Chapter 14 #3
“What a good wife… so obliging.”
And to her own horror and dark, filthy delight, she shattered again.
A sharp arch of her spine.
A desperate moan.
A fresh gush of slick heat against his fingers.
He laughed then, a deep, broken sound full of pleasure and triumph, and kissed her temple.
“Mine,” he whispered, guiding himself back inside her, filling her with a slow, aching push before setting a relentless pace.
His breathing grew ragged against her skin. She felt it in every rough exhale at her ear, every tightening of his arm around her waist. She moved with him, clinging to his forearm, matching his rhythm, feeling his length swell inside her. The hard, desperate surge of need before the fall.
And she smiled when it came.
When his climax tore through him, the sound of it muffled in her hair, his teeth scraping her shoulder, his grip loosening just enough for his hands to wander her curves, claiming every inch of sweat-slick skin.
His breath slowed. His touch softened.
She wanted to say something.
To tell him how much she’d needed this.
How much she’d missed it.
How she’d never, not once, felt the world shatter like this before.
“We cannot sleep here,” he said at length, his voice rough, breaking the thick, languid silence. “The linen is ruined.”
For a moment, panic clawed at her throat.
Was he going to leave her? Abandon her in this vast, echoing room with nothing but the ghosts of what they’d done, and her own damned thoughts for company?
But before she could speak, before the ache could settle, he was moving, gathering her up in his arms with a strength that made her gasp, cradling her against his chest like some victorious pirate hauling off stolen treasure.
“Come to my bed,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to her temple, “it is better anyway.”
She lay curled against him in the quiet dark, the steady rise and fall of his chest a balm against the chaos inside her.
When she thought he’d fallen asleep, she whispered softly, barely above a breath,
“Thank you, Fitzwilliam. I needed this.”
His hand found hers in the dark, warm and firm.
Before she could pull away, his lips brushed the back of her hand, a quiet promise in the night.
“My pleasure, darling.”
* * *
The morning after their wedding night dawned with the city hushed outside Darcy House, the weak light tracing gilded lines across the heavy drapes and scattering golden motes in the cool, shadowed air.
Sleep clung to her lashes in the hush of early morning; the fire had dwindled to a gentle glow.
Her first awareness was of a deep, delicious soreness—a reminder of what the night had yielded.
She turned, stretching languidly, and was greeted by a sight so unexpected that, for a moment, she wondered whether she was still dreaming.
Darcy stood at her bedside, gloriously and unselfconsciously naked; a large silver breakfast tray his only adornment.
He looked ruinously handsome; hair untidy, skin burnished by dawn, eyes soft, unguarded and shining with something deep; every bit the man who, hours before, had worshipped every inch of her. Elizabeth flinched at the sight.
“Good morning, Mrs Darcy,” he said, voice rough with sleep, his smile tender and triumphant all at once. She propped herself up on one elbow, folding the linen high across her breasts—as much for the blush blooming on her cheeks as for genuine modesty.
“Good morning to you, Mr Darcy,” she replied, surveying him, the tray, and the absurdly charming scene with an arch of her brow. He set the tray on the coverlet beside her and knelt onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.
The tray was laden with comforts: delicate slices of warm toast, curls of creamy butter, a bowl of hothouse peaches and late grapes, and a fresh pot of tea whose aroma perfumed the air between them.
Two cups, a pat of honey, and, just slightly askew, a dish of sugared violets, like a mischievous afterthought.
“I thought you might be hungry,” Darcy said, pouring tea with a practiced hand, wholly unconcerned with his own state of undress. “I cannot vouch for the peaches but the marmalade is scandalously good.”
Elizabeth accepted the cup, fingers brushing his, and something passed between them—a question she couldn’t name, an answer she wasn’t ready to give.
She took a cautious sip, the tea strong and rich, perfect against the dryness in her throat.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “This is thoughtful. I am not used to being looked after in the mornings.”
His eyes softened, and he settled beside her, thigh warm against hers beneath the sheets. “Then perhaps we might make a habit of it.”
