Chapter Fifteen
“I SUPPOSE YOU must have done that to Richard,” Mr. Darcy was saying.
It had been quiet for some time. Quiet and a little strained, and Elizabeth had been drinking his drink and thinking that she knew why Richard had said the thing about her tasting like strawberries, when she knew she had not.
Of course, Mr. Darcy tasted like black-strap molasses and safety and salt.
And it was nice, having done that, quite nice to have him that way, to master him, to feel all of his concentration going to that one spot, the sensitive part of him that she had suckled and stroked with her lips and tongue, stimulated and teased, and then been rewarded with that somehow very welcome gush of his loss of control, and it had been good on her tongue. She had liked it.
“No,” she said. “No, he did it to me, but I never did that to him. Only you.”
Neither of them said anything about that, but she could feel it settle into the air in a way that they both liked.
It meant some part of her had been claimed by him, and they wished this, they both wished this, and she didn’t think it should matter, and maybe, deep down, it didn’t matter, not really, but it was still… they both liked it.
It was quiet for a long time after that, until he finally said, in a low and guttural voice, “I might be glad, too.”
She collapsed back on the couch next to him, and she put a hand to his chest. “You don’t have to say that for me. You don’t have to pretend to be worse than you are to make me feel better—”
“We are both very horrid, are we not?” he said. “We have only known of his death for hours, and we are already…”
“I did that,” she said. “We must blame me. You said that you would—”
Someone was trying the doorknob.
They both got to their feet, moving off the couch, turning to face the door.
“Hello?” called Mr. Darcy.
But there was the sound of a key fitting into the lock and the door opening, and they both looked to see that it was the servant from before, the one who had told them how to get to the east wing study.
“Ah, there you are,” said the servant. “You must have gotten turned around and accidentally locked in. His Grace is seeking you, as is his uncle Bishop Sulles. With me, if you please?”
She and Mr. Darcy exchanged a look. Then he looked down at his clothes, but they looked… fine, she thought.
He took off after the servant and she brought up the rear, and the servant led them through the house to a room where they found Neithern, Georgiana, Mr. Houseman, Caroline Bingley, and the man who must be Bishop Sulles waiting for them.
“They seem to have gotten locked into a sitting room, but I let them out,” said the servant.
Elizabeth was thinking about what it would have been like if the servant had come only ten minutes earlier, what the servant would have opened the door on. She felt herself flush furiously.
“You were with her?” said Georgiana. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“We were looking for you,” said Mr. Darcy, but unfortunately, his face seemed to have turned crimson as well.
Elizabeth decided to study her feet. It seemed the best course of action, she decided.
“Fitzwilliam, they are going to make me marry Neithern or possibly kill us all,” said Georgiana.
“And I don’t know what I want anymore. I do like Neithern, but this one says I have to be inseminated or something and I don’t think I like the sound of that.
” She pointed at Sulles. “So, tell them that we won’t say anything about Neithern and Houseman and everything else, would you, please? I wish to go home.”
“That’s what this is about,” said Mr. Darcy, his gaze darting between the men and settling on Sulles.
“We understand you know some very damaging information about our family,” said Sulles. “We can’t let you tell anyone about that, of course. If your sister marries into the family, it would hopefully mean that you would keep your mouth shut of it, for her sake.”
“I don’t know if I wish to marry anyone,” said Georgiana.
“Then you do not have to,” said Mr. Darcy. He turned to Sulles. “I have no intention of sharing any of your secrets.”
“And I’m just to take your word on that?” said Sulles.
“I’ve known for weeks,” said Mr. Darcy. “I haven’t told anyone about it yet.”
“Well, there is Miss Bingley here.”
“I tell you,” said Caroline hotly. “I found out about this on my own.”
“We should have been more careful that we weren’t being overheard, I suppose,” said Mr. Houseman. He caught Elizabeth’s gaze.
“I’m sorry,” said Elizabeth. She looked at Caroline. “You spied on us?” Truthfully, there had been enough spying on Elizabeth to last her a lifetime.
“You haven’t had any reason to tell anyone yet,” said Sulles.
“In fact, it would likely benefit Elizabeth if it was known,” said Neithern softly. “It seems that Mr. Darcy is loyal to her, first and foremost. So, if he has not chosen to tell the secret, it must be because she has told him not to.” He waited, looking at her.
