Chapter 4
FOUR
Darcy got up and motioned his cousin out into the hallway and then his study. Without any preamble he took the Box out of one of the drawers and slid it towards his closest confidant. He walked away to pour himself more scotch and to glare out of the window into the dark street.
“What is this?” the lid opened with a quiet squeak.
“A delivery from Mrs Morley.”
“More goods to sample?” Fitzwilliam quipped.
Darcy snorted. Close enough….
“Ah, Ovid - you always admired well read women.” He let out a low whistle as he took out the packet of sheaths. “By God, Darcy, you must have left quite an impression!”
“She enjoys humiliating me…” he mumbled as he turned towards his cousin.
“She knows you…” He raised the vial with the sandalwood scented oil “…Intimately.”
Darcy scoffed. He had no reservations about showing this to Fitzwilliam. Only God knows how many such boxes were sent to men who failed to satisfy her…
Fitzwilliam pulled out the bottle and the little jar. “I did not know you needed these.” he said with raised eyebrows.
Darcy scowled and toyed with his glass.
“After all, nothing says ‘I think you are a fine gentleman’ like whale vomit…”
That remark made him roll his eyes as he turned back to the window. “She’s treating me like some incompetent actor in a botched stage play!”, he bellowed indignantly.
“Well, then she wants more of it, cousin, because this” Waving the note in front of him “is an invitation.”
Darcy swirled the drink in his hand threatening to break the glass with the force of his grip.
His eyes raised back to Fitzwilliam filled with horror: “Splendid! She is a doxy!” The words left him like a curse, half-spat, half-choked.
He downed the liquid in one swallow, slamming the glass down with force.
“I must return to Pemberley, Richard, it has been long overdue.”
Fitzwilliam gave him a sardonic smirk “Let’s join the ladies.”
* * *
Fitzwilliam’s words still echoed in his mind long after his cousin had departed, leaving Darcy alone with the remnants of their conversation. An invitation.
It was absurd. An insult. A mockery of everything he was, everything he stood for - was this her opinion of him? A man who keeps a mistress, a man who pays for services?
He threw himself into his chair, the arms gripped with white-knuckled force. Shooting a look towards the box again, he angrily picked out the latin volume and started to leaf through; he noticed a corner of one page bent, where a portion of the text was underlined in lead.
His eyes skimmed the page, following the inky lines of Latin script. The passage was one he recognized, even in his current state, the words slashed at him with brutal clarity.
He who has gained kisses, if he cannot gain the rest as well, will deserve to lose even that which has been granted him. How much is there wanting for unlimited enjoyment after a kiss!
His grip on the book tightened.
Oh shocking! ‘Twere downright clownishness, and not modesty.
The breath left his lungs in a slow, shuddering exhale.
Call it violence, if you like; such violence is pleasing to the fair; they often wish, through compulsion, to grant what they are delighted to grant.
His vision blurred. His hand clenched at his side. His pulse roared in his ears.
Whatever fair one has been despoiled by the sudden violence of passion, she is delighted at it; and the chief is as good as a godsend.
He shifted in his chair, the blood angrily pulsing in his head suddenly moved to his loins.
“Do not dare to stop, Darcy!” Those words, those eyes… the line between disgust and desire was paper thin.
What else would she grant me? Would she kneel and service me like a painted doxy? - he thought while covering his eyes with his left forearm. His right hand went down to adjust his trousers - or so he thought while that involuntary movement was taking place.
He squeezed his eyes shut and let himself imagine.
The proper, accomplished Elizabeth, on her knees before him, licking her lips slick and turning deeper red as she held him between her teeth.
Her body naked but for her hands on her breasts - offering them to him, knees shamelessly spread apart.
If she was determined to behave like a doxy, then by God, he would treat her as such! !!
He opened his breeches and gripped his member tightly, he stroked leisurely as he imagined rubbing himself upon the proud swell of her breasts, circling around her nipples, wantonly pricked - her body leaned forward, head fell backwards, her lips parted…
His breath turned ragged. His hand picked up a tempo.
She would take him in her mouth. She would look up at him, wide-eyed and brazen, taking him deeper, letting him feel the heat, the wetness, the obscene pressure of her tongue.
She would struggle, just a little, but she would not pull away.
