Chapter 5
FIVE
Mr Darcy stepped into his library with purpose, his boots still caked in dust from the stable yard, the faint smell of horse clinging to his coat. He was not in the habit of bringing the stables indoors, but neither was he in the mood to suffer the fuss of his valet.
The mare they had such hopes for had failed to take. Again.
Three weeks ago, she had been the pride of his stables. Now, she was a costly disappointment. No signs of proper heat, no success with covering, and the grooms had begun to whisper about “her nature.” He had little patience for superstition. He needed answers.
He stood before the towering shelves, pulled down three volumes he suspected might offer insight, and retreated to the green leather armchair near the window.
The light was good here. A fire crackled behind him, and the scent of beeswax polish and old vellum softened the air.
Outside, a soft drizzle traced silver lines across the glass. A perfect afternoon for study.
He opened the first volume.
“Attend strictly to their pedigree and constitution, and with a keen eye examine their heads, neck and shoulder, forehand, ribs, sinews, back, loins, quarters, bone, feet and joints; and also to their temper and disposition. It is recommended to pair a low, short mare with a tall, powerful horse or vice versa, as you are then likely to get a desired proportion and a useful animal.”
His eyes lifted from the page, drifting toward the corner where the library steps waited.
He imagined her there; Elizabeth perched lightly, reaching for a book. Her body drawn long, the soft roundness of her bottom shifting beneath the muslin of her gown. The quick, darting glance she gave him over her shoulder. Half-challenge, half-invitation.
In his mind, he rose from his chair and walked to her.
“May I assist you?”
“I’m looking for the third volume of the Herbalist Atlas. But it doesn’t seem to be…”
“Four shelves down, Elizabeth.”
She bent.
His hands found her ankles, traced up the backs of her calves. She gasped, whether in protest or pleasure, he couldn’t tell, and turned to look at him with that expression. The one that always undid him.
He gripped her hips.
Lifted her skirts.
And pressed his face between the soft curves of her behind.
She moaned.
The image was vivid, layered with scent and texture, the sound of her breath catching in her throat, the feel of her thighs trembling against his cheeks. A fantasy, yes, but also a plan.
“The mare must be observed in season, which she will declare by frequent neighing, lifting her tail, and turning to the stallion with wanton glances…”
He chuckled under his breath.
Wanton glances indeed.
Darcy let the book fall closed gently, fingers tapping against the spine.
There was no shame anymore. No denial. He no longer recoiled from the visions she summoned, he collected them.
Polished them. Set them aside like fine wine to be uncorked and enjoyed, deliberately, indulgently, when the moment was right.
He left the library with a purposeful stride, the faintest whistle curling on his breath.
Dinner would be served soon. His bed would be warm.
And when the hour was late, and the house was quiet… He would have her slowly. Thoroughly.
Like the finest breeding stallion in Derbyshire.
* * *
Elizabeth had not expected such beauty.
She stood atop a rise, the wind teasing strands of hair from her bonnet, her skirts tugged by the breeze.
Below her, the River Dove coiled through the valley like a silver ribbon, flanked by steep limestone hills and shaggy green pastures.
The sun, veiled behind shifting clouds, cast the land in soft, changing light.
Birds called across the gorge, their cries echoing against the stone.
It was wild, quiet, and utterly unspoiled. A place to think. To feel.
She walked slowly along the footpath that wound beside the river, her fingers trailing along the low stone wall as if to anchor herself.
There were sheep scattered across the slopes, bells tinkling faintly as they grazed.
A pair of walkers passed her and nodded; she returned their greeting with a smile that felt thin, brittle.
Her boots crunched softly over gravel. Her thoughts churned.
She had come here to admire the view, to clear her head. But the moment she saw the land, she thought of him.
Of Darcy.
Not the man in London who had refused her, quietly, resolutely. But the man from Derbyshire, the one she had glimpsed in fleeting flashes. The one who spoke with grave gentleness, who touched her hand and made her blood catch fire.
She should not be thinking of him. She told herself that as her feet led her down the winding trail. She told herself she had no cause to ache. But the truth pressed against her ribs like a breath she could not release.
