Desired By Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #2)

Chapter Four

Darcy

L ondon Gentlemen’s Clubs were far from Darcy’s favourite places. They stank of tobacco and alcohol, and the men within them often forgot how to behave in the manner that fitted the establishment’s title. Drink, in his experience, tended to make sensible men fools. He nursed the same brandy he had been served an hour before, as his cousin and Bingley poured themselves a generous helping from the black bottle that sat in the centre of the table.

“To the future Mrs Darcy!” Fitzwilliam raised his glass. “May she always keep you on your toes.”

Darcy had returned to his house in Grosvenor Square that afternoon only to find his cousin was in residence. Fitzwilliam had insisted they go out to celebrate the happy news that very evening – and that Bingley must join them so his own engagement could be toasted. And so the three of them now sat in a sumptuously decorated room with a decanter of brandy in front of them – a decanter that seemed to be rapidly depleting in contents as Fitzwilliam helped himself.

“Thank you.”

Fitzwilliam leant back in his chair, his eyes shining. They had skirted the subject of Darcy’s engagement for the past hour, making all manner of small talk but avoiding the glaring elephant in the room. Fitzwilliam had always been respectful of Darcy’s reluctance to speak of his personal life, but it seemed that respect faded with each sip of alcohol. Fitzwilliam now regarded his cousin with all the eagerness of an animal on the hunt for prey.

“So, tell me, where has all this come from? It seems quite sudden. You could barely say two words to the girl at Easter. Any other man and I might have guessed, but your conversation often stilted in unfamiliar company. I had no idea your silence was intended as flirtation.”

“We have known each other for some time.”

“And she seemed quite intent on loathing you for eternity! What has changed from Rosings?”

“I…”

“Why, Darcy, you old dog! Don’t tell me she’s…”

Fitzwilliam made a vulgar gesture at his waist, implying an expanding belly. Darcy stiffened at the implication that he would

“No! No, of course not!”

“Alright, alright! No need to get defensive. You wouldn’t be the first man to anticipate his vows.”

“I have done no such thing.”

Bingley nodded, patting him on the shoulder.

“We respect our brides far too much to do anything like that.”

“There is nothing disrespectful about desiring your bride, you old sticks in the mud,” Fitzwilliam laughed. “I wish only that I could find such a match. You do know how it’s done, don’t you?”

“Must we be so vulgar?” Darcy asked. “Really, cousin, it does not become you.”

“Oh, it is just us men! Perhaps the army has removed all of my modesty, for I have heard terrible things that would turn both of your cheeks pink.”

“And we do not wish to hear them,” Darcy said firmly. “You seem little better than an alley cat.”

Bingley looked a little disappointed, but Fitzwilliam merely laughed heartily.

“Oh, it is all bravado, I promise! I am far too often lonely, and I fear my experience with women comes more from gossip than with the actual fairer sex. We shall stick to the basics. We must make sure there are lots of little Bingleys and Darcys running around before long, mustn’t we? Besides, the women will be looking to you for guidance. If you cannot even discuss the matter amongst friends, how the hell do you expect to do so before your wives?”

Darcy did not answer, and so it was left to Bingley to break the awkward silence that settled between them all.

“I suppose,” Bingley said softly, “if we are to be frank, I am a little nervous.”

Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow, taking a drink as he tried not to laugh. Darcy rolled his eyes; why had Bingley even indulged his cousin’s poor behaviour? The man was far too deep in his cups to be a decent conversationalist, but Bingley’s response served only to add fuel to the whole sordid fire.

“Oh? Don’t tell me you were never given the proper education upon your eighteenth birthday?” Fitzwilliam asked. “And here I thought you a gentleman!”

Bingley’s blush deepened.

“Yes, yes, but one night is hardly enough to be an authority on the matter. I have not frequented such places since. Besides, Jane, Miss Bennet…she is no Covent Garden ladybird. What good is whatever I learned there to a marriage?”

“What did she teach you?” Fitzwilliam asked, draining his brandy. “Do share with the class. It seems some of us are in desperate need of enlightenment.”

“Oh, I…” Bingley began, but his voice trailed away.

“Really, this blushing handwringing business is quite boring. Out with it!”

“How to…how to touch a woman. And how to…enter one.”

“Well, you know the mechanics of it at least. But that is not all there is to it, of course!”

“May we discuss something else?” Darcy asked. “I am sure we are sufficiently able to consummate our marriages without your…expert advice.”

“Sufficiently consummate, how romantic!” Fitzwilliam chuckled, “I do not claim to be an expert in the practical sense, but I have heard enough and seen enough to impart some advice at least. A woman does not want a sufficient husband. Indeed, a woman such as Miss Elizabeth brims with unbridled passion. You shall need to be far more than sufficient to satisfy her.”

