, shocked, and barely pulled away before he spilled his seed. So unexpected was it, with such a rush flowing through him, that he could only shudder and gasp until he was spent and the thighs of his masked virgin nymph were covered.
“Goodness,” she gasped, her hand pressed to her heaving chest.
He lifted a hand to his forehead, intending to wipe away the sweat he could feel gathering there, and his hand met the obstruction of his mask. Muttering under his breath, he dropped his hand and resigned himself to the unpleasant feeling.
“
I apologize for the mess,” Darcy said. “Here, let me.”
Taking an edge of the coverlet, he cleaned off her thighs. Once done, he collapsed to the side of her with a groan. Spent and wrung dry. He was glad they had the room for the night. He was uncertain whether he would be capable of standing for any length of time.
The mattress shifted beside him and he turned his head to see her standing and straightening her dress, making herself presentable again.
“I will walk you downstairs, if you wish.” He eyed her with some apprehension of her reply. He truly did not wish to leave the room, or the bed, for some time.
“I thank you, sir, but there is no need.”
“The room is ours for the night if you wish to stay,” he said. He patted the mattress beside him and smirked when her gaze darted away like the gaze of a startled cat. She stood at the end of the bed, her dress straightened and her loose hair hastily pinned back. Her eyes did not meet his, but a flush spread down her neck and chest.
He tilted his head. “Kitten…”
She shook her head, her lips in a tight smile. “Goodnight, sir. It has been a—a pleasure. Goodnight. I must return to my—ahem.”
“Of course,” he said, sitting up. “I will call a carriage for you.”
“N-no, thank you,” she said, backing away from the bed. “Um.”
“Will you at least tell me your name?” he said, struggling to rise from the mattress as she unbolted the door. “Why have you allowed me your maidenhood—?”
But she was gone, slipped past the door and into the corridor. Darcy made himself as presentable as he could before going after her. But the time had given her ample opportunity to escape. Darcy reached the entranceway where the executioners waited for more guests and tore back the curtains—
“Sir, you cannot be back here without our permission! You could spoil the privacy of your fellow guests. If you wish to leave, you may do so from the—”
“Where did she go?”
But the hosts were uncommunicative, and they did not break their silence no matter how much money he offered to exchange for the information he sought. Eventually, he was asked to leave, and he did, spitting bitter words toward them as Willoughby dragged him away.
“What the hell is the matter with you, man?” Willoughby cried out in outrage as he shoved Darcy into the carriage. His hair had escaped his ribbon and his lips were lobster red from the activities he had carried on before being torn away to handle Darcy.
Darcy had no answer for him. Anger burned in his breast. Why would she flee from him? Had they not just shared a blissful lovemaking session?
The damnable woman. And I am considered the unreasonable one? Her name was the least she could give me after making me take her virtue. Now I am beholden to her, forever in her debt, and with no way to repay her.
Had he been terrible? Had he hurt her?
She has done this to tempt my curiosity, and that is the reason I feel as unsettled as I do. It is nothing more than a feminine trick and I should pay her no more mind.
But he could not help but look toward the streets as the carriage rattled on, his eye searching for a familiar silhouette.
Chapter Seven
“Lizzy! You must come. Mama wishes to introduce us to Mr. Bingley and his party!”
Giving Charlotte Lucas an exasperated look, Elizabeth followed her eldest sister toward the entrance of the assembly hall where their mother and sisters gathered. Their new neighbor stood there with the rest of his party, jovially conversing with Mrs. Bennet with every sign of pleasure. Meanwhile, the ladies of his party hid their yawns behind their fans and the other two gentlemen appeared bored. It did not bode well.
Elizabeth did not mind, however. She held herself with the confidence of one utterly unconcerned with how others judged her. She curtsied and traded amiable greetings with the gentleman and the ladies, his sisters, who appeared to find the company wanting. She noted how the attractive Mr. Bingley smiled at her beautiful sister. The second gentleman was Mr. Bingley’s brother-in-law, a Mr. Hurst, and his greeting was as enthusiastic as his wife’s. The last gentleman Mr. Bingley introduced to them bowed stiffly and pronounced himself pleased to meet the Bennet family. Elizabeth did not believe him one whit and did not contain her amused smile before she turned away.
“Lizzy, that Mr. Darcy has been staring at you all evening,” Charlotte Lucas told her later as they took refreshment. Elizabeth had just finished a dance with Mr. Bingley and enthusiastically declared him a charming gentleman and herself glad to have a neighbor with such amiable manners. She looked over her shoulder now and found Charlotte’s statement to be true.
She turned back to Charlotte, wide eyed. “Whatever does he mean by it? I am certain he does not mean to compliment me. His expression is so severe!”
