Chapter 18
Eighteen
Still Evening
"Well, that wasn't entirely terrible," I declared mimicking Darcy's usual dry tone. This was the understatement of the century, but it would not do to praise him too highly. One must encourage people to keep aspiring to greater heights.
"You really are too kind," Darcy replied.
He had rolled over to the other side of the bed.
I was feeling just a little bereft and wondering why he had felt the need to distance himself so promptly.
He was probably being gentlemanly. When he made to move off of me I ought to have said, "Just lay there and sweat on me, it is quite all right.
I am laying in a pool of sweat and other less decorous secretions anyway. "
But I had not said anything and I did not know what I was suppose to do now.
Were we really meant be so intimate then go to our respective side of the bed and sleep?
And why did my side have to be so damp? I wanted to be close to him.
I also wanted to escape this abominable vat of bodily broth lest I drown in it.
Darcy reached out and took my hand lacing his fingers through mine. That was something at least.
"Come here," he said, giving my hand a weak tug.
I complied, dragging myself until I was beside him. I put my head upon his chest. He made for a most uncomfortable pillow, but I was too fatigued to search for better accommodation.
After a bit of rest, a question occurred to me. A question I found I must have the answer to immediately. Darcy was drowsing so I bit his nipple. Tit for tat—perfectly fair. He had done it to me and I had enjoyed it. Though he perhaps had not bitten me quite so hard.
"My God!" he exclaimed as he jolted awake. Then he muttered something about me being possessed by the devil followed by energetic blaspheming. And people say ladies overreact to being startled.
"I have questions."
"I never imagined you would not, though I thought perhaps we might catch our breathes before you began asking them."
I chose to ignore his scolding. "When you—" I began then promptly halted, how did one word this?
"When you . . .tasted my nectar—did you—did it—I hope it was not unpleasant."
Thankfully Darcy understood what I was trying to ask. "You taste like tea. Well, not precisely like tea. But not unpleasant."
Wonderful. Perhaps he might be persuaded do it again. Often. Soon.
Perhaps tomorrow.
At the latest.
But I was not going to mention it because I didn't want to seem greedy.
"So you will do it again?" Fine, I couldn't help but mention it.
"Indeed," he said. Most emphatically.
Lovely.
Another thought occurred to me. "You knew what you were doing!" I said accusingly.
"Thank you? Possibly I am sorry?" said Darcy with much beLizzyment.
"Mama told me gentlemen were either hopeless blunderers intent on their own enjoyment never mind their wives' pleasure, or they were lovers. And if they were the latter it was because they had extensive experience of a practical nature . . . or they had learned it all from books."
He understood the implication immediately. "Books! That is the origin of my expertise if that is indeed what you are accusing me of—or complimenting me for."
"So there really are such books?" I had been certain Mama was fabricating their existence.
"Yes."
"You have read them?"
"Yes."
"You possess such books?"
Darcy paused, sensing the trap. "Yes."
"I want to see one."
"Certainly not."
"Why not? Nothing can shock me now, I just did all the things," I argued.
"I assure you you have not done all the things."
"Are we going to do all the things?"
"Yes—no, perhaps not all."
"Why not all? Perhaps I want to do all the things."
"You do not," said Darcy with decided authority. Yet I was not swayed. "I might. I cannot know," I insisted.
"You should not know." He could not have uttered any sentence that would have convinced me less.
"Why should you get to decide? You should let me read some of your naughty books and let me decide for myself."
"You could never read such books. Not if you insist on calling it your Garden of Delight."
"What do they call it? What do you call it?"
"It is not something I would repeat in front of a lady."
I decided to ignore the absurdity of that statement and keep pressing my point. "I want to see your naughty book collection."
"I would not call it a collection."
"Do you have more than two books?"
His silence answered for itself.
"Then it is a collection."
I nudged him. Once. Twice. Incessantly. "Let me see it. If you do not I will assume it does not exist and I will have to conclude you got your experience elsewhere."
"You wish for me to show you my collection?" There was a cunningness to his tone. I knew if I could properly see his expression it would be fox-like.
"Yes." I agreed, because I was almost as eager to see whatever clever distraction he had thought of as I was his illicit literature.
