Chapter 10 #2
On a Tuesday morning in January, with cloudy skies and six inches of snow upon the ground, Elizabeth Bennet became Mrs Darcy.
Her gown was an exquisite creation of ivory taffeta, with a wide, elaborate band of intricate embroidery extending halfway up the skirt.
Within the design were clusters of seed pearls, which formed the centres of various flowers in hues of burgundy, rust, and gold.
It was the most beautiful gown she had ever owned.
From the moment she entered the church, Darcy refused to look anywhere else, not even at the minister as he performed the service.
Thankfully, Mr Egan was nothing like Mr Collins, who would have been made indignant by the bridegroom’s besotted behaviour rather than amused.
As if that was not enough to raise a few eyebrows, once Darcy had slipped his ring on her finger, he held tightly to her hand, refusing to relinquish it.
Eventually, Elizabeth ceased her attempts to extract herself and concealed their joined hands within the folds of her skirts.
Her ruse fooled no one, as was evident when she heard Viscount Emerson mutter something about Darcy behaving like an infatuated fool before God and all the world.
The breakfast at Rosewell’s manor house boasted all of the usual dishes, including steaming cups of chocolate and a wedding cake flavoured liberally with brandy.
Their guests, who were members of their respective families, were handsomely dressed and full of good cheer and heartfelt wishes for the newlyweds—and, in the viscount’s case, an abundance of teasing asides regarding the night to come.
While Elizabeth and Darcy had made every effort to spend time with each of their relations, their eyes returned again and again to each other throughout the day.
Eventually, as the clouds thickened and fresh flakes of snow began to fall, their families bade them farewell, donned their pelisses and greatcoats, then hastened to their sleighs.
Elizabeth waved them off as Darcy stood beside her, his smile wide and easy as his hand rested on the small of her back.
His touch was affectionate and as warm as the fire in the drawing room grate, heating her blood and exciting her anticipation for the moment they would finally be able to steal away together; the moment their entire world would shrink to nothing but each other and the vows they had made.
When Mrs Cahill donned her own pelisse and bid the newlyweds farewell with an affectionate turn of her mouth, Elizabeth could do little more than stare at her in incomprehension.
“My dear girl,” said her aunt, pulling her aside.
“Surely, you would not like to spend your wedding night in a house full of people. As we cannot move your poor mother to the manor house without a great deal of inconvenience, I have arranged to spend the night with your sisters at the dower house.”
Elizabeth was overwhelmed by her thoughtfulness, which she felt was entirely unnecessary considering the generous size of the manor house, and said as much.
Her aunt, however, chuckled at her na?veté.
“A bridegroom, especially one so utterly in love with his bride as your Mr Darcy is with you, appreciates nothing so much as having his wife entirely to himself.” She patted her arm and kissed her cheek, and said, “Enjoy yourself, Elizabeth, and trust in your husband. I shall see you on the morrow.”
Before she could depart, however, Elizabeth threw her arms around her and whispered, “You are a dear old woman.”
“So you always say,” her aunt replied, hugging her tightly in turn.
“Thank you for all you have done for me. For loving me. For being a second mother to me. The mother I so desperately needed when my entire world had fallen apart.”
“I would do it again,” said Mrs Cahill with no little emotion. “Every bit of it. Even when you are living with Mr Darcy at Pemberley, Rosewell will remain your home. Should you ever need me, I will be here, always.”
Wiping wetness from her cheeks, Elizabeth smiled. “I daresay I will always need you, madam.”
“Good,” said her aunt. “I will require someone to spoil and fuss over me in my old age. I love all your sisters, Elizabeth, but you, my beautiful, clever, darling girl, are the daughter of my heart. I shall enjoy plaguing you and your own children at Pemberley when I am well into my dotage. Mr Darcy shall have no say in the matter.” She kissed her again, and patted her hand, and said, “Go to your husband now. He is no doubt growing impatient for his bride.”
Hours later, as the flames of the dying fire flickered in the bedchamber hearth, Elizabeth lay wrapped in Darcy’s embrace.
She was sleepy, but not quite ready to sleep.
She was satisfied, yet she desired far more—of everything: Darcy’s touch, his mouth, his body.
The way he moved over her and within her, bringing her to ecstasy again and again.
It was heavenly, the things he did to her; the sensations he made her feel. She wanted to feel them again, always.
She felt his lips on her shoulder and smiled.
“Are you well, my darling?” he asked, tenderly pressing kisses to her shoulder.
“Mmm,” she murmured, tilting her head to give him access to her neck.
“A glowing commendation,” he murmured against her nape.
“What would you have me say?” she said almost breathlessly as his lips caressed the sensitive skin of her neck, his breath raising gooseflesh, making her shiver in the most delicious manner.
“I hardly know,” he replied.
Elizabeth felt his smile as he kissed her pulse.
“Perhaps more of what you uttered when we were more agreeably engaged, which, as far as discourse is concerned, was barely intelligible.”
She swatted at him then, and he jerked away from her, laughing.
“Unfair,” she told him, but her own laughter belied the severity of her tone. “Especially since it was owing to you that I had suffered such a lapse of dignity in the first place. You, Mr Darcy, are not the gentleman I thought you were.”
He returned to her then, gathering her in his arms and rolling them both so that she was nestled snuggly beneath him. “If I have lost my gentlemanly instincts, Mrs Darcy, it is because your fine eyes and tempting mouth have aroused other instincts of a far baser nature.”
His expression, so playful a moment before, became serious as he regarded her—her eyes, her mouth, her breasts, which were poorly concealed by the sheets that lay tangled around them on the bed.
He shifted his weight, and a frisson of desire spread through Elizabeth’s veins like wildfire.
She could feel every inch of his body pressed along the length of her own.
Every breath he expelled from his lungs.
The furious pounding of his heart as he watched her so intently, so adoringly, his eyes as dark as she had ever seen them.
He brushed a curl from her cheek with his hand.
“I must look a fright,” she whispered, feeling self-conscious and aroused all at once.
Darcy slowly shook his head. “You look beautiful, as always. I cannot tell you how long I have wanted to see you thus, with your hair spread upon my pillow and your lips swollen and red from my kisses. It was worth it, Elizabeth. The wait. I love you,” he said quietly, tenderly, as his voice began to waver.
“I love you more than I can ever begin to express.”
With her heart in her throat, she touched his face, paying particular attention to the crease that had formed between his brows.
“I love you, too,” she said on a breath, gently trailing her fingertips along his cheek, to his jaw, and finally to the enticing curve of his lips.
“I will always love you, my darling husband.”
Darcy kissed her then—most ardently—and suddenly, they had no more need for words.