“I don’t think there is any reason to say anything about it,” said Elizabeth. “I promised you, Your Grace, that I would not, and I have no reason to break my word.”
“You do, in fact,” said Mr. Houseman, eyeing her. “You could benefit the most from the truth coming out.”
“Well, it is not as if anyone would believe me,” said Elizabeth. “I cannot prove it.”
“There is the marriage certificate between your mother and the late duke,” said Neithern.
“Which is in your possession, not mine,” said Elizabeth. “You would fail to produce it if I made a claim. I have no way to prove it, as I say.”
“And if you did?” said Sulles, looking her over. “If you could prove it, would you?”
“No!” Elizabeth looked at all of them. “No, I tell you, I would not.”
“But it is somewhat worrying that no one has spoken to her,” spoke up Mr. Darcy, “even though she was promised some sort of compensation, some kind of money, as would befit the legitimate daughter of a duke.”
“I don’t even care about that!” said Elizabeth, shaking her head at Mr. Darcy.
Sulles lifted his chin, looking them both over, and he nodded slowly. “Yes, perhaps we can all simply trust each other.” He glanced at Caroline Bingley. “You, of course, will be happy enough to keep your counsel as long as you are married, is that not correct, madam?”
“That is why I did all this,” said Caroline.
Mr. Darcy shook his head. “This is your doing, Miss Bingley? Truly?”
“And you two have no reason to speak of anything that would harm the status quo,” said Sulles, looking at Neithern and Houseman.
He eyed Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth. “And if Mrs. Fitzwilliam only needs to be paid the money she was promised, then I shall make sure that is taken care of.” He smiled.
“I don’t think we need to trouble anyone else about this tonight, in fact. ”
Elizabeth wasn’t sure she liked the way Bishop Sulles was smiling, but then she’d heard nothing but very bad things about this man, she had to admit. “Wait,” she said, “who is going to marry Caroline?”
“Why, I am, of course,” said Sulles, still smiling very widely.
Elizabeth eyed Caroline.
Caroline, however, only lifted her chin, looking pleased.
“Fine,” said Mr. Darcy. “If that’s settled, then, I should like to take my sister home. She was never meant to be out this late.”
IT ALL CAME to pass the following morning as Mr. Darcy had said it would. He made a show of opening the letter with the news of the colonel’s death at breakfast.
When Elizabeth heard, she did excuse herself immediately, and Jane came after her.
Then, somehow, miraculously, tears came to her eyes, real tears, and she found herself sobbing in Jane’s arms with abandon.
She found herself thinking of the colonel, of the way he’d looked at her, the way his voice had gone husky when he’d told her that he wanted to marry her, of the way his mouth had felt the first time he had kissed her, of the way she had fit into his arms on their wedding night, and she…
She did miss him.
She sobbed for him, for her Richard, for the future they could have had, for everything that had gone wrong between them from the beginning, for the morass of circumstances that had both kept them apart and brought them together. She sobbed and sobbed.
Jane promised to write to their family about the marriage now, since Elizabeth was too distraught to do so, and it was all seemingly understood that Elizabeth would be traveling with the Darcys back to London.
That carriage ride, she sat on one side of the carriage with Miss Darcy’s maid (her own maid was traveling on the back of the carriage with the manservants, outside) and Mr. Darcy and his sister sat together.
Georgiana dabbed at her red eyes the entire journey, and Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy were back to their old habits of not looking at each other.
To his credit, he’d come to try to speak to her, but she’d denied him entrance to her room, unable to know what to say to him anymore.
She was badly confused. At any rate, she would have to be in mourning for her husband, so no matter how she had said drunkenly that of course she was going to marry him, no matter how they had bantered back and forth over that, none of it could happen any time soon.
She still should not have engaged in such intimacy with him.
She didn’t regret it, however.
She thought of it from time to time and it warmed her.
After she got back to Weythorn, and she was alone with no one but her servants and the black dresses she had made, sometimes she fantasized about it, about what was inside Mr. Darcy’s trousers, about the sleek warmth of the skin of him against her tongue, about the way he leaked salt when she dragged her tongue over the tip of him, about the noises he made when she sucked him into her mouth.
But sometimes, she thought of it and she only felt embarrassment, shame, and disgust. She felt guilt.