Chapter Seven
SHE AND MR. Darcy traveled together to London that afternoon, and they arrived at his house in London in the early evening. He left her in her bedchamber, with a maid, whose name was Abigail, and curtly told her more instructions would be forthcoming.
She was too nervous to eat, and then the hours seemed to stretch out in front of her, interminable. She wished for something to do, and she ended up ringing for Abigail far too early to help her change into her sleeping clothes.
So, at quarter after seven, she told Abigail to brush her hair, and she sat and had her hair brushed for as long as she could stand it.
Finally, at twenty to eight, she decided she would start wandering over. It was early, but she was all nerves, and she could not bear waiting any longer, truly.
It took her all of three minutes to walk down the hallway to her husband’s chamber, but she knocked anyway.
“We’re not to be disturbed, I thought I made that plain,” called her husband’s voice from within.
“It’s me,” she said in a tiny voice. “I know I’m early but—”
The door was pulled open immediately, and who was on the other side but Mr. Wickham, entirely dressed, which made her feel out of sorts in her nightdress, her hair down.
Mr. Wickham’s lips parted as his gaze went up and down, lingering at the ends of her long hair and on her slippered feet.
“Lizzy,” he breathed. “You’re… God in heaven, you’re a vision. ”
“Hello,” said Mr. Darcy from the other side of the room. He was in a banyan, sitting on a chair by the fireplace (which was not burning, for it was too warm for it), his feet up on a stool. He looked relaxed in a way that she had never seen him look, casual. It suited him, softened him.
“Hello,” she said.
“You are a vision,” said Mr. Darcy, smiling. “Shut the door, George.”
Mr. Wickham shut the door.
“Kiss her,” said Mr. Darcy, his smile widening.
Elizabeth was stunned. Oh, it was just going to be like that, just right away, like—
Mr. Wickham pulled her into his arms and put his mouth on hers, and she pressed her hands into his chest and surrendered to him, to his lips, to the intrusion of his tongue, the way it felt to be kissed and held by him.
“Good,” said Mr. Darcy.
And Wickham let go of her.
“Mrs. Darcy?”
Oh, that was her name now. She turned to look at her husband. Her lips felt bruised. She was unsure of how she even felt in this moment. She was apprehensive but anticipatory. It was fear and eagerness mixed.
“George tells me he calls you Lizzy,” said Mr. Darcy. “I am called Fitz by those who are close to me. Do you object to my calling you by that name when we are alone?”
She shook her head.
He beckoned. “You’re frightened?”
She shook her head again.
“George,” said Darcy, “she told me you unnerve her with all your anger.”
“Did you truly say that?” Mr. Wickham sounded hurt. “Have you told him everything I’ve ever told you?”
She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Wickham in apprehension. “That wasn’t something you told me.”
“Obviously, she’d be frightened,” said Mr. Darcy, beckoning to her again, even as he spoke not to her but to Wickham, “she’s never done this before. She’s a maiden, untouched except for your fingers and mouth. It must be quite overwhelming, hmm?”
She let out a breath. “Truly, yes. I don’t know what to expect. I have ever so many questions.”
Mr. Darcy took his feet off the stool, and patted his leg. He beckoned again.
She moved closer and suddenly found herself in the man’s lap. She had never been so close to him before. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She tipped this way and that, catching herself on his chest, then bouncing off, making tiny noises in her throat.
“There, there,” he said, his voice deep and soothing, one of his hands on the small of her back, steadying her.
His hand there, it was so large. He was large all over, tall and dark.
She felt her body flooded with twin sensations of excitement at being this close to a man, a man who was not entirely dressed, and also worry at being this close to a man, one who was so much larger than she was, so male and broad and strong. “I’m not going to hurt you, Lizzy.”
She looked into his dark eyes.
“Shall I kiss you, or would you not welcome it?” His voice was gentle, his hand moving rhythmically up and down her back.
“Welcome it? You are my husband.”
“Yes, but none of us know why you acquiesced to this, truly.” He chuckled, and his other hand came up to cup her cheek. “For him?”
She looked up to see that Wickham was standing over them both.
“It’s all right, if so,” said Mr. Darcy. “I shall be quite gratified watching him kiss you.”
She looked back at her husband, her eyes wide.
“I don’t think you know,” he said, his voice going low and melodious. “Is that right?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I have gone mad.”
