Chapter 9 #4
Rita waved a hand. “You know what I mean. I only say it because you would not be the first,” she said lightly.
“He is not exactly an easy prize to tempt. I tried once, well, not for myself. A dear friend. And my cousin, later. Neither got farther than polite nods. He is like a very handsome hedge. Tall, well-kept, utterly impenetrable.”
Elizabeth looked down at her glass. “He might simply enjoy his freedom.”
“He was in love once. He only told us that it is not possible for him to enter matrimony with someone whilst his heart is engaged elsewhere.”
“Oh, I wonder what that poor soul endured.” Elizabeth smiled, but there was something faintly brittle in it. “Perhaps his manners in the ballrooms have something to do with it.”
Rita laughed. “Oh, yes. He used to hover at the edges like a man condemned. Staring down every gentleman who dared a jest, and every lady who dared as much as to smile at him.”
“He once called me ‘tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt him to dance,’” Elizabeth said, the words crisp with old mirth.
Rita turned sharply. “He what?”
Elizabeth’s smile was a touch feral. “It was our first meeting. He said it to a friend. I heard him.”
Rita stared at her for a long moment, blinking. “Good lord,” she said slowly. “It is you.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, pretending ignorance. A shriek of laughter broke across the lawn. Emma, chasing her sister with a sprig of mint as a sword. The girls tumbled across the grass like puppies, heedless of skirts or decorum.
“Richard!” Rita called, cupping a hand to her mouth. “They are making war again!”
Brigadier Fitzwilliam, mid-sip of lemonade, groaned theatrically. “So long as they do not annex the lemon cakes.”
Darcy crouched to intercept the girls, catching one around the waist and tossing her over his shoulder to squeals of delight. The other launched herself at his legs, and he staggered slightly, laughing for once without restraint.
Elizabeth watched him, one hand shading her eyes.
Rita followed her gaze, but said nothing.
A footman approached briskly, hat tucked under one arm.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said to Darcy. “The carriage has been spotted. The Grenville family should be here within a quarter hour.”
Darcy’s expression shifted, composure settling over joy. “Thank you,” he said, brushing grass from his sleeve. “Please alert the staff.”
As the footman turned away, Elizabeth slipped her shoes back on and murmured something about needing a moment to herself. She stepped away from the laughter and the lemonade, towards the front of the house.
Rita didn’t stop her. She only watched, thoughtful.
* * *
Elizabeth leaned against the sun-warmed stone wall beside the great front doors, eyes closed, arms loosely crossed. Her pulse was still racing. From the conversation? From the way he’d looked with the children?
She didn’t hear his footsteps.
But she felt the heat of him the moment before he reached for her.
Darcy caught her hand in his, the touch urgent, hungry. She opened her eyes, startled.
“Come with me,” he said.
He didn’t wait for her answer. He didn’t need to.
He dragged her around the corner of the house, down the narrow path that led to the old chapel steps, half-shaded by overgrown ivy.
And when she laughed, half protest, half arousal.
“I need you,” he whispered. “Before the world finds us again.”
* * *
They shouldn’t have slipped away. Not with the lawn full of guests and Georgiana’s carriage just moments from arrival.
But the stairwell leading to an old unused chapel was cool and empty, the narrow stairs winding down into shadows and silence. And when she paused halfway, one hand trailing the stone wall, looking down to catch him watching, he was lost.
He grabbed her, hands at her waist, mouth at her neck.
“Fitzwilliam,” she gasped, laughing breathlessly as he spun her to face the wall. “We shall be missed.”
“Let them miss us,” he muttered, already gathering her skirts, pushing her face and body against the cold stone column in the centre. He tucked the back hem of her skirt into the back of her collar.
She half-sighed, half-moaned as his hands slid down her hips and then up the backs of her thighs, fingers spreading her open with greedy care. He sank to his knees behind her, mouth already finding the place he craved most.
“I love how eager you are for me,” he murmured against her skin, voice rough with need. “How wet you become. Every time.”
He licked into her, slow at first, then deeper, tasting her like he needed to learn her by tongue alone. She braced both hands against the stone, hips trembling, panting now.
“You are perfect,” he whispered, his breath hot against her as he kissed the crease where thigh met hip. “I barely touched you, and you are dripping for me.”
