Epilogue
The wind howled against the windows of the dining room, rattling the holy wreaths that adorned each pane. The chill of December seeped into the ancient stones no matter how many fires the servants lit. Yet Elizabeth scarcely felt it.
Darcy sat opposite, his gaze fixed upon her in that way she had once found insufferable. Years ago, at the Netherfield ball, she’d bristled under it; confused, annoyed, a little defiant.
Now, she knew precisely what that look meant.
And it made her thighs press together beneath the table.
He didn’t speak much over the meal, but then he rarely did unless provoked. It was one of the odd comforts of their marriage, the ease of silence.
That, and the unbearable heat of his stare.
She toyed with a piece of spiced bread, arching a brow at him. “If you keep looking at me like that, Fitzwilliam, you will cause a scandal.”
“In my own dining room?” he murmured. “With no one here but you and I?”
“Scandal takes very little provocation where we are concerned.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He reached for his wine. “And what would you accuse me of? Admiring my own wife?”
She shrugged, feigning casual disinterest, though her skin prickled beneath his gaze. “A rather indecent sort of admiration, if you ask me.”
“I have never been accused of decency where you are concerned.”
Elizabeth bit her lip to hide her smile and changed the subject before she did something reckless. “I altered that salve I had been working on. The one for chilblains. Added a touch of camphor and myrtle oil. Perfect for this wretched cold. It works twice as well now.”
“Excellent,” Darcy said, though he clearly had no interest in chilblains. “Your Christmas gift arrived from London yesterday. I have had it placed in my library.”
“How mysterious. I hope it is not another treatise on estate management.”
He chuckled, a low, private sound that warmed her down to her toes. “Nothing so practical. But before tomorrow’s festivities begin, I had hoped you might join me there this evening. To unwrap it.”
The words hung between them, innocuous to any third party, but Elizabeth felt the air thicken.
She sipped her wine, tasting cinnamon and cloves on her tongue. “Just to unwrap my gift?”
He smiled again, slower this time. “Amongst other things.”
Elizabeth set down her glass and let herself grin, bold and unrepentant. “Then I suppose I ought to make myself available. ‘Tis the season for generosity, after all.”
His eyes darkened.
“Indeed.”
* * *
The door to the library clicked shut behind them, the fire snapping and hissing in the hearth. A small package wrapped in burgundy silk sat on his desk, tied with gold ribbon.
“My mysterious gift?” Elizabeth asked, eyeing it with curiosity.
“Indeed.” Darcy caught her wrist before she could reach for it. “But first…” He drew her back, pinning her lightly to the door.
“I thought we were here to unwrap presents,” she teased.
“We are.”
The look in his eyes was full of promise.
Before she realised it, he had begun unfastening her gown, trailing slow, deliberate kisses along every newly bared inch of flesh. The fabric pooled around her ankles, leaving her in only a thin chemise.
“You are an excellent maid, Mr Darcy,” she said, raising a brow. “But this is not our bedchamber.”
He turned her about and let his hands roam, the cold polished door pressing against her breasts as he peeled the chemise from her shoulders. She felt him drop to his knees, covering the curve of her backside with kisses, a playful nip making her jump.
“I am too fat for this, Fitzwilliam,” she muttered, self-conscious, attempting to wriggle from his reach.
“Come here, Elizabeth.” He rose, maddeningly agile, and caught her in his arms. “You are more beautiful now than you have ever been.”
A kiss to her brow. “Your skin glows, your breasts are exquisite, and that miraculous swell…” His hand caressed the gentle curve of her belly. “You are a goddess.”
“I do not feel like a goddess. I feel like a farm animal,” she grumbled, though her breathy sigh betrayed her when his mouth closed around the swell of her breast.
“Sit here.” He guided her onto the ladder. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling both ridiculous and unreasonably aroused.
Darcy retrieved the silk-wrapped package from his desk, untied the ribbon with deliberate slowness, and revealed a slender leather volume. The gilt lettering on the spine made her eyes widen.
“This is my Christmas gift?” she breathed. “Darcy, this is…”
“From a very particular bookshop in London,” he murmured, handing it to her. “The proprietor assured me it was… educational. Chapter Eleven, I believe, is especially illuminating.”
Elizabeth’s eyes skimmed the page and widened. “Fitzwilliam!” she hissed, heat flooding her skin. “You are giving me French erotica for Christmas?”
He chuckled, parting her legs with slow, deliberate hands. “Consider it an investment in our continued education.”