Mr. Darcy laughed. And then he leaned in and met her lips with his own, and his kiss was gentle but still somehow overwhelming. When he parted her lips with his tongue, she felt as if she went to pieces.
The kiss ended to find her tucked up against his chest, both of her hands splayed out against him, and he was gazing at her with such a look on his face. She knew not what to make of that look, but it felt like adoration, and she thought she might like to bask in it.
“Well,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice quite deep, “that went well enough, I think.”
She nodded up at him. This man was her husband. Perhaps it would not be a trial of a marriage after all.
But then she remembered that Wickham was there, and she turned to look at him. He stood, gazing at them both. He was methodically undoing his cravat.
Was he going to get undressed?
Elizabeth was intrigued by the idea of him undressed, she had to admit. She was even more intrigued by the idea of both of them undressed. She watched as he loosened his cravat and pulled it free. She watched as it fluttered to the floor.
Mr. Wickham’s lips curved into a smile as his fingers went to his jacket. He began to undo the buttons there.
Mr. Darcy shifted her on his lap, turning her outward so that it was easier for her to watch. He banded an arm around her waist and leaned against her, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You like that, then, Mrs. Darcy? Watching our George take off his clothes?”
She thought he was going to call her Lizzy, but she had to admit she sort of liked it, being reminded of his ownership of her while they discussed the other man she was going to share a bed with. “Yes,” she whispered.
“You are not to feel ashamed of it,” said Mr. Darcy at her ear, molding his body against the back of hers. “George was not the least bit fair with you, after all. He teased you senseless and gave you pleasure, and anyone would be curious.”
Wickham removed his jacket and started in on his waistcoat.
“Tell her Georgie,” said Darcy. “Tell her it’s all right if she wants us both.”
Wickham met her gaze. “You do want us both, that’s rather obvious.” He sounded a bit bitter, though.
Elizabeth stiffened.
“George,” said Darcy sternly. “None of that.”
Wickham shrugged out of his waistcoat. “None of what, Fitz?”
“Well, don’t make her feel guilty about it,” said Darcy. “It’s not as if she chose you over me. You had taken yourself entirely out of the running.”
Wickham began unbuttoning his shirt. “You would see it that way, I suppose.”
“How does she see it?” said Darcy. He nudged her. “Lizzy? Was our George a contender at the point you accepted my proposal?”
She shook her head. “Don’t put me in the middle of the two of you.”
Wickham laughed, and it was a bit of a jeer. “What do you think you have married into, Lizzy?”
Her heart beat fast.
Darcy let go of her, and pushed her up onto her feet. He got up behind her. He put his hand against her back and pushed her into Wickham’s arms.
Wickham’s shirt gapped open, half unbuttoned. She put her hands to his chest for balance, and she collided with bare skin. She sucked in a breath at the sensation.
Wickham put both of his hands on her waist to steady her.
“All right,” came Mr. Darcy’s voice, soft, serene, “I suppose it was awful that I didn’t allow you to marry her, George.
I suppose I should have given you money so that you could have proposed, but if I did, how was I to know that the money would even have gone for that?
You’d have spent it all before the year was out, I wager. ”
Wickham glanced at him and then back at Elizabeth. “Lizzy, would you ever have agreed to marry this arrogant wretch of a man if I had not wrung your cunny out in the wood?”
She swallowed.
Mr. Darcy chuckled. “Yes, there it is, you see. You gave her to me. You did it on purpose, now stop sulking about it.”
Elizabeth looked into Wickham’s eyes. “Did you?” she whispered. “Did you give me to him?”
Wickham looked away.
“No, George,” Darcy said, coming in next to them. “I think she likes it.”
She looked up at her husband now, feeling heat rush to her cheeks.
“I think she agreed to this entirely because she wants to be passed back and forth,” said Darcy. “I have watched her reaction every time such things are discussed, and she gets very quiet.”
Wickham took her by the chin. His voice was rough. “Is that so, Lizzy?”
She made a squeak, one of protest or acquiescence, she could not say.
But then Wickham was kissing her, and she still had her hands on his bare chest, and she kissed him and delved her fingers in under his shirt and he pulled back and gazed at her, eyes half-lidded, and said that she was eager for it, wasn’t she?
And Mr. Darcy plucked her away from Wickham and started kissing her himself, and she put her hands on his chest, and she found a little bare triangle of his skin above his banyan, and she put her hands on him there, and he made a noise, deep in his throat, of approval—