She groaned, high and helpless.
One of his hands wrapped around her front, sliding down to stroke where she needed him most. “This,” he said, kissing the swell of her backside, biting softly, “this is mine.”
He stood in a rush, hands already at his trousers, and the moment he was freed, he pressed into her; one sharp, perfect thrust that made them both groan.
She pushed back into him with a desperate grind, hips meeting his with a wet, obscene sound that echoed off stone.
“I cannot think,” she gasped, her voice wrecked with need. “I cannot breathe without wishing you inside me.”
Darcy let out a broken sound and buried himself deeper, one hand gripping her hip so tightly she knew it would leave marks.
“You ruin me,” she moaned, cheek pressed to the wall, fingers scrabbling against rough stone. “I wake aching. I walk damp. I want you so much I cannot, God, I cannot...”
He caught her mouth with his hand, not to muffle her, but because the noise she made might have made him undone right then.
“You are mine,” he growled into her ear. “Every wanton thought. Every trembling inch. Mine.”
“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yours. Always. Take me, Darcy!” She whimpered, legs trembling, one hand clawing blindly for his.
She arched into him, her cheek pressed against cool stone, her skirt bunched in between them.
He drove into her like the clock was running out, like the weight of the day could only be thrown off by this, by the sound of their skin, the heat of her breath, the slick, glorious wet of her body welcoming him again and again.
Her whole body shuddered.
“Your sounds,” he panted, hips snapping against her.
“Your heat. The way you open for me… Christ, Elizabeth… ” Darcy’s rhythm turned erratic, his breath ragged against the back of her neck.
He thrust harder, deeper, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the cold stone.
Her hands fumbled for purchase, her body bending to meet him with desperate abandon.
His hand snaked around her hip and between her folds to find the nub of her pleasure, he rubbed on it just so, his fingers coated in her arousal.
“Let go,” he gasped. “Now. I need to feel it.”
She choked on a moan. “I am close… I… oh God, Darcy, do not stop!”
And then it hit her, sharp and sweet, her cry muffled against the wall. She pulsed around him, shuddering, and he followed with a guttural sound, pouring into her with one final thrust, forehead pressed between her shoulder blades as if in prayer.
For a moment, they were still. Their breath tangled in the quiet. A bird called outside, too bright, too normal.
Then she started to giggle.
He groaned. “Do not…”
“You,” she turned slightly, enough to grin at him over her shoulder. “You bit me.”
He looked at the curve of her buttocks, teeth marks bright on pale skin. “You said you liked it when I could not help myself.”
“I do,” she said smugly, smoothing her skirts. “I also like when you walk into polite company with your hair sticking up like a schoolboy.”
Darcy blinked, horrified. “Fix me.”
“You fix me.”
They fumbled and smoothed, fingers tugging buttons and adjusting hems, trying not to laugh. When they emerged, her cheeks flushed, his cravat a little too casually redone, he started to step forward, but Elizabeth caught his sleeve.
He turned, and she was suddenly there again, close enough to steal his breath. Her hand at his chest, her mouth already rising to meet his.
The kiss should’ve been chaste.
It wasn’t.
It was needy, clumsy, still dazed from their climax. Their mouths met with a soft, wet sound, his hands catching her hips as though unsure if he could bear to stop. She tasted like heat and laughter, and for one dizzying second, he considered dragging her back into the shadows and starting again.
She gasped into his mouth. “We cannot.”
“I know,” he whispered, kissing her harder.
Her hands fisted in his lapels. His thumb skimmed a nipple under her bodice.
“God help me,” he growled, half-laughing, half-strangled. “I cannot get enough of you.”
“I cannot think of anything but having you,” she breathed, lips brushing his.
They broke apart, barely.
Chest to chest. Breathing each other’s air.
“I am going to ruin everything,” he muttered, forehead resting against hers.
She smiled, wicked and breathless. “Not yet. First, we must greet your sister.”
Voices grew nearer, children, a maid, the cheerful drone of polite greeting.
Darcy drew a ragged breath. Pressed one last kiss to her brow. Straightened his coat with shaking hands. Elizabeth licked her lips and pinched her cheeks.
They stepped out of the shadows. Still flushed. Still raw. They walked hand in hand until the path opened onto the lawn. Smiling like simpletons.