They ate in companionable silence, punctuated only by the scrape of knife against toast, the wet snap of fruit between her teeth.
Elizabeth hated how conscious she was of him—his warmth, his bare skin, the gentle brush of hair on his thigh where he pressed against her.
Her body, traitorous thing, leaned toward him even as her mind screamed for caution.
He reached for a slice of toast, tearing it absently, his gaze softening.
“I thought,” he began, almost shyly, “we might leave for Pemberley within a week. Before the weather worsens. The journey may be long, but the house is—well, it is going to be comfortable through the colder months. And Mrs Evans is already making her preparations.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly into her teacup. “You have it all planned, I see.”
“Not all,” he said, lips quirking. “You may wish to add your command. My sister is sending word to the housekeeper about—well, certain arrangements to be made before the spring. But I should prefer your word to be the final one.”
Something unreadable flickered between them—his deliberate phrasing, her careful silence. She only nodded, tracing the rim of her cup with her thumb.
He looked at her then, really looked, and she saw something raw flicker beneath the fond amusement. “It will be strange, returning married,” he admitted. “But I would have you see it before winter deepens. Pemberley has always seemed too vast for one. I think it might finally look like home.”
Elizabeth felt something shift in her chest—not love, not yet, but an appreciation for the effort, for the careful way he was trying to make space for her in his life. “I should like to see it,” she said, and meant it. “To have a say in things. It is more than I expected.”
He reached for her hand then, fingers brushing hers, voice softening: “You know, we could stay like this all morning—if you wished it.”
She met his gaze, that defiant glint in her eyes shading over with longing.
Need twisted tight within her, her pulse a frantic thing in her throat; her body wanted nothing more than to yield to him, to plunge wholly and hopelessly into his embrace.
But she had once given everything: all her trust, all her hope, all her love, and she had been left cold.
“Breakfast in bed is quite a luxury, sir. I could grow accustomed, perhaps. But there are some things I cannot grow used to… not yet.”
His answering look was wounded, but full of that unwavering, inconvenient adoration. “As you wish, Elizabeth. But maybe, you could try to enjoy what we have now, and worry about troubles as they come, not before.” And his hand, tentative, slid down her naked back leaving a tingling trail.
As she bit into a peach, tart and sweet and fuzzy as sin, she realized she could live with this; a future made not of bliss, but careful, negotiating steps.
Perhaps desire could be enough, for a time.
Perhaps kindness and morning tea, and the astonishing patience in her husband’s gaze, might, someday, teach her to feel more.
Darcy’s gaze tracked the drip of peach juice down her wrist with an intensity that made her shiver.
He swallowed hard, voice rougher than before. “I do not expect you to love me,” he said. “Not now, not ever, if you cannot. I would take this—just this—over the emptiness I knew before. Your company. Your wit. Your mouth around a peach while I try not to disgrace myself.”
Her laugh was startled, sharp. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” he countered, eyes never leaving her. “I was alone for years. This is better. A thousand times better.” His jaw tightened; his thigh shifted under her where he was growing unmistakably hard.
She bit into the peach again, the skin bursting under her teeth, juice streaking her lower lip. Darcy’s gaze followed the droplet as it slid down her chin. His next breath came ragged.
“God help me,” he murmured, “you make faith very easy to practice.”
Before she could reach for a napkin, his mouth was on hers, tasting peaches and fear and everything that pulsed beneath her skin.
The breakfast tray shuddered, tea sloshing, fruit scattering, toast tumbling inevitably to the carpet.
Elizabeth’s laughter rang out—startled, reluctant, half-ashamed at how quickly she was undone by him.
His arms closed around her; she shifted to straddle him, pressing his back against the pillows, her hands framing his face.
The linen fell to her waist, and there was no need for modesty now.
She kissed him again, harder this time, claiming something she couldn’t name.
His hands roamed her curves, worshipful and hungry all at once.
“Elizabeth,” he breathed against her mouth, “tell me you want this.”
“I want this,” she whispered back, and for once, it was the unvarnished truth.
Whatever came tomorrow could wait.