“And what do you know of her passion?” Darcy spat back, “I would thank you to keep such slights to yourself.”

“Slight? It is no slight. It is a compliment of the highest order. What I would give for a wife such as her! There is nothing shameful about a wife who has desires that equal her husband’s – or exceeds them, as the case may be.”

“What do you mean?” Bingley asked.

“Why, my dear cousin refused to partake in the education the rest of us received,” Fitzwilliam chuckled. “There were no Covent Garden pleasure houses for our dear Darcy, no, no. Well, it was not for want of trying, but he-”

“You are drunk,” Darcy snapped, “and entirely inappropriate. That was years ago.”

“And I would wager you have never darkened their doorways in the years since. You have taken no mistress, and there has never been so much of a whisper of impropriety surrounding the Darcy name. The same cannot be said for that cad you grew up with.”

“I have no desire to let lust ruin my life, nor any other.”

“There shall be two blushing virgins on your wedding night, then! Have you ever even tossed yourself off, Darcy, or do you worry about the stains?”

Darcy stood up, that final vulgar remark enough. He fixed his cousin, now so drunk he could barely sit up, with a hard stare. Bingley, though not the recipient of the glare, shrank down as well – a pair of naughty schoolboys.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Richard, you are disgracing yourself in your intoxication. I shall see you in the morning, or whenever your inevitable poor condition permits you to arise.”

His cousin rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. He was swaying even seated as he was, his mouth upturned in a smile. The man was the very picture of drunk, and Bingley was no better.

“Oh, come on, don’t sulk. What’s a little coarse talk between friends? We’ve all got the same thing dangling between our legs, after all.”

“I do not wish to participate in such an unsavoury discussion, nor do I think my fiancée would enjoy being spoken about in a derogatory manner.”

“Come, come. You know I hold dear Miss Elizabeth in the very highest regard. You cannot think…”

“Goodnight,” Darcy said firmly.

He walked away from the table, ignoring Fitzwilliam’s calls to come back. He stopped only to take his coat and hat and request that his carriage be ready before stepping into the cold night air. The frigid air stung, a welcome relief to the embarrassment that had his cheeks aflame. He waited for his carriage in furious silence, utterly humiliated by his cousin.

Humiliated by the truth.

There shall be two blushing virgins on your wedding night.

His carriage pulled up, interrupting his thoughts as he greeted the driver and climbed inside. He tried to close his eyes and allow the motion of the carriage to clear his mind. It served only to churn the brandy in his stomach, making him feel ill as well as disgraced.

Darcy House was a welcome sight as the carriage drew to a stop, and he ascended its stairs eagerly. He bid a good evening to his valet and dismissed him for the evening. He wished for no assistance or company this night, only for the solitude of his own thoughts.

He readied for bed, folding his clothing with meticulous care, leaving them neatly on a chair for his valet in the morning. The servants had left a basin of fresh water out for him, as well as his preferred soap. He dipped his fingers in the water, well-warmed by the fire, swirling it around idly as he watched the ripples cross its smooth surface. He dipped the cloth into the water and began to wash the dirt of the day from his body. He closed his eyes as he ran the cloth over his travel-sore muscles. He sighed with contentment as the tension he carried began to melt away.

As was inevitable when he was alone, his thoughts drifted to Elizabeth. He felt her absence keenly. Soon, they would never be parted. He could not help but picture the bliss of their married life. In his mind, her hand replaced his, his ministrations that were so practical becoming sensual in their intent.

The water trailed in droplets down his torso, and he could not help but groan as he wiped them away from his sensitive flesh. He was a mess, inflamed by passion he did not wish to feel, and a desire that made him feel like a boy who could not control his urges.

He set down the cloth in the bowl, ignoring the water that sloshed lazily over the side.

“Pull yourself together, man,” he hissed to himself. “You bring shame upon her to think of her in such a way.”

He glanced down, the erection between his thighs evoking an unwitting noise of revulsion as he grabbed his night shirt and yanked it over his head without care. He slipped into his bed and pinned his hands to his sides, closing his eyes as he willed sleep to take him away from this lust-driven stupor.

It was no use. The blackness behind his closed eyes became a stage, images of the sweet kisses he had shared with Elizabeth dancing across his vision. It had felt so impossibly good to hold her, and better still to feel her lips upon his. He had never imagined that kissing – something that seemed entirely revolting, if he thought about it for long enough – could be so very enjoyable.

