Chapter 8
EIGHT
The last of the twilight clung to the sky like a smudge of violet ink, the stars just beginning to prickle through the fading dusk.
Elizabeth stepped lightly over the uneven path, her shawl wrapped close around her shoulders, her eyes adjusting to the dimming light.
The basket of supplies for Mrs Reynolds had long since been delivered; she had made her excuses, and slipped out as quietly as she could.
She had not gone far when she saw him.
Darcy stood at the edge of the path, leaning against the post of a gate half-swallowed by ivy.
The phaeton waited behind him, dark and elegant, its horses pawing restlessly at the gravel.
He was dressed plainly, but there was nothing casual in his bearing.
When he saw her, he straightened, a smile barely touching his lips.
“You came,” he said softly.
Elizabeth dipped her head. “You summoned me.”
His eyes searched hers in the gathering dark. “Not an order. A plea.”
She smiled. “Then I am glad I accepted.”
He offered his hand, and she placed hers into it without hesitation. The warmth of his gloved palm closed around her fingers, sending a ripple of awareness up her spine.
He helped her into the phaeton, the brush of his hand against her waist as steadying as it was electrifying.
He climbed in beside her, gathered the reins, and with a soft command to the horses, they began to move.
Away from the main house, past the hedgerows and the orchard, into the deeper part of the estate.
They rode in silence at first, the sounds of hooves and wheels filling the quiet. The wind tugged lightly at her hair, and she tucked a strand behind her ear as she watched the trees grow denser, the shadows thicker.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice low.
Darcy flicked a glance toward her, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Somewhere no one will disturb us.”
A beat of silence passed, charged and breathless.
“Is that wise?” she asked, a teasing lilt in her tone.
“No,” he said. “Not at all.”
She laughed softly and leaned into the warmth of his arm beside her. The air was rich with summer and something else, something electric. Something inevitable.
The gatehouse loomed ahead, small and cloaked in ivy, its windows glowing with light.
He pulled the reins gently and brought the phaeton to a stop. When he looked at her, there was no coyness left in him, only a reverent certainty.
“Elizabeth,” he said, voice barely a whisper.
She reached for him. One swift movement and Elizabeth was in his arms, her feet not even touching the gravel as he pulled her down from the carriage. Their mouths met halfway, clashing, hungry, no preamble this time. No ceremony. Only need.
The door to the gatehouse swung open with a shove of his shoulder. He carried her inside, stumbling blindly into the small entry where the hearth was already lit and the air warm with beeswax and pine. He kicked the door shut behind them, his hands already under her skirts, lifting, searching.
She laughed into his kiss, breathless, giddy. “You will tear it,” she gasped.
“I do not care,” he groaned, his voice low and rough. “I have waited all day… I have thought of naught but this.”
She reached for the buttons of his waistcoat, fumbling in haste.
“Then stop thinking.” laughing against his kiss, breath catching as his hands yanked her shawl from her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor like it had offended him.
She grabbed at his cravat, pulling it loose, her fingers already tugging at buttons, desperate for skin.
He helped her, clumsily, impatiently, shrugging out of his coat, opening her gown, his shaking hands and the fabric sliding down her body until it pooled softly around her ankles.
His fingers found the laces of her boots, the leather creaking softly as it yielded to his intent.
She steadied herself by holding onto his shoulders, her breath catching as he pulled the boots off one by one.
He looked up at her, his smile so roguish it made her breath hitch and her heart pound wildly…
His waistcoat fell near his own hessians. She was down to her stays, he to his shirtsleeves, when they met in another searing kiss.
“You are so warm,” he growled against her lips, his hands sliding up the backs of her thighs, dragging her chemise with them. “Elizabeth… Like a harvest I have waited my whole life to gather.”
She moaned, biting his jaw, fingers already beneath the waistband of his breeches, finding him hard, leaking, eager.
He gasped. “God, woman!”
They stumbled toward the hearth, shedding the last of their clothes like skins. Her stays loosened with a satisfying snap. He groaned when her breasts bounced free, dragging his tongue over one taut nipple while his hand found the other, kneading greedily.
Elizabeth’s hands were no gentler, gripping his cock, stroking with possessive reverence. “I want to feel you…,” she gasped.
“You will.” He spun her around, pressed her to the rug in front of the fire. “Kneel for me.”
She obeyed without hesitation, bracing herself on her hands, legs parted. He knelt behind her, one hand on her hip, the other sliding between her legs, finding her wet, pulsing.
