Chapter 36
Darcy dismissed his valet after he changed the dressing on his almost healed wound and, already changed for the night, lay down on the bed, closing his eyes. The peace and quiet in his room were everything he wanted after such a trying evening.
No — not everything. Nor had the evening been wholly trying. Most of it had been rather pleasant, and his wife had conducted herself admirably, even as she bore Mrs Bennet’s constant attacks.
That woman was as provoking as she was ridiculous.
She had tormented Elizabeth since her infancy and even now continued to treat her with rudeness and disrespect, criticising her in front of her guests, in her own home — their home.
And yet she still expected Elizabeth to purchase her a new carriage and provide for her should Mr Bennet die first. How stupid she was!
He knew Elizabeth had paid for all her sisters’ and mother’s expenses in London — an act of generosity that the woman did not deserve. And yet, instead of gratitude and humbleness, she responded with impudence and audacity!
How did Mr Bennet allow that woman to force her way into his life, his house?
How did he allow her to torment his own daughter, the daughter of a woman he had truly loved?
But why should he be surprised by Mr Bennet’s actions when his own father had allowed a scoundrel to worm himself into his life, almost ruining the entire family and the legacy of many generations?
Did grief weaken all men? Did they so easily lose their strength, their judgment, their common sense?
When a woman lost her husband, she took the burden of caring for her remaining family on her shoulders.
When a man lost his wife, he searched for a way to forget her and maybe replace her.
Was a man’s apparent power actually weaker than a woman’s apparent fragility?
Sleep did not come easily. He swung his feet off the bed and sat on the edge.
Maybe he would pour himself another drink, though he had already had one too many and taken the draught his man had prepared.
He wondered where those philosophical musings had come from.
Perhaps it was his way of avoiding thinking about what he truly desired — to see the woman who was sleeping a few steps away. To touch her. To kiss her…
There, he had just proved to himself that he was weak too, but at least he had the common sense to acknowledge his faults.
He paced the room silently for a while, then moved closer to the adjoining door and stopped, listening.
There was silence on the other side — of course there was.
It was long past midnight, and Elizabeth must be tired.
If she were awake, he would only say good night and compliment her on the successful evening.
He had done so a few times already, but she seemed to enjoy his praise, even though she proclaimed otherwise.
Her becoming blushes, her sparkling eyes, and the little smile that twisted her lips belied her words.
He put his hand on the latch, then stopped. What was he doing? Should he not knock first? But if he did and she was asleep, the knock would wake her.
Surely she would not mind if he stepped in for a moment.
She had explicitly told him he should not be concerned about disturbing her, and if he wished for something, he should ask.
Of course, she was too na?ve, too innocent to realise the effect of her invitation on him.
He would not take advantage of her generosity, but he could heed her words — it should be enough encouragement for him to enter.
He did so, slowly, with stealthy footsteps, holding his breath.
The room was not completely dark, bathed in the soft glow of the embers in the fireplace and a sliver of moonlight, as she had gone to bed without drawing the heavy curtains closed.
She was sleeping on her side, and her form made his heart beat wildly.
Her loose hair spilt across the pillows, and her body was wrapped in the sheets, except for one dainty foot and milky ankle that had escaped their confinement.
Captivated, he gazed at that spot, dumbfounded by his overwhelming response and the lava that seemed to have replaced his blood and burned him from the inside.
What on earth had happened to him? He was a man of eight-and-twenty, with enough knowledge, albeit lacking some experience of ladies’ company, not a schoolboy charmed by his first love!
Why was he acting so ridiculously? Better said, why was he standing there, frozen like a fool in the middle of the room, staring, incapable of moving closer to the bed or returning to his own?
No, he was wrong yet again — he was indeed a foolish schoolboy, charmed by his first love. His first and only love. That was the honest answer. He had never experienced such feelings, such desires that tested his control, his self-imposed restraint, simply because he had never been in love before.
The realisation filled his heart with joy and liberated his feet — which was no better than their previous state, as now they had become unsteady; they seemed to be someone else’s limbs.
He slowly took a step, then another; her body shifted, as if she could feel his gaze.
Her gestures caused the sheets to slide from her, and he hurried to stop them and gently placed them back around her.
As if of their own will, his hands reverently lingered.
In her sleep, her beautiful face looked serene, younger, more fragile, and more enchanting than ever. A lock of her hair brushed against her cheek, and on impulse, he stretched out his hand and removed it. He was only inches away, and his admiring eyes greedily caressed her.
The passion, the desire, built so suddenly within him that he stepped back, afraid to be so close to her. His brain, hazy from drink and giddy from yearning, protested, begging him to satiate his thirst, only for a minute, only a drop.
But he stepped back, his reason stronger than his impulse. He was in her room, without her knowledge, watching her in her slumber, touching her without her consent. How could he be so callous? Was he certain she would accept his presence willingly?
He took another step back, his eyes still arrested by her.