Every sensation was a torture. Even the soft cotton of his nightshirt brushed against him in a manner that did nothing to temper his arousal. The cool sheets reminded him of the autumn air that had surrounded them as Elizabeth had caressed him. God, how he wished she were here with him. He knew that she fitted perfectly in his arms, and he was certain that her body would mould to his in much the same way. They were surely designed for one another, for he felt half a man without her.

He could not help himself; his hand drifted from the mattress, curling around his stiff manhood of its own accord. He hissed, bucking up into his touch. He could resist no longer; he would never sleep in this state, hard to the point of discomfort. It was necessary, that was all. He would do it tonight, and never again.

His fingers tightened, stroking with slow, deliberate pressure, but it was not enough. His mind was elsewhere—lost in the memory of Elizabeth’s touch, the warmth of her breath against his skin, the way her lips had parted just so as she whispered his name. He bit his lip, stifling a groan, unwilling to let the empty chamber echo with his need.

The friction sent sparks of pleasure darting up his spine, but it was the thought of her—her hands upon him instead of his own—that truly undid him. He could almost feel the press of her body against his, her soft sighs mingling with his own ragged breathing. His hips lifted from the bed, seeking more, needing more.

This was madness. A single night of weakness, he had promised himself. And yet, as his pleasure built, winding tighter and tighter, he knew that this would not be the last time. Not until he had her. Not until he could claim her in truth, feel her beneath him, around him, hers as much as he was hers.

With a strangled gasp, he surrendered, his body shaking with the force of release.

His body ached with pleasure, his legs twitching as he recovered. He closed his eyes, feeling a brief euphoria before reality settled back in. He was left with nothing but emptiness – that, and a mess on his belly that repulsed him. He swiped it away with his nightshirt, standing up and discarding the soiled material at once. The room was silent but for his unsteady breaths, the weight of his solitude pressing upon him once more.

He unfolded the shirt he had worn that day and put it on, unable to sleep without being properly covered. Slipping back beneath the covers, warmed by his body, he closed his eyes and willed sleep to claim him.

His sleep was not kind; thoughts of Elizabeth that he managed to push away when awake ran wild and free in his unconscious mind. He awoke with the same problem as the previous night, harder and more insistent.

He was in no mood for indulgence, rising from the bed and crossing to the bowl of water. He had woken before the fire had been set, the room frigid and damp. He reached into the bowl of water, the water near-freezing beneath his fingertips.

“You are not an animal,” he muttered. “Restraint, man.”

Wringing out the cloth, he ran the punishingly cold water over his body, stubbornly ignoring that part of himself which begged for attention. When he had finished, his passion had cooled entirely, along with the rest of him. He rang the bell for his valet, and tried to put the whole sorry business from his mind.

∞∞∞

Fitzwilliam did not show his face until near two in the afternoon. He stumbled into the small ante room that Darcy kept as a study, dressed but looking distinctly rough around the edges as he flopped down onto the green settee opposite the fireplace. This room was Darcy’s sanctuary; he did not often keep company in here, relishing the quiet, and his cousin had certainly not been invited in.

“Good afternoon,” Darcy greeted him coldly. “I am surprised you have risen at all.”

Fitzwilliam groaned, though the noise was closer to that of a wounded animal than a grown man with a hangover.

“Don’t start, cousin. I feel wretched enough without your judgement.”

“Good.”

“Oh, don’t be like that!” he groaned. “I will apologise profusely for whatever may have offended you when I have had some coffee.”

“I am glad Georgiana is out at her lessons,” he said, “for I would not have her witness her beloved cousin in such a poor condition.”

“I did not realise you could make me feel worse than I already do. It is quite a talent of yours, I think. Go on then, what did I do?”

“You do not recall?”

“Do I seem as though I recall?” he moaned. “Go on, out with it, man.”

“You were unspeakably crude.”

“Oh?”

“You made comments about…my marriage bed.”

“Is that it?!” Fitzwilliam laughed. “I do recall our conversation, but I thought your reaction a consequence of your own cups.”

“Are you in a habit of speaking about woman in such a manner?”

“Oh, come, I said nothing offensive! Miss Elizabeth is a fine young woman; you know I think the world of her!”

“And yet you showed her blatant disrespect to speak of private matters with such disregard for decency.”

Fitzwilliam raised his head, looking at him carefully.

“You really are a virgin, aren’t you?”

The word was not intended as an insult, as it had been the night before, but Fitzwilliam’s casual use of the term prickled at him all the same. He was reminded, entirely against his will for he never wished to recall his friendship with the man, of how often Wickham used his virtue as an insult during their time at university. It was an embarrassment then, and an embarrassment now.

