Twelve
Elizabeth closed the door of her chamber and leaned against it, heart still beating too fast.
The dinner had been unbearable. Mr Darcy had barely spoken, had drunk far more wine than he ate food, and every time their eyes met across the candlelit table the air had thickened until she could scarcely breathe.
He had looked at her as though she were both salvation and torment, and the memory of the library still burned against her skin.
She crossed to the looking glass and stared at her reflection.
The woman she saw there was no longer the half-starved creature from Somers Town.
Her cheeks carried a healthier colour, her eyes were brighter, and the simple nightgown Georgiana had insisted upon fell softly against a body that was finally beginning to remember what it felt like to be properly fed.
She was still slender—too slender by the standards of fashion—her breasts small, her waist narrow.
Not a great beauty, never that. But not plain either.
There was something in the line of her neck, in the dark fall of her unbound hair, that made her pause.
She closed her eyes.
She could still feel him.
The solid heat of his chest hovering just behind her shoulders. The press of his body against the small of her back—hard, urgent, unmistakably male. The way he had leaned in until his breath brushed her ear and whispered her name as though he were on the edge of control. “Miss Bennet...”
Seven years ago, he had stood in the parlour at Hunsford and told her he loved her ardently.
She had thrown the word back in his face, furious at his pride, his insults, his presumption.
She had not understood then what ardently truly meant.
She understood it now. It meant this—this fierce, physical wanting that had made him tremble and had left her trembling in return.
She had grown up in the countryside. She had seen animals mate, had heard the blunt talk of farmhands and midwives.
She knew the mechanics of reproduction perfectly well.
What she had not known was how it would feel to be the object of such desire.
To feel a man’s body respond to hers with such raw honesty.
A rush of heat bloomed low in her belly and slid downward. She pressed her thighs together instinctively and gasped at the slick, aching sensation between them. Her hand rose of its own accord, fingertips brushing the hollow at the base of her throat where his breath had ghosted only hours earlier.
She imagined his mouth on hers. That full, serious mouth that so rarely smiled, softened by want, claiming her slowly, deeply. She imagined his hands sliding into her hair, tilting her head back, the press of his body fully against hers without the barrier of clothing or propriety.
The ache between her legs intensified. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter.
This will not do.
She could not afford this. She had a family to feed, sisters who depended on the money she sent home.
If she lost this position because she had allowed—encouraged—Mr Darcy’s desire to flare unchecked, what would become of them?
Lydia’s quiet withdrawal, Jane’s fragile health, her mother’s weary courage—all of it rested on her ability to remain employed.
And yet...
Lydia had been with Wickham for two full weeks and had not fallen with child.
Elizabeth had never been with a man. She had never been kissed, actually.
She was innocent in body, but she was not a fool.
She had heard enough whispered conversations between married women and read enough between the lines of novels to know there were ways to take pleasure without consequence.
What if...
The thought slipped in, dangerous and unbidden.
What if she allowed herself this one thing?
What if she let him touch her, kiss her, ease this burning ache that had taken root inside her since the moment he had pressed against her in the library?
What if, for once in her life, she took something for herself?
She forced the thought away with ruthless determination and opened her eyes.
No.
She would speak to him tonight. She had to set clear boundaries. She would remind him—and herself—that she was his governess, nothing more. Her position in this house must remain secure.
Before courage could desert her, she pulled on her dressing gown, tied the sash with shaking fingers, and slipped out into the darkened corridor.
The house was silent, only the occasional creak of settling wood breaking the quiet. She moved through the shadows, her feet soundless on the carpet, until she reached the door of Mr Darcy’s bedchamber.
She waited in the alcove opposite, her heart hammering.
Minutes later the valet emerged, bowed to someone inside the room, and walked away down the corridor. The door remained slightly ajar.
Elizabeth raised her hand, hesitated only a moment, and knocked—two soft, deliberate raps.
Inside, she heard movement. Then the low, unmistakable sound of Mr Darcy’s voice.
