Twenty-One #2
“Thank you for saving me from the deluge, Mr Darcy,” she said, smiling at him.
He inclined his head. “You are welcome, Miss Bennet.”
Mrs Reynolds had disappeared with Anne upstairs, and the rest of the servants went about their work. The entrance hall emptied. Elizabeth and Mr Darcy were left standing a few feet apart, both dripping, both breathing a little too quickly.
She turned towards the staircase.
“Elizabeth.”
Her name, spoken low, stopped her on the first step.
She turned back.
He stood where she had left him, the towel forgotten in his hands, rainwater still tracing slow paths down his throat. His eyes held hers with intensity.
“Later,” he said. Just that. One word, heavy with promise and restraint.
She nodded once, unable to trust her voice, and continued up the stairs.
In the privacy of her chamber, she peeled off the wet clothes with shaking fingers. The gown landed in a sodden heap on the floor. She stood before the looking glass in only her shift, the fine linen clinging to her damp skin.
She seemed... healthy.
The woman in the mirror had colour in her cheeks and a fullness to her figure that had been missing in Somers Town. Her breasts were small but rounded, her waist defined, her hips softly curved. The months under his employment had restored what poverty had taken. She was a woman, not a shadow.
More than that, she was a woman desired.
Her hand rose of its own accord, fingertips brushing the damp skin just above her heart. She could still feel the weight of his gaze from the entrance hall, the raw hunger in his eyes when he had seen her soaked and laughing. Her pulse hammered beneath her palm.
A slow, liquid heat bloomed low in her stomach, spreading downward until she was acutely aware of every inch of her body—the sensitive peaks of her breasts tightening against the wet linen, the faint ache between her thighs, the memory of his hands and mouth from that night in his chamber.
Later, she promised herself.
Closing her eyes, she let her mind wander to the press of his body against hers in the library, to the reverent way he had knelt before her, to the sound he had made when pleasure had torn through her. She let the heat build, let it coil tighter, let herself feel the full weight of wanting him.
When she opened her eyes again, the woman in the glass looked back with new awareness—not shame, not fear, but a decision: she wanted him.
Dinner had become exquisite torture.
Every evening Elizabeth sat at Mr Darcy’s left in the long dining room, the polished mahogany stretching between them like a polite barrier.
The servants moved with silent efficiency, laying courses she barely tasted.
It was only the two of them, separated by silver and crystal and the weight of everything they did not say in front of the footmen.
Mr Darcy was unfailingly courteous. He asked after Anne’s progress, commented on the weather, enquired whether the library was up to her standards. His voice was low, measured, perfectly controlled.
But his eyes betrayed him.
They lingered on her mouth when she spoke. They traced the line of her throat when she reached for her wine. They darkened when she laughed at some small remark he made. And every time their gazes met across the candles, the air grew thick with anticipation and the promise of later.
She excused herself every night at the same hour, rising with impeccable propriety so the servants would witness it.
“If you will excuse me, Mr Darcy. I find I am rather tired.”
He always stood. “Of course, Miss Bennet. Goodnight.”
The footmen saw her leave. Propriety was preserved.
That night she waited.
At one o’clock, when the house had settled into its deepest silence, she slipped from her chamber in her nightgown, barefoot on the cool corridor floor. She moved like a shadow down the route to the master’s chamber.
He was waiting.
She had barely raised her hand to knock when the door opened wide. Mr Darcy pulled her inside with one smooth motion, kicking the door shut behind her. The click of the latch sounded like surrender.
His mouth was on hers before she could draw breath.
The kiss was hungry, urgent, all the restraint finally snapping.
He pressed her back against the door, one large hand cradling the back of her head while the other slid down her side, gripping her hip and pulling her flush against him.
She gasped into his mouth and he took the sound, deepening the kiss, his tongue stroking hers with deliberate, devastating skill.
Elizabeth’s hands fisted in his shirt. He was in only shirtsleeves and breeches, waistcoat discarded, cravat gone. The heat of his body burned through the thin linen. She could feel how hard he was, the rigid length of him pressing insistently against her belly.
He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down her throat, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
One hand slipped between them, sliding under the hem of her nightgown.
His fingers found her already slick and ready.
He groaned against her neck as he stroked her, slow and firm, circling the sensitive bud at her centre until her hips jerked against his hand.
“Elizabeth...” The word was rough, almost reverent.
She made a wanton little sound, half gasp, half moan, and he rewarded her by sliding one long finger inside her, then two, curling them with devastating precision while his thumb continued its relentless rhythm.
Her head fell back against the door with a soft thud. “Please—”
He dropped his head lower.
Through the thin fabric of her nightgown, he took the peak of her breast into his mouth, sucking hard.
The sharp pleasure bordered on pain, then melted into liquid heat.
She cried out, the sound raw and unguarded.
He soothed the sting with his tongue, gentle laps that made her tremble, then sucked again, harder, drawing another broken moan from her throat.
His fingers never stopped their steady movements between her legs, with deep, curling strokes that drove her mad. She was panting now, hips rocking helplessly against his hand, her fingers tangled in his hair.
He switched to her other breast, sucking and licking until both peaks were tight and aching. The dual assault, his mouth on her breast, his fingers deep inside her, pushed her relentlessly towards the edge.
When her pleasure came, it was with a soft, shattered cry. Her body clenched around his fingers, waves of pleasure crashing through her so intensely her knees buckled. He held her upright against the door, murmuring praise against her skin as she trembled through every pulse.
When the last tremor faded, he slowly withdrew his fingers. He brought them to his mouth and licked them clean, his eyes never leaving hers.
“I have been starving for this,” he said, voice low and rough with need.
Elizabeth laughed; breathless, incredulous, delighted. The sound was pure joy. She took his hand and led him to the great four-poster bed.
She pushed him gently until he sat on the edge. Then she knelt between his spread thighs.
His breath hitched as she unfastened his breeches with trembling fingers. When she freed him, he was hot and heavy in her hand, leaking at the tip. She looked up at him through her lashes.
“May I?”
“God, yes.”
She stroked him cautiously, experimenting. She gasped when he twitched in her hand, and he laughed. She leaned down and licked the drops from the tip of his length. It tasted salty, but not unpleasant. She took him into her mouth, her hand holding the base.
The sound he made was raw, broken. His hand came to her hair, not guiding, simply holding on as though she were the only solid thing in the world.
She explored him slowly at first—licking, tasting, learning what made his hips jerk and his breath stutter.
Then she took him deeper, hollowing her cheeks, using her tongue on the sensitive underside.
Mr Darcy was losing control. His thighs trembled beneath her hands. His breathing grew ragged. “Elizabeth—”
She hummed around him and he cursed softly, the sound sending a fresh wave of heat between her legs.
Just as she felt him nearing the edge, he pulled her up with gentle urgency. He kissed her deeply, tasting himself on her tongue, then guided her onto the bed beside him. He settled on his back, breathing hard, and she watched as he took himself in hand, stroking once, twice —
With a low, guttural groan he spent across his stomach in hot pulses, his body shuddering with release.
For a while they simply breathed together.
Elizabeth reached for the cloth by the basin. She cleaned him with gentle, careful strokes, her touch tender. When she was finished, she leaned down and kissed him squarely on the mouth, licking his lips once, slowly, before pulling back.
“Goodnight, Mr Darcy,” she whispered.
She slipped from the bed, retrieved her nightgown from the floor, and pulled it over her head. She looked back at him once, and committed the sight to her memory: his tousled hair, his eyes dark with satisfaction, and then she was gone.