Chapter 31 #2
Colonel Fitzwilliam ignored her. “Darcy,” he said, “I have been all over for you.” Behind him, crowded into the tiny vestibule, stood a half dozen uniformed officers with grim countenances, grasping the hilts of their swords.
“Not only has our friend deserted his post in the north, but he has left several debts of honour in his wake. I have been charged with returning him to his regiment.”
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth. Mr Wickham may have been unscrupulous and dissolute, but in her worst dreams she had not expected he would become a deserter, an offence that was punishable by hanging; at the very least he would be painfully and publicly flogged for insubordination and dishonourable behaviour.
Darcy offered his cousin a curt inclination of his head, then turned to Lydia, whose countenance exhibited only sullenness rather than any degree of concern. “Mrs Wickham,” he said, “you are in luck. These fine gentlemen have come to assist you in locating your husband.”
It was nearly ten o’clock at night, and Elizabeth was seated at Darcy’s pianoforte, endeavouring to distract herself from the chaos of Gracechurch Street by teaching herself to play a concerto by Haydn.
Darcy lounged upon the couch, watching her with an intensity that made more than her countenance flush with warmth.
Mrs Lawrence was there as well. She and Lady Carlisle had claimed another set of sofas on the far side of the room, where they appeared wholly engrossed in conversation.
The two had been as thick as thieves since they departed Cheapside nearly six hours ago and their delight with one another’s society showed no sign of waning.
Their joint consumption of two pots of tea, a snifter of brandy, and several plates of chocolate biscuits after supper had cemented their newfound friendship.
At one point they had put their heads together and giggled like schoolgirls until the countess had lost her composure entirely and expelled tea from her nose.
Darcy had gawked at their antics, but Elizabeth had hidden her smile behind her hand.
The ladies exuded cheerfulness—an emotion she had come to understand Lady Carlisle had not experienced for many years.
Elizabeth hit a discordant note, huffed her displeasure, and ceased playing. She was too distracted to master the more complex chords and was growing irritated with her inability to execute even the more basic fingering of the piece with any sort of proficiency.
Darcy made his way to her side and lowered himself onto the bench, sitting so close to her that his coat sleeve brushed her arm. Without comment, he offered her a glass of madeira, which she accepted with a grateful turn of her mouth.
His fingertips lingered longer than necessary on the glass, purposely grazing her own.
That he would dare to behave so brazenly in front of his aunt and Bingley’s both surprised and amused her.
He relinquished the glass to her, and she took a slow, measured sip of wine as the corners of her mouth lifted in the hint of a teasing smile.
She took another sip, then offered the rest to Darcy, who promptly set the glass atop the pianoforte.
“I believe a change of scenery is called for,” he informed her.
“Perhaps a walk through the solarium. It will do both of us a world of good. You have been sitting too long in one attitude.”
Elizabeth glanced at the two ladies whispering together across the room and shook her head, marvelling at their complete disregard for their charges.
“And what of our chaperons?” she enquired archly.
“Though they appear oblivious to our existence for the moment, at some point they will have exhausted every topic of conversation and realise we are missing.”
Darcy chuckled. “They really are awful chaperons.” He extended his hand to her and rose from the bench. “Come. Let us test our theory, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth slipped her hand into his and stood. “And what theory is that, Mr Darcy?”
“The theory that both aunts are so engrossed with each other that they will not even notice our leaving the room.”
As it turned out, Lady Carlisle and Mrs Lawrence did notice their leaving the room and called out to them just as the couple set foot in the hall.
Darcy froze, but Elizabeth pushed him in the direction of the solarium with a giddiness she could not contain.
He grabbed her hand and they sprinted down the hall, only slowing their pace once they were inside the enclosed glass room.
Because it was night-time, there were no candles lit, but a low fire crackled in the grate of a large marble fireplace set against one of the interior walls, providing an additional heat source for the abundance of flowering plants and fruit trees within.
With a small, private smile, Darcy guided Elizabeth deeper into the room and away from the door.
His strides were even and sure, despite having to navigate the dimly lit interior.
They moved through a maze of mysterious, animated shadows cast by the myriad of exotic plants housed within. Their object was an upholstered chaise piled with pillows and thick rugs along the far wall. Darcy settled himself upon it and tugged Elizabeth onto his lap with a playful grin.
She was startled, but by no means disconcerted by his boldness.
She felt only a sense of warmth and contentment, and a lovely ache blooming in the pit of her stomach—the desire their ever-increasing familiarity never failed to arouse in her whenever they touched.
Sighing, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed a tender kiss to his jaw, and laid her head upon his shoulder.
“How dearly I love you,” she told him softly as her fingers toyed with the artful arrangement of knots on his cravat.
“As I love you.” His voice was pitched low, but she could hear the adoration in his tone as he spoke the words, and an underlying note of satisfaction.
She smiled and nudged his chin with her nose.
He responded by tilting his face towards hers and capturing her lips in a kiss as sweet as the scent of the flowers filling the room.
She answered him in kind, and Darcy gradually deepened their kiss.
Memories of their sensual interlude in the music room intruded, and Elizabeth felt a sudden rush of emotion for this man who not only loved her so deeply, but constantly and without reserve.