“Stop it.”

Fitzwilliam’s face softened, his bravado vanishing.

“It is alright to have reservations, you know. Perhaps I can assist you.”

“I do not wish for any assistance you may have to offer. It is a private matter, and it will remain so.”

“A woman such as the future Mrs Darcy will require satisfaction, I can assure you.”

“You insult her honour?”

“It is no dishonourable thing to have a wife who desires you, Darcy! It is the greatest of gifts! You really are a prude, aren’t you? You and Mr Bingley, who was as red as a strawberry by the time we parted ways.”

“I believed your impertinence was down to drink; I see now that you intend to continue behaving as a brute. I shall leave you to wallow in your misery.”

“Wait, wait. Let us talk about this as two men.”

“I do not know when you saw fit to become my advisor in these matters, cousin, but I set you free of any obligation you might feel. It is, quite frankly, none of your concern.”

“You’re scared, aren’t you?”

“I am not scared of Elizabeth. Such a suggestion is absurd.”

“No, that is not what I mean. You are utterly devoted to her. I think that some part of me knew that from the moment I saw you look at her. You’re scared of…the act itself.”

“You are ridiculous. I am not scared. I may not live my life dominated by what lies in my breeches, but that does not mean I am scared. I am sure when it comes to it, it shall be perfectly pleasant.”

“Perfectly pleasant, sufficiently consummate – hell’s bells, man. Here, I have something for you. A moment.”

Fitzwilliam prised himself from the settee and trudged away. Darcy stood stock still, awaiting his cousin’s return. The sound of footsteps thudded above him, and Darcy mentally traced them to the room he kept for his cousin. The sound paused for a moment, and then the sound of footsteps drawing closer. When Fitzwilliam returned, he held a small black book. He held it out, offering it to Darcy who made no move to accept it.

“Here,” Fitzwilliam said, stepping closer and placing it into Darcy’s unwelcoming hand himself. “I bought this for you.”

“What is this?”

Fitzwilliam returned to the settee, sitting down with a heavy thud.

“A wedding gift for Miss Elizabeth. You are a practical sort of man, and a practical sort benefits from clear instructions. I believe you shall get that with this little book. It’s not for polite company, though.”

“Where does one acquire such material?”

“They’re bandied round like currency in the army,” Fitzwilliam shrugged. “That one is new, though, so don’t worry about stuck together pages.”

“You are disgusting.”

“Sorry, yes, you’re right actually. I’m afraid I always need to be re-socialised on my leave. The army sends you quite feral.”

“If I accept this – this gift, as you offer it – will you promise to make no further comment on the matter of carnal desires? I have had quite enough to last a lifetime.”

“You really don’t like to think of it, do you?” Fitzwilliam asked, his tone changing to one far more compassionate. “I have teased you terribly. I will take the book and burn it.”

His cousin made a half-hearted effort to prise himself from the settee, only to flop back helplessly. Groaning, he offered a hand to Darcy, palm outstretched awaiting the deposit of the book. Darcy hesitated, looking down at the book. He shook his head, tucking the slim book into his jacket pocket.

“No.”

Fitzwilliam smiled, eyes still closed and looking decidedly green around the edges.

“You have my word I will never raise the subject again,” he promised, not bothering to move an inch. “Are we friends again?”

“You are absurd,” Darcy rolled his eyes. “Did you see that Bingley got home safely? He is not in the habit of imbibing so much. He was swaying in his seat.”

“Yes, yes, safe and sound to that harridan of a sister. I imagine she is quite furious about the upcoming nuptials on both sides, isn’t she?”

“Miss Bingley is…”

“In love with you, or your money at least,” Fitzwilliam said cheerily, before letting out an almighty hiccup and laughing hysterically.

“Are you still drunk?”

“Quite possibly,” Fitzwilliam sighed miserably. “I may just close my eyes.”

“Your eyes are already closed. May I have your word that you will be on your best behaviour when Miss Elizabeth arrives?”

At that, his cousin opened his eyes and sat up keenly.

“How splendid! You did not mention that she was coming. Yes, yes, of course. Best behaviour absolutely. How long is she to stay?”

“A few days, I suppose. She will be accompanied by Mrs and Miss Bennet.”

“Her mother? I have yet to have the pleasure. Is she as charming as her daughter?”

“No.”

“Darcy, you must have more tact than that!” Fitzwilliam laughed. “She is to be your mother-in-law, and she will make your life as easy or as difficult as she wishes!”

Darcy said nothing, the book still weighing heavily in his hands. He could not help but wonder what could be inside.