“This is filth,” she protested, scandalised. “I cannot possibly…”
“Read,” he murmured, the command unmistakable in his voice.
She began, cheeks aflame, her breath catching as his hand slid from her ankle to the back of her knee. He settled into a chair before her, watching her as though she were some ancient goddess perched amidst his precious books.
She tried to close her legs. His hand caught them, holding them open.
“I wish to watch you as the words arouse you,” he murmured, his voice a dark caress.
Her pulse fluttered. She could no longer claim innocence; she knew precisely what she looked like to him now, her body on display, her skin flushed, her thighs parted.
As the salacious words spilled from the page, images formed in her mind that made her heart hammer. The heat between her legs intensified, and she felt herself grow wet beneath his unwavering gaze.
“What a vision you are, Elizabeth,” he whispered. “Mine.”
Her cheeks burned, though she managed a wicked little smile. Her eyes flicked to the unmistakable strain beneath his breeches.
She laughed, low and delighted. Boldly, she lifted her foot, pressing it against his chest. He caught her ankle, awed.
“If I am a goddess,” she purred, flexing her foot so her toes grazed his jaw, “I expect you to worship me properly.”
His breath left him in a sharp sound, and without hesitation, he bent his head and pressed a kiss to the arch of her foot, then to her ankle.
Elizabeth tipped her head back against the ladder, triumphant.
“I could make you do anything,” she mused.
“And gladly,” he murmured, lips trailing over her calf. “Name it.”
His mouth worked higher, over her knee. She opened to him without shame now, relishing his raw groan.
Elizabeth tangled her fingers in his dark wavy locks. “You have the most magnificent cock a man ever owned,” she whispered, shocked by her own audacity, and delighted by it. “I ought to have it bronzed. Mounted above the hearth.”
Darcy laughed hoarsely, burying his face against her thigh. “By God, Elizabeth…”
She tugged his hair, making him look up. “I shall have you now, husband. I ache for you.”
He rose, fumbling at his buttons like a schoolboy, hands trembling. When he freed himself, she moaned, unabashed.
“I want you to ruin me,” she breathed against his ear. “Make me feel everything.”
He swore under his breath, caught her beneath the knees, and lifted her down from the ladder as though she weighed nothing.
He laid her back upon the wide oak desk, her hair a dark spill across the polished wood, her legs up on his shoulders, the proud curve of her belly between them.
“You are,” he murmured, trailing his hand over the swell, “the most exquisite creature God ever made.”
“And you,” she countered, grinning as she wrapped her legs around him, “are the luckiest man in Derbyshire.”
He laughed, breathless, awed, and pushed inside her in one long, steady stroke.
She gasped, a sound half-broken, half-blissful. “Yes,” she sighed. “Oh, yes, Darcy…”
They moved together, slow and aching, flesh against flesh, lips seeking lips, hands roaming. Elizabeth spoke often, shamelessly, praising him, telling him how perfectly he filled her, how handsome he looked coming undone, how she wanted to keep him inside her forever.
When pleasure claimed her, it took her with a desperate cry, her back arching, her nails scoring his shoulders. Darcy followed a heartbeat later, a hoarse groan torn from him as he spilled within her.
Neither spoke for long, ragged breaths filling the silence.
At last, Elizabeth cupped his cheek, sated and smiling. “We shall always have this, shall we not?”
Darcy kissed her foot.
“Always.”
* * *
The sob pierced through the veil of Darcy’s slumber, pulling him from dreams to darkness. For a moment, he was disoriented, the crack in heavy curtains of their bedchamber letting in the faintest beam of moonlight. Then came another soft, unmistakable cry beside him.
“Elizabeth?” he murmured, instantly alert. He reached for her in the darkness, finding her curled on her side, her shoulders trembling. “My love, what is it?”
His hand instinctively moved to the gentle swell of her belly, rubbing soothing circles over the place where their child grew. Eight months along now and already commanding their world with invisible hands.
“It is nothing,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice thick with tears. “I am being utterly foolish.”
Darcy propped himself up on one elbow, brushing damp tendrils of hair from her temple. “Tell me.”
A watery laugh escaped her lips. “I woke with such a desperate craving for hot chocolate that it physically aches. Is that not the most ridiculous thing?”
“Not at all,” he said tenderly. “Shall I ring for someone?”
Elizabeth’s hand shot out to stop him. “No! It is,” she glanced at the small clock on the mantel, its face barely visible in the dim light, “nearly three o’clock in the morning. I cannot bear to wake poor Mrs Evans or any of the staff at such an hour. They will come to hate me.”