To her surprise, Darcy’s hands did not roam her body as they had the other night while they kissed; instead, his thumbs drew slow, lazy circles upon her back and her thigh as he held her.
The sensation was heavenly, but the exquisite gentleness of his ministrations ignited a spark within Elizabeth that was gradually fanned to a fire.
Desperate to experience the same delicious intensity of pleasure she had felt with Darcy days before, she shifted in his lap.
Immediately, Elizabeth sensed a shift in their dynamic.
Darcy’s careful, well-honed control ebbed.
His hands travelled to her waist, then her ribs as his fingers sought purchase within the folds of her gown, urging her closer.
His breath hitched as she complied; but her skirts were voluminous and multi-layered—far more so than the simple nightshift and robe she had worn in the music room at Darcy House—and she soon found her legs hopelessly tangled in a mass of sprigged muslin.
It was frustrating and ridiculous and not at all what she had intended.
Elizabeth could not help herself—she started to laugh.
With a rueful laugh of his own, Darcy withdrew from their kiss, laid his forehead upon her shoulder, and exhaled heavily as his hands came to rest upon her hips.
“It is just as well. Her ladyship and Mrs Lawrence are bound to come in search of us sooner than later. All things considered they have been surprisingly generous in their allowances.”
“They have,” Elizabeth agreed, running her fingers through his hair, “and it would not do to repay their generosity by shocking them unnecessarily.”
Darcy lifted his head and hummed contentedly, approving of her attentions. “Indeed.” His hands caressed her hips, then slid to her waist. “You are lovely,” he murmured, “and too tempting for your own good.” His hands drifted higher.
“And you, sir,” she said with undisguised affection, “are incorrigible.”
However much Elizabeth wished they could continue in this delightful manner indefinitely, the likelihood of being discovered was too great.
Should they be caught in such a scandalous embrace, Elizabeth felt certain she would die of mortification.
Rather than tempt fate, she kissed Darcy chastely, untangled her skirts, and rose from his lap.
He did not permit her to go far. He stood, enfolded her in his arms, and repaid her kiss with another—a slow, sensuous press of his lips that served to undermine Elizabeth’s resolve to be good.
“Thank you,” he said as her hands returned to his hair, seemingly of their own volition.
His eyes were hooded, glossy, and dark and entirely focused upon her with a tightly reined ardency she desperately wished she could feel the full effect of, for better or worse.
“For what?” she enquired, trailing one finger along the contour of his ear.
Darcy’s eyelids drifted closed. He expelled an erratic breath and said with some effort, “For permitting me to pretend you are already my wife, and for trusting me enough to remember to stop because you are not.”
“I do trust you,” she all but whispered, “I trust you with my heart, and I appreciate your determination to remain a gentleman and treat me with care. But I long for the day when you will cast aside your gentlemanly restraint and your proper behaviour and will not stop.”
He exhaled harshly and rested his forehead against hers, taking a moment to compose himself. The scent of his breath was sweet, like the wine they had consumed in the music room. “I wish to God I did not have to return you to Bingley tonight.”
“Then take me to Pemberley tomorrow,” she said against his lips, “and make me your wife in three days’ time.”
“Elizabeth.” His pronunciation of her name was reverent, as was the kiss that followed.
With unexampled tenderness, he caressed the curve of her cheek, the column of her neck, and the hollow at the base of her throat.
His fingertips drifted along her collar bone—back and forth, over and over.
They continued thus until the sharp staccato of approaching footsteps intruded, penetrating the haze of their ardour with an acuteness that sent a ripple of panic through Elizabeth’s heart.
With an unintelligible oath, Darcy quickly strode several paces away, increasing the distance between them to one infinitely more proper.
Lady Carlisle entered the room a moment later. Elizabeth felt almost dizzy. She glanced at Darcy in alarm, but he was barely attending as he raked his fingers through his hair, attempting to coax it into some semblance of respectability, then tugged roughly at his coat. His back was turned.
Elizabeth quickly smoothed her skirts with slightly unsteady hands and breathed deeply, willing her flaming cheeks to cool as Darcy’s fastidious aunt crossed the room in good time.
Their eyes met, but instead of flagrant chastisement, Elizabeth was shocked to perceive a hint of diversion in the countess’s expression.
She did not know what to make of it and, while she felt some small measure of relief, her embarrassment at having been discovered by Lady Carlisle and the awkwardness attendant upon it was too severe to ignore.
Likely sensing her discomfort, Darcy returned to her and placed his hand on the small of her back for the briefest moment, a gesture likely meant to reassure her. “All will be well,” he murmured in her ear.
Lady Carlisle raised one perfectly sculpted brow and pursed her lips.
“Fitzwilliam George Darcy,” she said crisply.
“I expected far better behaviour from you, of all people.
You should consider yourself most fortunate that I and not Mr Bingley have come to retrieve poor Miss Bennet, or you would find yourself in an even more disadvantageous position, and quite possibly on the wrong end of a pistol!
“Now, set yourselves to rights and come to the music room directly. Miss Bennet’s sister and brother have arrived to collect her, and Richard is here as well.
He wishes to speak with you regarding a matter of some urgency.
” The countess clapped her hands together in rapid succession and both Darcy and Elizabeth flinched.
“Come, Darcy. Make haste. I really do not relish having to explain Miss Bennet’s absence to her relations. ”