Breaking our embrace, Darcy stood. With the ease of someone who knew the room he found his way to a candelabra and lit the tapers one by one.
His form appeared out of the darkness. I kept my eyes demurely averted until he turned to light more candles allowing me to ogle.
I really did not think it was a sight I would grow tired of anytime soon.
After much shuffling about in the wardrobe he produced an unlikely box. It was a case really. A small case, secured by a latch at both sides.
He placed it heavily upon the bed where I sat covered most carefully to the neck with the coverlet.
Darcy sat down, covering himself insouciantly to the most minimal degree.
He gestured for me to open the case. Conscious of his smirk, I undid the latches and lifted the lid of the case.
The horrors I found therein where unthinkable.
I had heard about such men of course. The kind of creatures who kept this sort of collection. That my husband should be one was, well, unsurprising when one really thought about it—but that did not make the burden any easier to bear.
"You are an amateur geologist," I said with farcical revulsion.
"There is no need to say it like that."
"You have a box of stones."
As if it would make it better Darcy said, "There is a fossil or two in there as well."
"They have labels. Individual labels, Darcy—you've organized them," I said, keeping to my horrified act.
"They would hardly be much use if I had not."
"Jane's first suitor was an amateur geologist as well.
He inherited quite a lot of money from a rich uncle and he thought he needed a hobby now that he was a gentleman properly.
He was very dull to begin with I daresay, but his chosen hobby only made him duller still.
He wrote Jane a poem comparing her to some sort of obscure mineral. "
"Noted. I will not attempt any poetry."
Idly I picked up a stone from the case. In the poor light it looked nearly black, but there was hint of purple and a bit of sparkle.
"That is fluorite. Blue john colloquially," said Darcy too avidly.
I quickly put the stone back where I had found it. I have learned from my experiences with Dora that the key to not receiving an impromptu hour long lecture from an enthusiast about their chosen subject is to not let them get them started in the first place.
"Geology can be interesting."
I nodded exaggeratedly in reply.
He was not discouraged by my sarcasm. "Here, look, it is fossilized coral. I found it in a rock outcropping in Derbyshire. From this evidence we can only assume Derbyshire was covered by the sea several millennia ago. Is it not fascinating?"
"It is." I took the fossil from him and squinted at it. I could not imagine Derbyshire under the sea. It was difficult enough to imagine Derbyshire at all.
"To think how old the world is makes one feel one's life is rather insignificant, yet precious all the same," Darcy said as he returned his prize to its proper place.
In that moment realized I was terribly fond of him. That I was attracted to him—that I admired him had been evident to me for some time now, but fondness had seemed too quiet, too sweet an emotion to apply to my feelings towards Darcy.
It did not blaze like passion, it was subtle, it was furtive, it coaxed you out into the fen slowly so you did not realize where you were until you were quite mired.
Fondness made you shrug your shoulders at even the oddest eccentricities and say, "He is such a trial, but I am so very fond of him.
" The poets never spoke of fondness, but they should.
A sudden surety had come over me and I knew now that it was the most dangerous of all of Love's cousins.
I kissed his cheek.
"I am being dull, aren't I?" asked Darcy.
"No, indeed."
"You just kissed me as if I were your great aunt and I daresay you are listening with the same polite attentiveness you would give to a dotty old lady as well."
"I do not have a great aunt unless you count your great aunt. I would like to hear you call Margaret dotty to her face. And I've never been polite to you before, I hardly think I would start now."
"There is that. But no matter the reason, I would not have you kiss me politely."
He kissed me then in that overwhelming way he usually did. Fortunately, I still had enough wits about me to anticipate him.
Catching hold of the coverlet before he could yank it away I said, "No. You will not distract me. I want to see your collection."
"You've seen it."
"This was not the collection I was talking about."
"Yes, but this collection is much less shameful."
"I do not know about that," I teased, then more seriously, "Show me your naughty books."
"You won't even let me see your naughty bits, why should I?"
"Perhaps we can come to an agreement."
"Oh?"
"If you let me see—nay, if you let me read one of your naughty books, I will let you see me unclothed with the candles alight."