Chapter 21
Elizabeth
Darcy's London house seemed quiet after Longbourn.
The servants greeted us with perfect discretion. No cries from Lydia, no questions from my mother, no bursts of laughter from Bingley to soften my acute awareness of the night ahead.
A lady's maid led me to an apartment decorated in pale silk. A closed door connected to Fitzwilliam's chamber. I stared at it while she undid my hair and replaced my traveling dress with a thin nightgown beneath a dressing gown.
The young woman worked efficiently, but her movements seemed to take forever.
“Mr. Darcy has requested that a light supper be served to you here, ma'am.”
Ma'am.
I almost turned around to check that she was addressing me.
“Thank you.”
When she had left the room, I barely ate. I walked to the window, returned to the fire, examined a book without reading its title. My courage from the pavilion had vanished along with my corset. I felt strangely naked beneath the light layers of my attire, though nothing was yet revealed.
A gentle knock came at the connecting door.
“Come in.”
Fitzwilliam appeared.
He wore a dark dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. His hair, freed from its usual discipline, fell slightly across his forehead. This simplicity made him more intimate than nakedness might have.
He closed the door behind him without stepping forward.
“How do you feel?”
“Like a woman whose husband has already asked her too many questions today.”
He smiled, but his eyes remained watchful.
“I can leave.”
Fear shot through me—what if he interpreted my unease as refusal?
“I didn't ask you to.”
“No.”
“Then come.”
He approached slowly. When he stopped in front of me, I placed my hand on the lapel of his dressing gown.
“You're nervous,” I said.
“Terribly.”
“That reassures me.”
“I'm glad my weakness is useful to you.”
“It makes you human.”
“I shall endeavor to be so all night.”
I laughed, and the tension eased slightly.
He raised a hand to my cheek.
“May I kiss you?”
“You're my husband.”
“That's not an answer.”
I thought of the promise he'd made me in the woods.
“Yes.”
His lips settled on mine. The kiss was tender at first. He gave me time to recognize his taste, the warmth of his hand against my neck, the shiver already rising beneath my skin. Then his mouth opened further. I wrapped my arms around him.
He nearly lifted me against his body.
The thin nightgown concealed nothing of his arousal. I felt it against my belly and pulled back in surprise.
He released me immediately.
“Forgive me.”
“Don't apologize for what I knew I would find.”
“Knowing and feeling aren't the same thing.”
“No.”
I lowered my eyes to his belt, then struggled to raise them again.
“I want to learn.”
An intense emotion crossed his face.
“Then we shall take our time.”
He untied the belt of my dressing gown. His movements were slow—slow enough that I could stop him. The fabric slipped from my shoulders and fell at my feet. I resisted the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
His breath caught.
The nightgown was nearly transparent in the firelight. I watched his gaze follow the curve of my breasts, my waist, my legs visible through the linen.
“Say something,” I murmured.
“I'm searching for words that won't seem unworthy of you.”
“Try the truth.”
He placed his hands on my hips.
“You're more beautiful than anything I've imagined.”
The simplicity of the phrase touched me more than any elaborate compliment could have.
I slipped my fingers under the collar of his dressing gown and pushed it aside. He understood. It fell away. His shirt still concealed his torso, but I could see the breadth of his shoulders, the powerful line of his thighs beneath his trousers.
“May I?” I asked, touching a button.
“Yes.”
I unfastened his shirt with clumsy fingers. He didn't help me, letting me explore on my own. When the fabric parted, I placed my palm on his bare chest.
His skin was warm, dusted with dark hair. His heart beat quickly beneath my hand. I traced the line of his muscles, fascinated by how his breath changed with every touch.
“You don't seem very in control anymore,” I said.
“I'm not.”
His answer gave me courage.
He slipped his fingers under the straps of my chemise and waited. I nodded. The fabric slid down my arms, then my body, pooling on the carpet.
Cool air brushed my bare skin.
I wanted to cover myself. Fitzwilliam gently caught my wrists before I could and brought them to his lips.
“Don't hide from me.”
His gaze held neither judgment nor comparison—only a desire that made me feel beautiful in a new way, almost powerful.
He leaned down and kissed my shoulder, then my collarbone. His mouth traveled slowly to my breast. When he closed his lips around the tip, a cry escaped me.
My fingers sank into his hair.
He stopped.
“Don't stop,” I breathed.
His tongue caressed the hardened nipple. The sensation spread to the hollow of my belly. He moved to the other breast, alternating kisses and caresses while his hands traced my sides.
I no longer knew where to look or how to breathe. My body craved more, though I couldn't name what.
Fitzwilliam lifted me and carried me to the bed.
He laid me down carefully, then remained standing.
“You're still dressed,” I protested.
A dark gleam passed through his eyes.
“Would you like me not to be?”
I blushed but held his gaze.
“Yes.”
He removed his trousers and the rest of his clothing.
I looked at him.
The sight of his naked body intimidated me more than I'd anticipated. He was large everywhere, powerful, and his hard cock seemed both fascinating and daunting. He made no attempt to hide from my gaze.
“Does this frighten you?” he asked.