“Just look at you,” he groaned, stroking her slit, teasing the swollen nub between her moist folds. “ripe to ride.” he chuckled.
She whimpered, grinding back against his fingers.
He gripped her hips, aligned himself, and sank into her in one long, growling thrust.
She cried out, her back arching.
“You are perfect like this,” he rasped, starting to move, slow at first, then faster, harder. “Meant to be ridden. Meant to be pleasured.”
She couldn’t speak, only gasp and whimper as he filled her deep, relentless. His hand reached around, found the nub again, and rubbed it with practiced pressure. The other cradled her breast, fingers pinching, tugging as he lifted her torso to his chest.
“I do believe you are rather well-schooled, Elizabeth,” he whispered into her neck, teeth brushing her ear . “Let go for me.”
Elizabeth shattered, clenching, pulsing around him and sobbing out his name.
Darcy followed with a choked groan, hips jerking as he spilled into her, holding her to him as if he’d die without that connection.
They collapsed onto the rug, limbs tangled, bodies still joined.
“Darcy,” she gasped, breathless, laughing. “You took me like a common mare!”
He kissed her cheek, utterly smug. “You are prime blood, Elizabeth. Nothing common about you.”
She had never felt more claimed. More wanted. More prized.
The fire crackled beside them, casting their tangled limbs in gold and shadow.
Darcy’s hand was still on her hip, his cheek pressed to her shoulder. They didn’t move. Didn’t need to. Their bodies hummed with the echo of what had just passed.
And then, Elizabeth’s stomach gave a loud, unapologetic growl.
Darcy lifted his head, startled, and then laughed a real, unguarded laugh that warmed her more than the fire.
She groaned into the rug. “How mortifying.”
“No,” he said, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder. “It is divine. A woman who can go from goddess to hungry mortal in a heartbeat. Utterly irresistible.”
He stood, naked yet unashamed and walked to the basket Fletcher had packed. From it, he pulled out bread, cold roast chicken, a wedge of cheese, and a bottle of claret already uncorked. “I believe my man is a magician.”
She propped herself up on her elbows, grinning. “Clearly. Either that or clairvoyant.”
They ate cross-legged on the rug, passing food back and forth between bites. Their thighs touched, but he made no move, just smiled, eyes heavy-lidded and full of quiet wonder.
The wine made them loose. Glowing.
They spoke of their childhood, her climbing trees and tearing petticoats; him reading Latin in the orchard, dreaming of horses and history. Of long summers, scraped knees, and hiding from governesses.
“When did you first…” Elizabeth hesitated, biting her lip. “Notice me?”
Darcy looked into his cup. “The moment you refused to dance with me.”
She arched a brow.
“You looked at me like I was a riddle you had no time for. I had never wanted to be solved so badly.”
She laughed, eyes wet. “You were so stern. So proud.”
“I was terrified.”
There was silence, then her voice softened.
“I used to think of you. In bed. With my husband.” She flushed. “In the dark, when it was… disappointing. I would close my eyes and pretend it was you.”
He inhaled sharply.
“I apologise” she said quickly. “That was not proper to say.”
“No.” He reached out, took her hand. “No, Elizabeth. That is the best compliment anyone has ever given me.”
His thumb brushed her knuckles.
“May I make love to you now?” he asked.
She nodded.
There was no rush this time. No frenzy. Just mouths and hands and reverence.
He kissed her like she was something sacred. Touched her like he was learning a beloved poem by heart.
She whispered his name, again and again.
He called her his marvel. His torment. His peace.
Their bodies moved together in perfect, unhurried rhythm. Every sigh, every thrust, a vow unspoken. When they came, they held each other through it, kissing softly, trembling in each other’s arms.
There was no mention of love but it filled the room, as surely as the firelight.
* * *
The morning sun pushed through the cottage windows, illuminating the worn furniture and polished pewter. Elizabeth sat primly in a chair near the hearth, her cloak neatly folded over her lap, the basket of supplies at her feet.
Mrs Reynolds, upright in her own chair for the first time since her illness, regarded her guest with a scrutiny honed by seventy years of managing households and reading human nature better than scripture.
“You’ve the look of a woman well pleased with the world this morning, Mrs Morley,” she said, her voice rasping but amused.
Elizabeth adjusted her skirts, careful to hide the tremor in her fingers. “It is only the fine Derbyshire air,” she replied, too quickly.