“Enter.”
She turned the handle, stepped inside the master’s private drawing room, and closed the door softly behind her.
Mr Darcy stood at the tall window, one hand braced high against the frame, staring out into the darkness of Grosvenor Street. He wore only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, the latter unbuttoned, and his hair was slightly disordered, as though he had run his fingers through it more than once.
“What have you forgotten now, Rawson?” he asked without turning, his voice low and weary, carrying the faint huskiness of brandy.
Elizabeth drew a long breath. “May I come in, Mr Darcy?”
He spun around so quickly that his shoulder brushed the curtain. For a moment he simply stared at her, his eyes wide, as if she were an apparition conjured from the night itself.
“Miss Bennet.”
The name left him on a single exhaled breath.
She remained just inside the door, hands clasped tightly before her. “We need to talk.”
He closed his eyes for the briefest second, then opened them again. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I wanted to speak with you too.”
He gestured at the settee near the fire, but made no move to sit himself. Instead, he remained standing by the window, one hand still resting on the frame as though it anchored him. Elizabeth remained standing. When he spoke again, his voice was tired, the words a little slower than usual.
“What happened in the library this afternoon should never have occurred. I behaved inexcusably. You need have no fear of unwanted advances from me. Your position in this household is entirely secure. I give you my word that nothing of the sort will ever happen again.”
He did not quite meet her eyes as he spoke. His gaze drifted to the fire, to the carpet, to the decanter on the side table—anywhere but directly at her. The faint flush across his cheekbones and the careful precision of his speech told her he was not entirely sober.
Elizabeth felt a knot in her chest loosen, then tighten again in an entirely different way. She offered him a small, genuine smile. “I am not afraid of you, Mr Darcy.”
He looked at her then. A faint, rueful smile touched his mouth, and for a moment the dimples she had glimpsed only once before appeared—brief, disarming, heartbreakingly young.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I am aware of that.”
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but it was heavy with everything neither of them had yet said.
Elizabeth lifted her chin a fraction. “Very well. You have said your piece. Now I should like to say mine.”
He inclined his head, waiting.
She drew another breath, gathering every scrap of courage she possessed. “I was not unaffected by what happened in the library.”
His eyes sharpened on her face.
“But nothing can come of it,” she continued, her voice flat though her pulse raced. “Our situations in life are too far apart. Our professional relationship, the people who depend upon both of us... we cannot risk any entanglement. It would be reckless and foolish, and I have never been either.”
He nodded slowly. “I know, Miss Bennet. I know everything. You have my word as a gentleman that you may trust me completely.”
“I do trust you.” The words came out quieter than she intended. She took one step closer, then another, until only a few feet separated them. “That is why I am going to ask you something I never thought I would ask anyone.”
He straightened, suddenly alert. “Ask anything.”
Elizabeth held his gaze. Her heart hammered so violently she was certain he must hear it.
“A kiss.”
There, she said it. She could not take it back now.
For a long moment Mr Darcy did not move. He simply looked at her, his dark eyes wide with disbelief. The firelight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.
“Elizabeth...” Her Christian name slipped from him, raw and unguarded.
She did not correct him.
He took one slow step towards her, then another, until the space between them had almost vanished. He lifted his hand—slowly, giving her every opportunity to retreat—and brushed his fingertips against her cheek with a reverence that made her breath catch.
“Are you certain?” he whispered.
She nodded, unable to speak.
He searched her face for another heartbeat, then lowered his head.
The first touch of his mouth was impossibly gentle—a mere brush of lips, warm and tentative, as though he still feared she might vanish.
Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered closed. She felt the faint tremor in his hand where it rested against her cheek, the careful restraint in every inch of his body as he held himself back from taking more.
Then the kiss deepened—still slow, still tender, but no longer tentative. His lips moved against hers with hunger, tasting, savouring. She felt the warmth of his breath, the faint trace of brandy, the way his other hand came up to cradle the back of her head with exquisite care.