“A little.”
“We won't go further than you want.”
He lay down beside me without positioning himself over me. His hand caressed my belly, then rose to my breast.
“I want to continue,” I said. “I just want to understand how…”
“I'll prepare you. There may be some pain, but I'll do everything to make it brief.”
His lips found mine again. His hand slid slowly down my belly, stopping above the triangle of hair between my thighs.
“May I touch you here?”
Modesty ordered me to close my legs. Desire made them part slightly.
“Yes.”
His fingers slipped between my thighs.
The first caress made me start. He didn't push inside immediately. He traced the sensitive folds, found a spot that sent a surge of pleasure through me, and returned to it with steady gentleness.
“Fitzwilliam…”
“Does this feel good?”
“Yes.”
My voice no longer sounded like my own.
He continued, watching my every reaction. The heat gathered, building into an almost painful tension. I moved against his hand without knowing what I was seeking. His lips traveled over my neck, my breasts, my mouth.
A finger slid slowly inside me.
I tensed.
“Gently,” he murmured. “Breathe.”
He waited until my body relaxed, then resumed his caresses. The pleasure returned, deeper now, mingled with the sensation of his finger inside me. When he added a second, the stretch felt strange but less frightening than I'd imagined.
“Look at me,” he said.
I opened my eyes.
His face was taut with desire, yet all his attention remained on me.
The tension in my belly tightened suddenly. My body arched. A wave of pleasure crashed through me, so intense that I seized his arm and cried out his name.
He held me against him while the trembling subsided.
“What was…”
“Pleasure,” he murmured with a smile against my temple. “And I'm deeply grateful I could give that to you.”
I blushed.
“Is it always like that?”
“No. Nothing ever happens the same way twice.”
“Are you certain we’re still in England?”
He laughed, then kissed me.
“Do you want to stop?”
I could still feel the warmth of my pleasure, but also his desire against my thigh. I placed my hand on his cock. He inhaled sharply.
The skin was warm and softer than I had imagined over such impressive hardness.
“Elizabeth.”
“Am I hurting you?”
“No. But if you continue, this night may end very quickly.”
I almost withdrew my hand, then closed it more firmly. His eyes shut for a moment in pleasure.
“I want you to teach me this too.”
“Later. Tonight, I want to be inside you before I lose all reason.”
He positioned himself between my legs. I felt his cock against my opening, and fear returned.
He went still.
“Look at me. You can change your mind.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck.
“I’m not changing my mind.”
He entered slowly.
The sensation of stretching became a burn. I stiffened and he stopped immediately.
“Breathe, my love.”
The word moved me almost as much as his body.
“More,” I murmured.
He pressed forward in small increments, stopping each time my breath caught. A sharper pain shot through me when he broke through the last barrier. I clenched my teeth.
He remained perfectly still.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not unbearable.”
“That’s not the praise I was hoping for.”
I laughed despite the discomfort. The movement changed the sensation, and he closed his eyes.
“Don’t laugh like that when I’m inside you.”
“Why?”
“Because your body tightens around me, and I’m still determined to behave properly.”
I became aware of him, entirely buried inside me, of the way our bodies were joined. The discomfort gradually diminished. I moved my hips slightly.
A low sound escaped him.
“Is it better?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He withdrew a little, then returned. The first thrust caused a dull burn. The next was less painful. He moved slowly, braced on his arms, his eyes fixed on my face.
I began to feel something else: a deep pressure, a warmth, the friction of his body against where I was still sensitive. I wrapped my legs around his hips.
“Faster?” I murmured.
His control cracked.
He kissed me and quickened slightly. His movements became fuller, still attentive but less cautious. The bed creaked softly. My breathing mingled with his. I felt the tension returning, different, more diffuse.
“Elizabeth, I won’t last much longer.”
“Then don’t.”
He buried his face in my neck. His thrusts lost their rhythm, then his body tensed. He spoke my name in a broken voice and remained deep inside me as tremors ran through him.
He stayed motionless for a moment, then lifted himself immediately, worried.
“Did I hurt you?”
“A little.”
His face tightened.
“But I also felt pleasure,” I added. “And I regret nothing.”
He withdrew carefully and lay down beside me. The dampness made me blush. He took a cloth he’d prepared near the bed and tended to me with a tenderness that made the intimacy even deeper.
Then he drew me back against his chest and pulled the covers over us.
“I love you,” he murmured into my hair.
I placed my hand on his heart.
The moment had come. No doubt could turn my words into mere gratitude or duty now. I was his wife because I had chosen him. I was naked in his arms, sore and happy, still free to speak the truth.
“I love you too, Fitzwilliam.”
He stopped breathing.
I raised my head.
“Did you hear?”
“I’m afraid to let myself believe…”
“I love you. I don’t know exactly when it started. Perhaps when you agreed to help me without forcing my hand. Perhaps when you comforted Kitty. Perhaps when you let me defend you instead of rushing at Wickham. But I know it now.”
His eyes shone.
“Say it again.”
“You’re becoming demanding.”
“Terribly so.”
I smiled and kissed him.
“I love you.”
This time, he believed me.