“Fitzwilliam?”
Her sweet voice, soft but a bit husky from sleep, with a trace of confusion and wonder, surprised and moved him at the same time.
“Forgive me, I did not mean to…I just came to see whether you were well… Forgive me for imposing on you.”
She raised herself up into a sitting position in the middle of the bed. The sheets fell from around her as she did so, and her nightgown glided down one shoulder, revealing her delicate neck, straining at his senses. The heat inside him became unbearable.
“You keep asking for forgiveness, and I am not sure why,” she said teasingly. “Would you not sit for a moment to explain?”
Reluctant yet delighted, his hesitant steps brought him back to her.
This time, he did not doubt her approval.
He glanced about briefly for a seat, until she tapped on the mattress, inviting him to sit on the edge of the bed.
She was willingly offering her company, her nearness, her smiles, the warm sparkles in her eyes, her scent, the vision of her soft, creamy skin.
He cleared his throat and swallowed a few times, forcing a smile.
“I hope you are not sorry that I insisted on you staying longer,” she said. “If you would rather go to sleep, I would not mind.”
He paused a moment, gazing into her eyes. “I would rather not sleep for an entire year in exchange for the pleasure of staying with you.”
She gazed at him, surprised, then let out a nervous laugh.
“You have become quite proficient at giving compliments, Mr Darcy.”
“You have said that before, and once again I assure you I am being nothing but honest. I am really, truly, deeply happy to just sit here with you, Elizabeth,” he said.
“So am I,” she answered timidly, her cheeks crimson. “In fact, I was not sleeping…I mean, I was, but I woke up when you entered.”
Now his astonishment was complete. “Were you playing with me, then?”
“No! Not at all…I did not know what to say and…I hoped that if you believed I was asleep, you would come closer…”
Her honesty, her candour, were beyond his expectations, and he did not know how to respond. His mind was overwhelmed by powerful sensations, her closeness more intoxicating than any liquor.
“I did not come closer because I was not sure you wanted me here. I mean, I did, but then I stepped back.”
“I am glad you came…and…if you… I do not wish you to leave. You may stay, if you want… After all, we are married…” Her voice was so soft that he could hardly make out her words.
Yet her bright eyes, beseeching him shyly, her parted lips, and her tongue darting out to moisten them — that, he could understand.
His body and his mind both ached, demanding he acquiesce and take what she offered — take her, love her.
His hands cupped her burning face — or was it his hands that were burning? — brushing his thumbs over her lips.
“I have never wanted anything more in my life than to stay. I have never desired anything as I desire you. But this cannot be our first night together… We are both too tired, too distressed after that difficult dinner, and…we should not remember our first night together as the one that followed the argument with your stepmother. Our first night, our true wedding night, should be perfect… I shall make sure it is.”
“Oh…” she whispered, obviously disappointed.
He shifted even closer, his chest feeling the rise of her bosom to the rhythm of her shallow breaths, and his own heart seemed about to burst out of his chest to meet and move with hers.
“But, if you want, if you will allow me, I shall stay a little bit longer…” he whispered.
“I want you to stay as long as you want,” she repeated.
“I shall stay as long as I can without losing my mind completely,” he said.
He was now so close that his lips could touch hers.
His hands stroked her arms, then he gently guided them both down onto the pillows.
Her arms encircled his neck, then finally, blissfully, his lips touched, tasted, and savoured hers.
A moment, an eternity, passed before they finally separated.
He pulled away a few inches, searching her face, gazing at her beguiling eyes, then placed a few small kisses across her cheeks, her forehead.
The thirst he had hoped to gratify with that first kiss had only increased, becoming overwhelming.
“I must leave now, my love,” he said regretfully. “This very moment,” he added, but kissed her again, her arms holding him tight until he pushed back once more and gently removed himself from her embrace.
“I adore it when you call me your love,” she said, her smile as bright as her eyes. “Nobody has ever called me that, and I am glad you are the first. You said it this morning, in the library…”
“You heard? I am not sure how it slipped out… I did not intend to say it, not then, not like that, as I feared it might scare or displease or distress you…”
“No, it never displeased me…nor scared me. It did distress me, very much so, since I was not certain you meant it for me or not.”
“Now you must be sure I do mean it. And I must be certain I do not scare or displease you with what I say or do…”
He captured her lips one last time, then stood beside the bed, his hands holding hers, unwilling to let go.
“I shall leave you now, my beloved Elizabeth, and I shall see you in the morning.”
She nodded; her fingers grazed his as they separated, her eyes locked with his, and he walked backwards the few steps to the door. Then he stopped and caressed her with one last gaze, finally remembering to tell her what was long due.
“Before I leave, there is one more thing you must allow me to do, my love.”
“What would that be? And why would you need my permission when you already have it?”
“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you,” he whispered, then hurried back to his room before his resolve left him entirely, carrying with him the expression of heartfelt delight spread across her beautiful face.