“Perhaps that is merely his natural expression and he does not mean to be severe upon you,” Charlotte said, but her expression was uncertain. She caught sight of Elizabeth’s countenance and added, “You must not tease him, Lizzy. He is unused to your flippant manner. You do not wish to offend.”
“I would never,” she said, squaring her shoulders and tilting her chin to look down at Charlotte importantly. “I am a respectable, polite lady and do not give my dear mother constant grief on a daily basis with my poor excuse for wit.”
“Oh, Lizzy, beware,” Charlotte murmured, her gaze over Elizabeth’s shoulder.
Elizabeth turned and Mr. Darcy stood before her. He looked down his nose at her with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said when it appeared he would not speak first. “Miss Lucas and I were discussing the state of the dancers. There are an abundance of young ladies but not enough gentlemen. It is good of you and your party to assist us in rounding out the parties.”
Mr. Darcy bowed. “An unintended consequence.”
Elizabeth did not know what to make of his tone, impossible to interpret. She forced herself to remain pleasant rather than drawing back to examine him. “A welcome one, I’m sure.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze was heavy, and she smiled uncertainly, wondering what she could have possibly done to have earned the censure of the veritable stranger in front of her. Did she have food stuck in her teeth? A wild hair escaping her pins?
Then Mr. Darcy abruptly said, “I would ask for the next dance, Miss Elizabeth, if you would oblige me.”
Surprised, she felt her cheeks warm. So his severe manners had been in compliment to her. She kept herself from looking at Charlotte and instead bent her neck to Mr. Darcy. “I am engaged for the next one, but I would be happy to reserve the one after for you.”
“Thank you.”
With that, he turned his back and walked away. She followed his stiff form through the crowd and Charlotte crept up beside her to gaze after the gentleman. They were both in a state of amused uncertainty.
“His manners are very reserved.”
“Hopefully, it is merely his manners and not his personality. Otherwise, one would get more conversation from a potted plant.”
“Lizzy!” Charlotte laughed.
They discussed nothing else until the next dance began, at which time Elizabeth met another neighbor in the line. Her attention was sadly negligent on her partner, however, owing to the fact that he had asked her to dance merely because he was Charlotte’s younger brother. Her attention instead returned to the mysterious Mr. Darcy who, while she danced with John Lucas, brooded near the edge of the dance floor and paid no mind to his friend’s sister, who spoke to him freely and without encouragement. Elizabeth caught his eye upon her twice and then resolved to not look his way again.
The gentleman was handsome, certain enough, but he seemed far too serious and important. Therefore, it stood to reason that he was merely being polite by asking her to dance and he meant nothing else by it. But it was an honor, one Elizabeth was surprisingly self-conscious of, and she would rise to meet it.
It was unfortunate, though. He stood too stiffly, his lips scowled more oft
en than not, and his brow was a firm, stern line. She would have much preferred to dance with one of her neighbors rather than a stiff gentleman from town who looked down on their country airs.
And if he is truly interested… well, then he will be the one to be disappointed.
There could be no comparison, not truly, to a gentleman full of passion and romance and consideration. And she could not ignore that the man she searched for in every assembly was as lost to her as her maidenhood. But it had been several months since she had followed her masked stranger up the stairs to her fate and Elizabeth had resigned herself to the life she would lead.
She smiled at how her friends and neighbors still did not understand that a soiled woman danced and laughed among them. It had been so easy to return to the Gardiners’ home and to slip back into her ordinary life. So easy to slip into the role of a daughter, niece, sister, and friend while she carried a terrible secret in her breast.
On a turn, she caught sight of her two youngest sisters. They were enjoying the refreshments and watching the dancing with a wistful eye.
“Your sisters have but danced twice apiece so far this evening,” Mr. Lucas said, following her train of thought. “What a departure from their normal behavior! Do you know if they are under the weather?”
“They have not changed so very much,” she said. “I merely believe their ankles are tired.”
Mr. Lucas did not appear convinced. Neither was Elizabeth. They both knew the change to be a marked one.
The morning after that fateful night in London, she had admonished her sisters for leaving the Gardiners’ home and they had appeared thoroughly chastised—largely because of their encounter with the executioner hosts, she was certain. She understood they had not been particularly kind to the giggling girls and the shock of being treated cruelly by people wearing executioner hoods—no matter how well-dressed otherwise—in a strange house with no friends to call upon had made it easier for Elizabeth’s stern admonishments to be retained. Even months later they were altered: less likely to run off at the first sign of entertainment or to take part in a fun-making scheme that could lead to gossip. Elizabeth knew it could not last long, especially as Meryton would soon be host to the military regiment. But it was pleasant for the time being. It was only a shame that the change was so markedly different from their normal attitudes.