“Go and put that thing in your bedroom before Georgiana gets home,” Fitzwilliam said. “You may burn it if you wish. I certainly do not want it back.”

Darcy turned from the room without another word, walking up the stairs towards his room. Once there, he opened the door and threw the book inside, closing the door firmly as he turned away.

The rest of the afternoon was mercifully quiet; by the time Darcy returned to the drawing room, Fitzwilliam had fallen asleep and was snoring loudly. Darcy, disapproving as he was, could not help but chuckle at his cousin’s poor condition. Whatever had gotten into him the night before to make him such a rogue had clearly taken its toll; the sooner he slept it off, the sooner his level-headed cousin would be returned to him.

When the time came to retire for the night, Darcy met his valet. Entering the room, he noticed the book was no longer on the floor.

“Where is the book that I placed here earlier?”

“My sincerest apologies, sir. The book had fallen onto the floor, so I placed it by your bed. I will remind the maids to take more care in future.”

“The fault was my own, I assure you,” Darcy said. “You did not…”

“I did not note the title of the book, sir, nor did I look at the contents.”

His effusive denial made Darcy’s cheeks redden, for it was obvious even to him that the unfortunate fellow knew exactly what lay in the book.

“Thank you,” Darcy said weakly. “I will see to myself for this evening.”

“As you wish. The housekeeper wishes you to know that she has arranged Miss Elizabeth’s modiste appointments, as requested.”

“Thank you.”

“Good evening, sir.”

His valet left the room, and Darcy sat down heavily on the bed. He was a mess, utterly unlike himself. Is this what lust did? Could desire change a man so much? He would not succumb to the indignity of it. He would not be reduced to little better than an animal as he had seen others be.

Still, he could not help but think of what Fitzwilliam had said. Could Elizabeth truly be a woman who needed such passionate attentions? Were there wives who saw their husbands as equals, rather than burdens, and could he possibly hope to be counted amongst their ranks?

His mind was a whirl; he had been tortured by thoughts of Elizabeth for months, but he had long given up hope of his affections and desires being returned. He was surely not so lucky as to be given a chance of happiness after so long living in agony. If that was what Elizabeth wanted, then he would spend his life in the endeavour of her happiness.

He sat down on the bed, reaching for the dreaded book which now rested on his bedside table. It was a small thing, and it made no sense that his heart was hammering as it was. He turned it over in his hands. The binding was black, the cover wordless. He grasped the corner between two fingers, hesitating before finally flipping the cover open. The front page was, like its cover, wordless and gave no indication of the contents. He turned the first page, and almost slammed the book closed again when he did not see words, as he had expected, but a vulgar drawing of a man and woman engaged in…

Well, he was not entirely sure what they were doing.

The couple on the page – a man whose face he could not see, and a spectacularly busty woman – were in a position that looked most impractical indeed. He turned the page sideways, then upside down, squinting to try and make sense of it. It seemed that the man had his face buried between the woman’s thighs, whilst at the same time, the woman took the man in her mouth. How could such a practice be hygienic?

He hurriedly turned the page, but the next image did little to ease his discomfort. It was more familiar, at the very least. A man and woman – the same man and woman from the page before, he supposed, who certainly seemed very satisfied by the endeavours – rutting like beasts as the man took her from behind. Such a position was undignified, at best.

And still, as he looked at these crude illustrations, he could not help the image that was conjured in his mind. The vulgar couple in the book were replaced by himself and Elizabeth, his darling Elizabeth. He was lost to his imagination as he sank down against the pillows, turning the pages as he hurriedly tore at the fastenings of his trousers with one hand. Each position drawn in ink felt more forbidden than the last.

He hissed as his hand tightened, his hips bucking upwards of their own control. He allowed the book to fall from his fingers, his eyes closing as he allowed himself this pleasure. There was no doing anything but; the images had given a shape to something he had only imagined. He could only imagine how much better Elizabeth would feel than his own hand.

Oh, what would it be like to have his sweet Elizabeth ride him, a leg either side as she gazed down at him? To bury his face between her thighs, to know her sweet cunt and to worship it as she deserved?

With that thought, he bit back a pained moan as he came, pulling up his shirt desperately as streaks of white spilled across his stomach. He lay on the bed, still fully dressed save for his open breeches crudely revealing his softening manhood. He blinked down at the mess cooling on the soft, hair dappled skin of his stomach.

What had happened to him? He had no intention of ever touching himself in such a way, and yet he could not control himself. Those pictures, the ideas that had taken root in his head…The words he had used in his mind, the desires he held, unlocked in that moment…It was a haze he could barely remember.

His lust was something he would make every endeavour to forget.