Chapter 7
SEVEN
The room was dark, still and quiet, heavy with the warmth of their bodies. Elizabeth stirred, shifting slightly, stretching her limbs. And then… something prodded her backside. Firm. Warm. Unmistakable.
She froze for a moment, blinking into the darkness.
Oh! She smiled.
Curious, she shifted again, just slightly, pressing back against it. Her lips parted as heat flared low in her belly. She turned to face him, finding him sleeping peacefully with a light smile on his face.
She looked at Fitzwilliam, studied him… She remembered how proud and dour he always seemed, how arrogant and selfish. Yet, he had brought her such pleasure, he had treated her with such respect. She had been someone’s wife before and had never experienced any of this.
Her hand moved to feel the muscles of his arms, the hair covering his chest, the stubble on his face.
His eyes opened, watching her.
She craned her neck to kiss him and he wrapped her in his arms, kissing her back with unveiled passion.
She wriggled herself out of his embrace, pushing him onto his back, lifting herself to kiss his cheeks, his ear and down his throat and chest as she climbed on top of him, straddling his hips and slowly rocking to rub herself against his member.
His hands shot to her waist and up, to feel the weight of her sublime breasts, to tease the tips of them, just as he had recently gleaned it brought her great pleasure.
She let out a moan, lowering herself above him; he moved to take one of the nipples in his mouth and his hand slid down the curve of her back to grope her buttock.
She squealed with delight and straightened herself up, raising just enough to guide him inside her.
He fell back into the linen, gripping her hips.
“It is too dark, I cannot see you,” he remarked petulantly, his breath ragged.
“Just feel me, Darcy,” she replied, breathless.
Her voice was undoing him, her moans, her self-assured movements. He feared getting too close to finishing.
“Elizabeth? Are you… I am too close,” his hands tried to still her.
She giggled but slowed down, grabbing his hand and maneuvering it to her centre.
He laughed, a breathless chuckle, but he obeyed. His fingers teased the little pearl, stroking, circling, playing, and she moved again. Her pleasure was driving him to madness.
She lifted her arms, gathering her hair, letting it spill over her shoulders. The strands cascaded over his chest, brushing his skin. She chuckled as she heard him inhale sharply and felt his member swell just a fraction more.
His breath was ragged, his grip on her hips bruising. He tried to hold on, but she was too much! The way she moved, the way she gasped, the way she knew exactly what she was doing to him… too sensual, too perfect, utterly his undoing.
A groan ripped from his throat, low, helpless, completely wrecked. His hands shot up, tangling in her hair, pulling her down to him. His mouth crashed against hers, desperate, needy, demanding.
“Elizabeth… Christ… I can’t…”
She gasped, her pleasure building, climbing. He felt it, he knew it.
He wanted to wait for her, to give her this moment with him.
She finally broke, she shuddered and clenched around him,
Oh, that was it.
He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in, his breath stalling as he thrust up; deep, so deep. His body tightened, shuddered. He spilled, groaning into her mouth. His fingers fisted in her hair, his other hand gripping her hip, holding her down as he throbbed inside her.
The room grew quiet, save for their breathing, still coming down.
He did not let go; he kept her there, connected. His hands moved over her reverently, tracing the curve of her back, her waist, the dip of her spine. He smiled, soft and utterly in awe.
“You are magnificent… so lovely…” His voice was hushed, barely above a whisper as if speaking any louder might break the spell. “I cannot believe you are really here with me.”
A charged silence spread between them.
She felt the weight of his words. They were sincere and warm and entirely too heavy for her to deal with.
“You are not as dull as I thought you to be…” she said finally, trailing slow, deliberate kisses down his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath her lips.
She looked up at him, hand under her chin.
“…and you are very large.” she whispered with mock innocence.
* * *
The morning sun spilled through the grand windows of Pemberley’s breakfast room.
The table was lavishly set. Tea steaming, eggs perfectly prepared, the scent of fresh bread wafting through the air.
The room was empty but for a footman when the pair entered.
Mr Gardiner took the freshly pressed newspapers, while his wife made up a plate for each of them and sat down.
She looked at the clock and let out a sigh.
She turned to the footman and asked, “Has Mrs Morley been to break her fast?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “You are the first to be down.”
Mr Gardiner looked up from his paper into the knowing face of his wife. As soon as the footman left the room, Mr Gardiner chuckled.
