Chapter 4 #3
It is better this way, she told herself firmly.
Still, she could not help but feel the sting of disappointment.
Before she could dwell on it further, the bell chimed again.
“Mrs Morley, how fortunate you are here!” Lady Wistham’s voice rang through the shop, bright and familiar.
Elizabeth smiled despite herself and set the box aside. “How nice to see you again, Lady Wistham. Did the tonic help at all?”
The older woman glanced meaningfully at the apprentice still lingering nearby, and Elizabeth understood at once.
“This way,” she said, guiding Lady Wistham to the surgery.
Once the door was firmly shut, Lady Wistham sat down and asked “Did I see a footman of Darcy House? You are coming up in the world if you are supplying him.” she said with an appreciative gleam in her eye.
“Not quite; the order was declined.”
“He is a particular man… I have known the Darcys for years, I found a husband for Miss Darcy and I tried to find someone for him too, but he brushes off every lady he meets… One begins to wonder, if something wrong with him?”
Elizabeth smiled - then it struck her. “Mr Darcy was never married?” She exclaimed, incredulous…
Her mind reeled back to a vision of Fitzwilliam, breathless, smiling at her, his countenance almost giddy.
Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth… he had murmured, his hands cradling her cheeks and temples, his thumbs brushing over her skin as if she were some precious treasure, newly discovered after years of, Good God! Had he been pining for her?
The older woman shook her head and watched Elizabeth’s shock through narrowed eyes. “Some think he experienced a heartbreak when young, some think him too proud and some…”, she giggled, “…are wicked enough to question if he likes women at all.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips and moved their conversation to Lady Witham’s complaints.
Elizabeth could not help much - men generally did not pay attention to the pleasure of ladies, let alone men of science, so her search did not return much wisdom.
“…but in cases such as these, I do believe the problem often lies in one’s mind, not the body.
Maybe a change of scenery, or company might ignite the flame within you? ”
“Oh, do you mean to suggest I change my lover?”
“If nothing else improves the situation, yes, but maybe a little trip, unfamiliar environs might inspire both of you.”
“How about you, Mrs Morley? When will you find exciting company for yourself?”
“If you are willing to help me, I would hope to make a new acquaintance soon…” she tried to adopt a sly demeanor, but her crimson face spoiled the effect.
* * *
Elizabeth returned to her chamber with a composed smile, but her thoughts were spiraling. As she went to pick up a book, her hand brushed against the drawer, the one where she’d kept his letter.
She stared at it for a moment.
Then, with a resigned breath, she pulled it open and withdrew the single folded sheet. It was creased from where she had smoothed and refolded it before, but the paper still bore the faint scent of sandalwood.
She sat.
And read.
This time, not in search of flirtation or veiled innuendo. She let the words settle where they were meant to land.
“Should you have any practical need, you have only to send word.”
Her breath caught.
How had she seen this as anything other than what it was? Not a provocation. Not a plea for more. It was a shield. A promise. A quiet gesture of protection should the worst occur.
He wasn’t tempting her. He was telling her she would not be abandoned.
And in response…
She had sent him a box of…
I was a fool, she thought, as heat climbed up her neck, a monstrous, self-serving fool.
She had wanted to feel powerful. Untouchable. She had thought herself clever, brazen in her lust, in her need to prove she could be wanton without consequence. But Darcy had never treated her cheaply. Not even when he had her half-naked beneath his hands.
I mocked him.
The realization cut deeper than she expected. And there would be no apology. No gentle teasing to soften the sting. He had sent the box back. Untouched, unsigned, unwanted.
She pressed the letter to her chest, fighting a sudden, stinging wetness in her eyes.
She had used him. The one man who had looked at her, truly looked, and never turned away.
She placed the letter carefully back in its drawer, slower this time.
Later that evening, when she undressed, she paused before the mirror, her hand brushing lightly over her collarbone where his mouth had once lingered. Her eyes burned.
There was no pleasure to be found in remembering it now.
She turned away from the mirror, and climbed into bed with a heart too heavy for sleep.
* * *
Darcy pushed open the door of his rented room and stepped inside.
It was clean and inviting. White linen on the bed, flames flickering in the hearth, the air warm and thick with the scent of aged wood and beeswax.
Comfort. A welcome change after two restless nights on the road.
He had made it halfway to Pemberley, yet peace still eluded him.
He hoped that by distancing himself from London, by occupying his mind with Pemberley - he would manage to banish the thoughts of her. So far he had not succeeded…
His gaze landed on the bedposts, solid, carved with a curve at the top. Practical. Sturdy. A man could tie a pair of wrists to them.
The image struck him so vividly he nearly staggered. Elizabeth, wide-eyed, struggling at first before yielding, surrendering. Giving up sense to the pleasure of his hands, his mouth, his body. He could strip her of every last inhibition. Ride her senseless until she begged to become his wife.
His jaw clenched. “Stop it, Darcy,” he muttered through gritted teeth, raking a hand through his hair. “Why would you want to marry such a wench?”
And yet, the thought would not leave him.
He had imagined Elizabeth in improper situations before, more times than he cared to admit, but this was different.
Before, she had been a fantasy, untouched and untouchable.
Now, he knew the taste of her skin, the husky catch in her breath, the way her body moved against his when she surrendered to feeling.
What had happened between them was not lovemaking.
No, it had been something far cruder. Tupping. Rutting. He had taken her on the examination table of a damned apothecary, quick and fevered, and now he was doomed to carry the memory of her wrapped around him for the rest of his days.
And yet, somehow, he doubted he had left much of an impression.
* * *
Elizabeth was blinded by the splendour of Blenheim Palace and not in a pleasant way.
If she could not find amusement in the folly of others she would surely find it quite offensive.
This house served well as a display of power and resources (which she was not quite sure the owners truly possessed) but as a home it seemed uninviting and uncomfortable.
The footman, all too eager to recount the exorbitant prices of the fittings, paid little attention to the history of the place, reminding her far too much of Mr Collins, whose devotion to his noble patroness and all her riches was just as absurd.
She turned away from the footman’s endless prattle and let her mind wander to Darcy and his estate.
Pemberley, large, yes, but understated, elegant in a way that fits its surroundings rather than swallowing them whole.
She wondered what it looked like inside.
Did Mr Darcy, or his ancestors, favour gold leaf as much as the Earl of Marlborough?
The thought of him, standing amidst such vulgar excess, was so absurd she had to bite back a giggle.
They entered the library.
It was a room meant to impress rather than invite, like the rest of the house, a monument to wealth more than wisdom. But the books…
Her fingers trailed absently over a spine, catching on the raised lettering. For all its pretentiousness, this room held treasures.
And suddenly, a memory flickered, Netherfield’s library, a fire crackling low, Darcy seated beside it, utterly absorbed in his reading.
His brow furrowed, his fingers tapping against the binding of his book as he considered something deep and unknowable.
She thought him exceedingly handsome, yet she also heard him declare herself not handsome enough to tempt him to dance.
They sat there for half an hour in silence…
she recalled the way her eyes had been drawn repeatedly to his hands.
The way he held the book, fingers splayed over the cover, stroking absent-mindedly over the spine, his thumb tracing the edge of the pages.
Heat settled in her core and her dearest wish was to become that book and have his hands on her spine, caressing her with that same subconscious reverence.
When he licked his lips and turned a page…
Her breath caught. She pressed her lips together, inhaling sharply through her nose.
It was just a memory. Nothing more.
She turned away from the shelves, chin high, determined to think of something else.