Five Minutes Later
"Mr. Darcy! What very fine ankles you have," I said when I noticed the figure of my husband towering above me. I had been sitting at my dressing table in somewhat of a stupor and suddenly he appeared. Had he knocked upon the adjoining door? I had not heard him knock. Naughty boy!
He was clad in a dressing gown and . . .
well, probably just a dressing gown, but it concealed his modesty well.
All I could really see were his ankles. And a bit of his calves.
Most exemplary calves they were, I'm sure.
I cannot say I know much about the ideal male physique, but his calves looked to me to be perfectly proportioned.
I stood, and the moment I did so London experienced a violent earthquake. The house, the furniture, and Mr. Darcy were all fortunately immune to the seismic forces.
I reached out and grasped the nearest stable object in order to steady myself. "Good shoulders, too. Quite solid," I said.
Horrifyingly I did not immediately release his person.
I just stood there holding on to his shoulder as if I had every right to do so, all the while a part of my mind that seemed to no longer be connected to the rest of me screamed shrilly.
And then fainted dead away. The sensible part of my mind had swooned.
The sensible part of my mind needed more brandy.
"You are inebriated," observed Mr. Darcy.
"Noooooooooo!"
Realizing this response did not speak of sobriety, I tried again, "No, I just had one little glass." This statement would have been more convincing if it had not come out as "I jus 'ad one lil glash."
"Indeed."
"Perhaps two," I amended, holding up my fingers to illustrate.
"Two?" he asked, holding up three fingers. I thought he was teasing me until I looked at my own hand and found I was holding up three fingers as well.
"Yes, two."
"Or maybe, three?" he asked while holding up five fingers.
"Noooo!"
His lips tugged at the corners as if he were trying to suppress it, but then he relaxed and allowed them to form a smile.
"You're smiling," I said, beaming back at him—hand still firmly on his shoulder, I might add. "You really do have a lovely smile. Your real smile, that is, not your superior smile or your you-have-wounded-but-I-will-not-show-it smile. Your real smiles are quite . . . breathtaking."
At some time during my babbling I decided I had leave to stroke his cheek and commenced doing so, relishing its smoothness (he had been shaved, apparently). Mr. Darcy for his part did not seem to mind, or at least he did not mind enough to move away.
"You're so handsome. And rich. Pity about the rest of it."
His smile shifted.
"Oh, no. I've wounded you. I am a bad, bad, bad, bad Lizzy. You must learn when I am only teasing. This marriage thing will never work if you don't learn that. I will tease you. And you may tease me back. Go on, try it. Tease me, Mr. Darcy."
Lines appeared on his forehead and his lips twitched. Some part of him wanted to tease me, but he was experiencing a great internal struggle. Seriousness against joviality. Predictably, seriousness won out; he kept his silence.
"Right. You did not come to converse you came to consummate."
I could feel the blood rush to his cheeks beneath my fingers (yes, now I had both hands on his face). "Goodness, your face is warm. Have I made you blush or are you taking ill?"
True to form as ever, Mr. Darcy made no reply. He just stared at me in that intense way of his, as if he were trying to divine all of my secrets without having to give away any of his own.
Suddenly kissing him seemed like a very good idea.
I was not sure what constituted preface, but I felt kissing must be part of it.
Standing up upon the tips of my toes, I pulled his lips down to meet mine.
He tensed then pushed me away—gently—but it was still a push. A rejection. Now my cheeks flamed.
"Elizabeth—."
But I would never find out what he had intended to say because my stomach chose that moment to twist painfully.
I raced behind my dressing screen and retched into the chamber pot hidden there.
Much to my mortification, Mr. Darcy followed me.
He knelt beside me, stroking my back comfortingly as I finished casting up my accounts.
"Oh God, what you must think of me," I said, still leaning over the chamber pot. There could be nothing else in my stomach to heave, but I did not wish to rise. I did not wish to face him.
Mr. Darcy made no comment, instead he assisted me to my feet. Once we were both standing he gingerly dabbed my chin with a handkerchief (where in heavens had the man stowed a handkerchief?) whilst I made my embarrassment complete by bursting into tears.
"I've made a fool of myself again," I cried, "Now you will think I am one of those pathetic females who is always having vapors and sniveling."
Without reply, he led me from the dressing room to the bedchamber. He pulled back the counterpane and nudged me into bed. When I was situated to his satisfaction he turned and left, exiting by way of the adjoining door.
His abrupt departure was so well aligned with my understanding of him I was surprised when he returned carrying a glass of water.
"Drink," he commanded.
I took a sip.
"All of it."
Grateful as I was to him for . . . well, everything, my gratitude did not prevent me from casting a glare at him for his overbearing tone. I did, however, continue to drink as my throat was rather raw and the water soothing.
"Goodnight, Elizabeth," he said when I handed him back the empty glass.
"Goodnight," I whispered. I knew I should say more. I should at least thank him, but I was barely holding back tears and I did not want to risk bawling in front of him again.
He stepped away as if to leave, but then halted.
"It is not easy for me," he said.
"Polite conversation," he explained, anticipating my question.
"If all participants keep to the expected script I can manage, but the practice itself seems absurd to me.
I find social interaction in general to be exhausting and sometimes, after I have been forced to attend to a great many trivial conversations with a great many people not well known to me.
. . ." he trailed off as if he did not know how to further explain.
"You do not wish to converse," I provided.
He nodded and then he turned to leave.
"Darcy!"
Pausing at the door, he glanced back at me.
"Thank you," I said. I was thanking him for explaining his taciturnity, for putting me to bed—I could only hope he understood for I had not the words to express it all at that moment.
He smiled. A tight half-smile, not quite a true smile, but a smile all the same. Then he stepped through the adjoining entryway and closed the door.