“Well, at least we do not have to guess what the generous invitation was about.”
Mrs Gardiner kept her focus on her food.
A beat later, Mr Gardiner set down his papers.
“I hope he is not taking advantage of our Lizzy.”
Mrs Gardiner had no such worries.
She only considered how much of this had been premeditated and how much like fools they had been taken for.
* * *
Fletcher stood in the centre of Mr Darcy’s chambers, arms crossed, surveying the evidence before him.
The fire had burned low. The basin of water was untouched. And the bed, pristine. Unused. Undeniable.
A slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He had served Mr Darcy for years, watched him live a life of restraint, solitude, and rigid control. For the first time in all those years, he was to be useful in ways beyond choosing waistcoats.
With the same efficiency he attended to all his master’s needs, Fletcher strode forward and, without hesitation, threw himself onto the bed.
He rolled once, twice, pressing his hands into the sheets, kicking them about just enough to make them believably disturbed.
Then, smoothing his waistcoat, he stood, straightened his cuffs, and nodded in satisfaction.
The master had slept here. Obviously.
Just as he stepped back, the door creaked open. A maid entered, blinking at him. Fletcher scowled, quickly grabbing the fireplace poker.
“I was just tending the fire. Mr Darcy has already been attended to,” he lied smoothly.
The maid bobbed a curtsy, clearly not questioning it.
And just like that, one problem was solved.
With the bed taken care of, Fletcher darted down the servants’ passage, heading toward a very particular guest room. The moment he reached its door, he hesitated, listening.
Inside: muffled, breathless, but unmistakable, the voice of his master.
“Dear Lord! Elizabeth! You will be the end of me!”
Fletcher grinned and folded his arms, leaning casually against the wall to wait.
He heard footsteps and a soft rustling of skirts. A maid approached, the young one Mr Darcy had sent to tend to Elizabeth. She stopped abruptly when she saw him, eyes wide, darting a glance toward the very occupied guest chamber, then back at Fletcher.
“I’ve been earlier,” she whispered urgently. “She has a man in there!”
Her tone was indignant; only her good training forced her to swallow the word whore, but her expression betrayed the judgment.
Fletcher knew he could not let the Master’s lady love be disparaged. A Pemberley maid would never gossip about Mr Darcy, but a stranger? A stranger might ruin everything.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice:
“It’s Mr Darcy in there,” he whispered conspiratorially.
The maid’s mouth fell open, she clearly would never have guessed that.
“I remember the lady from years ago,” he murmured. “I believe she’s the reason this house doesn’t have a mistress. If we help them along, there might be a wedding soon!”
He pleaded to her feminine, romantic sensibilities, anything to keep his master, and anybody dear to him, out of gossip.
“Bring her a tray for breakfast. You can dress her for the day, and all will seem in order. Tell everyone you attended her hours ago. I will take care of the master.”
The maid blanched. “Do you mean to tell me I should enter while…,”
A moan and a giggle filtered through the closed door. Her face turned crimson.
“No,” Fletcher said briskly. “Go, fetch the tray. I’ll have him out by the time you are back.”
She nodded and scurried away.
Fletcher waited, hoping he would be able to pull this off without embarrassing anyone. He turned back to the door, listening. A murmur of voices. A low chuckle, Mr Darcy’s. The rustle of sheets. The soft creak of the mattress.
Fletcher sighed.
They were never going to stop.
He waited, counting the minutes. And then, silence. Finally!
Lifting a hand, he dragged his fingernails lightly against the door.
Not a knock. Not a heavy sound. Just the quietest little scratch, enough to be heard, enough to alarm them.
The reaction inside was instantaneous: a sharp inhale, a rustle of movement, a very undignified thump, followed by a muffled curse.
Fletcher grinned.
He heard Elizabeth’s voice, hushed, urgent:
“What was that?”
And Darcy, sounding very much like a man who had just been startled out of his post-coital bliss:
“Bloody… God’s teeth, Elizabeth, where are my breeches?!”
Fletcher pressed his lips together, fighting back laughter. Then the voice of his master, right behind the door he was guarding, a very dignified whisper:
“I will meet you in my study, Fletcher, thank you very much.”
“Of course, sir,” he replied with his well-practiced indifference, grinning like the devil himself.
* * *