He would thread his fingers into her hair and hold her there.
He groaned, his hips shifting.
He could see his seed on her chin, on her chest, dripping on his rug… this was heaven! This was hell…. he opened his eyes, gasping for air. He looked down - and there it was, his wild oats on his rug - he would get her to clean it!
He chuckled to himself, the softening member still in his hand, caressing it lovingly with his thumb. Coaxing the last shudders of pleasure from his languorous body.
It should have been enough.
But it was not.
He closed his eyes again, summoning her form, working in front him, on her hands and knees - putting the mess she made to right. Her breasts moved vigorously. The grip on his cock tightening as he felt it stiffening again, eager and insatiable.
He towered above her, surveying her form from every wicked vantage, her brow furrowed in concentration, her tongue licking her lips, the long line of her back deliciously raising in the curve of her arse and yes, her own arousal glistening impertinently where her thighs met.
The rod jumped and shuddered of its own volition, “Not here, not like this -you will follow me to my chamber.” Darcy groaned as he fastened his breeches back up.
The whole way he imagined Elizabeth in front of him, crawling upstairs, her hips swaying, her eyes occasionally connecting with his, full of lust!
He did not ring for his valet, he could not bear to part from the vision of her. The only light in his room was the fireplace, he imagined what the warm glow would do to her curves - the strongly lit posterior and her head hidden in the dark…
His hands removed his clothes deftly; he made a pile of them, right where he stood at the door.
His eyes were shut, the waves of his desire crashing inside him.
Even his nipples were pricked up with excitement.
He would put Elizabeth to work for his pleasure, and let his mind run with whatever it found pleasing - just like she did when putting together that box of filth.
He exhaled sharply, pushing his breeches down at last, letting them drop.
His hand found himself again, wrapping around the aching weight of his need.
He stroked as he pictured her, imagining how she might gasp if he reached between her legs, how wet she would be.
He could hear her moaning under his touch.
The slap of his hand on her buttock echoing through the room as she gasped in surprise “We are not here for your pleasure, Elizabeth.” he smirked as he watched her rub the reddened area.
He stroked himself in slow, deliberate pulls.
“Now up,” he said smoothly, “To the window, fix the curtains.”
In his mind, she stood, slowly, sensually, knowingly. The way her muscles shifted, the slight roll of her hips, she was performing for him.
“Clever girl! Very obliging!” He imagined stepping behind her, pressing her naked body against the cold windowpane, gripping her hips, sinking his nails in her skin, raking upwards, forcing her to lean forward and then cupping the softness of her breasts in his hands, playing with them, fondling them.
The grip on himself tightened.
His breathing grew laboured.
“Now to the bed!” He ordered, whispering ominously into her ear. “Fluff up the pillows.”
She fluffed up the pillows, bent over the bed just enough to make his mouth water.
“Wicked Woman! Bending to my will so prettily…” His voice was rough.
His rhythm picked up.
He was close. So close.
He grasped a handful of her hair, twisting it in his fist, pulling her head back just enough.
“Such a dutiful little creature,” he murmured, watching the way her lips parted, her lashes fluttering.
He rolled onto his side, gripping a pillow, pressing it down, thrusting against it, as he imagined the way she would feel under him—covered, contained, taken.
In and out he went, her warmth wrapped around his cock. All he could see now was darkness, his movements furious, he held his breath, he thought he might die…
Then came the glorious release, he let out a loud groan, and a low chuckle between his ragged breathing. Darcy collapsed onto his ruined pillow, body languid with pleasure.
He had taken her. Bent her to his will. Spilled into her with absolute abandon. “You will have to deal with the consequences after this, Elizabeth!” he muttered, his voice low, smug, satisfied; yet knowing it was a hollow threat, knowing it was a fantasy she would never grant him.
His eyes flew open as he heard her laugh.
The empty chamber stared back at him. His pillow. His sheets. His cock, softening in the mess he had made.The only consequences to deal with were his own. A groan of horror rose in his throat.
He sprang out of the soiled bed - he would not, could not call a servant. He lifted the pillow with two fingers and flung it to the fire. He stood there watching the damning evidence curl and furl into black ash, the stench of burning feathers and silk forcing his nose to wrinkle.