Chapter 12
DARCY
The evening Elizabeth opened the connecting door, it was not to enter my bed.
I was sitting near the fire, still dressed, a forgotten book on my lap. It was nearly midnight. I had dismissed my valet and loosened my cravat, but I no longer expected any stirring from the other side.
The handle turned.
I rose so quickly that the book fell.
Elizabeth appeared in the doorway.
She wore a pale green dressing gown tied close at the throat. Her hair was braided over one shoulder. Without jewels, without gloves, without the architecture of her gowns, she seemed at once younger and infinitely more intimate.
My body reacted before my reason.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Are you unwell?”
“No.”
“Did you hear a noise?”
“Fitzwilliam.”
“Yes?”
“Stop searching for a catastrophe. I wanted to see you.”
Those words stirred in me an emotion stronger than anything she could have revealed by undoing her gown.
I took a step, then stopped.
“Come in.”
She crossed the threshold. The door remained open behind her.
“I could not sleep,” she confessed.
“Neither could I.”
“Is it still because of that door?”
“Often.”
She touched the back of the armchair, then withdrew her hand. Color rose to her cheeks.
“I did not come to…”
“I know.”
“You do not know what I was going to say.”
“You did not come to fulfill a duty.”
She raised her eyes.
“No.”
“Then everything else can wait.”
I indicated the armchair opposite mine. She sat, drew the folds of her dressing gown around her legs, and watched the fire.
“Georgiana spoke to me about your mother today.”
I took my seat.
“She rarely does.”
“She says you resemble her when you are preoccupied.”
“My mother was much more amiable.”
“Georgiana did not seem to share that opinion.”
A comfortable silence settled. Elizabeth recounted a conversation with Mrs Reynolds, then a letter from her mother containing fifteen requests for advice about Jane’s wedding.
I listened, conscious of every detail of her presence: her bare feet hidden beneath the fabric, the braid resting on her chest, the shadow of her lashes.
“You are looking at me again,” she observed.
“Always.”
“What are you thinking?”
The truth was too direct.
“You do not wish to know.”
“I came to your room in the middle of the night. I can hardly demand a conversation about the weather.”
“I am thinking about your hair.”
She touched her braid.
“It is right here before you.”
“I wonder how far it falls when it is unbound.”
Her breath changed.
“You could ask.”
“May I unbind it?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
I rose and moved behind her chair. My fingers found the ribbon at the end of the braid. I untied it slowly, then separated the strands one by one.
Her hair spilled over her back and shoulders, longer than I had imagined. I ran my hands through that silken mass, unable to restrain a sigh.
“As beautiful,” I murmured.
“As what?”
“As in my dreams.”
She turned her head slightly.
“You dreamed of my hair?”
“Not only that.”
I should not have said it. She turned further, her eyes bright with curiosity and embarrassment.
“What else?”
I let my fingers slide to her shoulders.
“Your mouth.”
I leaned down and kissed her near the temple.
“Your neck.”
My lips trailed beneath her ear.
She gripped the arms of the chair.
“The way you’d say my name if I touched you.”
“You are touching me.”
“Not like in my dreams.”
She closed her eyes.
I came around the chair and knelt before her. This position put me beneath her gaze, where I wanted to be: not as a master demanding, but as a man asking.
“Tell me what you came here for.”
She inhaled slowly.
“I don’t know.”
“Then tell me what you want now.”
Her eyes dropped to my mouth.
“For you to kiss me.”
I did.
I placed my hands on her knees, through the dressing gown, and kissed her with the slowness her arrival deserved. She leaned toward me. Her hair fell around our faces, shutting out the rest of the room.
When she slipped a hand behind my neck, I rose up between her legs.
The chair was wide. Her knees parted just enough to welcome me. I felt her heat through the layers of fabric. My control narrowed to a single certainty: I must still ask her for each step.
I slid a hand along her thigh, not venturing beyond what she could accept.
She shivered.
“Do you wish me to continue?”
She held my gaze, her cheeks burning.
“I need to hear you.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Continue.”
My fingers traced up the fabric to her hip. I caressed the curve, then her waist. The belt of her dressing gown lay beneath my hand.
I stopped.
Elizabeth opened her eyes.
“Why?”
“If I undo it, I will see your nightgown.”
She blushed.
“You’ve seen them before.”
“Never yours, at night, in my chamber.”
“Is it very different?”
“Cruelly so.”
She placed a finger on the knot without pulling.
Then she placed her hand over mine and pulled gently.
The belt came undone.
The dressing gown fell open to reveal a white nightgown, thin, fastened by a ribbon above her breasts. The firelight traced the outline of her body with a precision that made me clench my teeth.
“Fitzwilliam?”
I realized my silence was frightening her.
“You are magnificent.”
She gave a nervous laugh.
“You can barely see anything.”
“I see more than I ever had the right to hope for.”
I raised my hand toward the ribbon of her nightgown.
“May I?”
She placed her fingers over mine.
“Not yet.”
I withdrew my hand at once.
“Very well.”
Her relief was visible. It did not erase her desire.
She took my hand and placed it on her breast over the nightgown.
The world narrowed to the supple warmth beneath my palm.
Elizabeth held her breath. So did I.
I closed my fingers slowly. Her nipple hardened against the fabric. She let out a sound so soft that my entire body tensed.
“Look at me,” I murmured.
She obeyed.
I caressed her breast without breaking her gaze, learning what made her lips tremble, what quickened her breathing. My thumb brushed over the hardened peak. She arched slightly.
“Again,” I murmured, and the word was neither a question nor a command.
I slipped my other hand beneath her dressing gown and found her waist through the nightgown. Then her hip. Then the top of her bare thigh where the fabric had ridden up.
Her skin was burning.
I closed my eyes for a second.
“Are you cold?” she asked, almost teasing despite her breathlessness.
“I am suffering.”
“Should I stop?”
“Certainly not.”
She smiled and kissed me.
Her hand traveled from my neck to my chest, found the opening of my shirt, and slipped beneath the fabric. Her fingers touched my skin.
I groaned against her mouth.
She froze.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“Then why…”
I took her hand and pressed it more firmly against my chest.
“Because you drive me mad.”
She explored with growing boldness, tracing the muscles of my chest, the line of my ribs. When her fingers drifted lower toward my stomach, I had to stop them.
“Not if you don’t wish to go further.”
Her gaze dropped to the obvious strain in my trousers.
She understood.
“Is it painful?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“May I…”
She didn’t finish.
I brought her hand to my lips.
“Not tonight.”
“You refuse?”
“I’m protecting you from a decision made out of pity.”
“I don’t pity you.”
“Good.”
I rose with difficulty and closed her robe. My fingers trembled as I retied the sash.
“You’re sending me away?”
“Before I forget all my good resolutions.”
She stood. Her unbound hair covered her back. At the door, she turned.
“Fitzwilliam?”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t come out of duty.”
“I know.”
“And I didn’t stop because I don’t want you.”
I clenched my hands to keep from going to her.
“I know that too.”
She entered her chamber and closed the door softly.
I remained alone, my body on fire, certain that what she had given me was worth more than a night taken too soon.