Chapter VI #2
Had Charlotte had the mental capacity to think about it, she might have considered that this was her first proper kiss: her first kiss fired by mutual desire.
But she had not the room for reflection in this moment, she had only her instincts, which were strong and clear; she wanted to be as close to Colonel Fitzwilliam, in whatever way she could, as soon as she could.
She pulled at his lapels, grabbed at his hair as he tugged at her coat, impatiently undoing the buttons, then straining at the final one, which eventually burst off.
The isolation of where they were was intoxicating: no onlookers, no coachman, no servant or eavesdroppers.
They were half a mile from anyone, and anyone who came to find them would fail.
How they revelled in being lost. Her coat was on the ground, his jacket off, his shirt loose and neckcloth untied so that she saw the flush at the top of his chest. She felt his hand move down her back, drawing her still nearer to him.
His mouth was now at her neck, seemingly as eager as she was, needing to find and touch every inch of her that he could see, and those he could not.
They both knew what came next – no need for words, only instinct.
They both were thinking of skirts gathered, a shirt ripped open, the frantic need for something to lie down upon or press against. They might have.
They nearly did. One moment more, and they’d have fallen to their knees on that cold ground – pulling, unfastening, casting off – had not a few drops of rain started to fall.
Just one or two at first – Charlotte blinked as a raindrop fell on her forehead and ran down into her eye.
Heavier drops began to fall then, on Fitzwilliam’s chest or the back of Charlotte’s neck, more and more, marking the beginnings of a downpour.
They acted to douse the fire that had consumed them, for long enough to give them pause – to really consider what was next.
His hands stilled; she pulled her mouth from his, and they stood, heads close, holding on tightly in the rain, breathing and staring, daring the other not to stop.
But they were both too intelligent not to think of the consequences, now that their minds had a second to do so.
Practicalities that a moment before had been swept aside now resumed their significance.
The ground they were to use as a bed was fast becoming swamped.
The coats that lay on the ground were getting drenched.
They were expected back. They would be missed. They would be noticed.
A decision seemed to have been reached silently, and recognising a surrender of sorts, Charlotte flung herself into his chest, her head under his chin, in a gesture of affection over desire.
Her arms encircled him under his jacket, and he put his around her shoulders, kissing her head.
Locked there for a few minutes, both of them thought of all that had just happened, their brains fizzing with the unknown that was before them.
Then they slowly unwound, retrieved their coats and started to make their way back.
Fitzwilliam knew the route and, holding her hand, led her out, until she could see the gardens and the house beyond.
They started walking, but then, pelted by the rain, they half-ran, half-stumbled, their shoes soaked, their clothes dripping, hair slick on their faces, shivering with cold but laughing like children at their own disarray.
As they got closer to the house, Charlotte saw figures waiting for them. Alice was at the back entrance with some towels, looking concerned and then amused, and Darcy waited just behind her.
The pair sobered a little as they were greeted.
‘Quite the downpour,’ said Darcy stiffly.
‘Yes! We were the other end of the estate when it began. The run back has rather dishevelled us,’ Fitzwilliam replied, trying for nonchalance.
Darcy nodded and watched as Charlotte handed her wet, muddy coat to Alice. She was trembling now with the cold. With a backward glance at the colonel, she exited the room and made her way upstairs.
Fitzwilliam stood in front of Darcy, damp and undone, and felt oddly exposed. Darcy’s dark eyes were sharp and seemed to be probing him.
‘What?’
Darcy did not answer the question, instead stating, ‘You seem to have forgotten your injury.’
‘I—’ Fitzwilliam began, then faltered, looking down at his leg as if that would provide an explanation. ‘Yes, I suppose I did. It has not pained me all afternoon. I have not given it any thought.’
Darcy raised an eyebrow. ‘You must have had much to distract you.’
Fitzwilliam was about to reply when Darcy said quickly, ‘Richard, I—’ then hesitated and continued in another tone, ‘I will have them bring up hot water to your room.’
The moment Darcy’s footsteps faded down the hall, as if by dark magic, Fitzwilliam felt the pain returning to his leg – and in abundance.
He had put extra weight on it in the maze, using it to bear the weight of two bodies.
Perhaps he should have been more careful, but he had felt nothing in the moment, nor in the cold, giddy rush towards the house.
He winced as he began to ascend the stairs, and pain darted down his leg. But on balance, he thought with a grin, it was well worth it.