She paused where the path met the stepping stones. Water babbled across the smooth grey rocks, dancing around her ankles in its soft rush. She looked out across the river, then up, up to the trees clinging to the slopes, the sky above them pale with the promise of rain.
Would he walk here, too?
Had he stood by this river, his hands behind his back, his brow furrowed in quiet thought?
She closed her eyes.
And then… Foolish, absurd; she imagined him behind her. His arms sliding around her waist, his breath warm against her ear. He would kiss her slowly, indulgingly, as if the whole world had narrowed to the space between their mouths. Her fingers would clutch his coat. Her eyes would flutter shut.
He was not there.
Of course.
But her body remembered him and his heat. Her lips parted, and for a moment, she could feel him. Phantom and fever-dream, stitched into the shadows of this achingly beautiful place.
When she opened her eyes, she blinked back tears she would not let fall.
And walked on.
* * *
By the time she returned to the inn, twilight had deepened into dusk. Her boots were damp, her hem muddied, and her bonnet askew. But she’d walked until the ache in her chest dulled, and the sting of tears had long since dried in the wind.
She had not meant to mock him. Truly, she hadn’t. The box had been meant as an invitation, couched in jest, yes, but sincere in its own strange way. She had thought he might laugh. That he might come to her, eyes dark with understanding, and demand she explain every wicked thing she’d sent him.
But now… now she saw it differently. The letter, in hindsight, was not a flirtation. It was not an opening. It was a quiet kindness, a promise of discretion and care, in case she needed him.
And she had answered it with condoms and whale vomit and a copy of Ovid.
Her stomach turned.
It was not clever. It had not been bold. It had been… cruel.
She could see it now, how it must have looked to a man already struggling to retain his dignity. A man who had once loved her. Perhaps still did, and she had handed him an innuendo like a courtesan to her patron.
A flush of shame crept up her neck. Not for desiring him, but for making that desire into a farce.
She had meant to call him closer. Instead, she had driven him away for good.
She entered the modest bedchamber; warm, faintly scented of lavender and old timber. The maid had lit a fire and turned down the bed. A basin and ewer waited on the washstand, and next to them, a copper tub, half-filled and steaming.
Elizabeth exhaled. Her fingers were stiff as she untied her bonnet, then her stays, her layers falling to the floor in a whisper of fabric. She stepped into the bath and sank beneath the warmth with a low sigh, arms floating, head tipping back.
It was silent but for the occasional pop from the hearth.
Her body softened.
But her mind did not still.
The ghost of his hands haunted her, the press of fingers at her waist, the stroke of his palm at her back, the way he had looked at her, as if she were some sacred, unknowable thing. The feel of him had imprinted on her skin. The taste of his name lingered behind her lips.
She slid lower, water lapping at her collarbone. Her thighs tensed as her memory conjured him, his voice, his eyes… His breath on her neck. The heat of his tongue, trailing,
Her own fingers skimmed beneath the water, unbidden. She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t. But he had wanted her.
He had wanted her and denied himself, left her to twist in this torment while he walked away. Still, her body burned for him. The man he had been in those brief, searing moments when all pride fell away.
She traced a path along her inner thigh. Her breath caught. Her hand stilled.
This was foolish, almost humiliating.
And yet,
She curled her legs, leaned back. Closed her eyes. In her mind, it was his hand. His mouth. His voice.
“Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth…” Soft. Ragged. Devoted.
She gasped. Her fingers pressed. Her back arched. And when she shattered, quiet, stifled by her own bitten lip; It was more for longing and frustration, than desire.
The ache bloomed and broke.
She felt sorry - not for shame, but for the man she hurt and for the unbearable pleasure of what could never be.
* * *
Darcy lay sprawled across the velvet fainting couch in his chamber, one arm draped over his eyes, the other resting across his bare abdomen.
His shirt hung open, wrinkled, half-unbuttoned.
The fire had burned low, casting long shadows that flickered across the carved paneling of the room.
A single candle guttered on the writing desk, wax dripping slowly into the dish.
The surface of his skin still tingled; a quiet hum of satisfaction lingered through limbs and a heavy, molten weight in his belly.
Spent.
Utterly.
But not… satisfied.