Chapter 14
Darcy lay upon her bed, the coverlet cast aside, the warm air of the chamber, faintly scented with beeswax, brushing against her skin.
The bedside candles had burned low, casting long, wavering shadows across the silk counterpane.
Her sisters slept, and the house was silent except for the wind whispering against the windowpanes and the frantic beat of her own heart.
Her body felt strange to her, alive with unfamiliar aches and yearnings.
She felt altered. There was a languorous ache within her, low and persistent.
Something unfamiliar had been stirred within her and refused to be calmed, all because of a dance and another kiss.
The memory of the evening once again tormented Darcy with startling clarity.
The way the earl had held her, so close that she had felt every movement, every breath, every subtle shift of his form against her own.
The simple pressure of his fingers upon her back as they danced had sent a frisson of heat into her most intimate flesh, a sensation so potent and bewildering it had left her breathless.
It was little wonder women surrendered good sense and reputation to moments such as these.
That sobering awareness did nothing to ease the heat coiling low in her belly.
Darcy’s breath came slower than usual, though not entirely steady, and she shifted slightly against the sheets, seeking a comfort that did not come.
Her fingers drifted, almost without thought, to rest just below her navel.
She stilled, closing her eyes as the image of Lily returned, just as Darcy had painted her.
She should not think of it, should not recall what she had seen.
And yet, the forbidden knowledge lingered, unsettling and impossible to dismiss.
Slowly, hesitantly, Darcy moved her fingers over her belly.
At first there was only an awareness of her own skin and of the unfamiliar sensitivity awakening within her, as though her body had been roused from a long, quiet slumber.
She drew in a breath and lowered her lashes, allowing herself to feel it truly for the first time.
A faint, startled sound slipped from her.
The touch was not unpleasant, and that discovery sent a tremor through Darcy.
Her hand stilled, then moved again, more deliberately now, guided by instinct rather than thought.
Each touch awakened something new, something she had never known existed within her.
A slow warmth followed her fingers, gathering wherever she traced and caressed.
Her new nightgown, a confection of fine lawn and lace, felt like a cage. With trembling fingers, she untied the ribbon at her throat and pushed the delicate fabric from her shoulders. It pooled around her waist as she sat up, leaving her torso bare to the cool night air.
For the first time, she looked at herself without haste.
Her breasts, pale in the wavering candlelight, were full and softly rounded, the soft pink nipples drawing into tight, aching peaks against the chill.
Tentatively, she brought a hand to her chest, the touch of her own fingers feeling illicit and bold.
A shiver, sharp and exquisite, shot through her.
She cupped the heavy weight of one breast, marveling at its softness.
Using her thumb, she traced a slow, trembling circle around the taut nipple before caution could stay it.
A gasp escaped Darcy’s lips. The pleasure was a bright, sharp point, startling in its intensity.
Emboldened, she pinched the sensitive bud, rolling it between thumb and forefinger.
A bolt of exquisite pleasure arced into the mysterious ache between her thighs.
Her hips lifted involuntarily against the mattress, seeking more of that startling friction.
She threw the nightgown off entirely, lying back against the pillows, a faint sheen of perspiration warming her skin.
Her hand, no longer a stranger, began a slow, exploratory journey down her body.
Over the hollow of her throat, the soft swell of her belly, her fingers tracing the delicate architecture of her own ribs.
Every inch of her seemed newly alive, attuned to the lightest brush of her fingers.
When her hand reached the thatch of dark curls at the apex of her thighs, she hesitated. This was the heart of the mystery, the source of the feverish ache that had kept her awake for the last few hours thinking of him.
Sebastian.
Merely thinking his name evoked a slow, simmering fire that licked at her insides. Darcy bit her lower lip and slid her fingers between her folds. Her most intimate flesh felt swollen, hot, and impossibly sensitive. She parted her legs, the movement wanton and wicked, yet utterly irresistible.
Darcy stroked the slick, delicate folds, already wet with her own desire.
The sensation was unlike anything she had ever imagined.
Her sex was astonishingly soft and intimately warm.
She explored the terrain with a trembling index finger, tracing the contours, learning the landscape of her own pleasure.
When her fingertip grazed a small, exquisitely sensitive bud nestled above her folds, a cry escaped her.
It was a raw, broken sound in the quiet room.
What shocked her most of all was the name that rose unbidden to her lips.
“Sebastian,” Darcy whispered again, her fingers gliding over that sensitive nub once more.
The feeling was overwhelming, far more potent than the pleasure at her breast. It was a spark that threatened to consume her.
She pressed harder, her finger circling the sensitive bud with slow, circling strokes.
Her mind, which had been a whirl of mortification and propriety, emptied of all coherent thought.
There was only sensation, gathering pressure, and the reckless freedom of surrendering to both.
Her breath shuddered. The sensations deepened.
It was no longer merely her own touch she felt, but something shaped by memory and desire, as though Sebastian’s fingers moved upon her and his nearness enclosed her once more.
Darcy turned her face into the pillow, another soft sound escaping her despite herself.
She slid one finger lower and eased it into her slick heat, the sensation of being filled, even by herself, sending a fresh wave of ecstasy through her.
The pressure mounted, winding her body tight as a bowstring.
Darcy’s breath came in ragged, desperate gasps.
The world narrowed to the frantic rhythm of her fingers and the burning knot of tension coiling in her belly.
And then, with a cry that was equal parts shock and surrender, the knot unraveled.
A wave of pleasure more intense than anything she had imagined broke over her Darcy.
Her back arched off the bed, her inner muscles clenching and fluttering around her fingers, in helpless, exquisite spasms that seemed to go on forever.
Slowly, the tremors subsided, leaving her limp and boneless against the damp sheets.
A feeling of profound peace settled over her, chasing away the earlier carnal fever.
She withdrew her hand, regarding the evidence of her pleasure upon her fingers with wonder and a new understanding.
Her body was no longer a mystery entirely beyond her comprehension.
And as she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, the memory of Lord Raine’s mouth against hers did not bring a blush, but a secret, knowing smile.
Dearest brother,
Sebastian’s heart gave a most unwelcome jolt at the intimate salutation from a young girl who, in all but blood, remained a stranger to him. His fingers tightened upon the page. For a moment he considered crushing the letter and reading no further, but he continued.
Thank you for the most wonderful evening at Vauxhall Gardens. I never imagined there could be so much delight in one place. Jane says we must not expect such things often, but I hope we may go again one day. I should very much like to see the British Museum, if you would ever wish to take us.
Your affectionate sister,
Sarah.
Sebastian lowered the letter slowly. The word affectionate lingered in his mind with an insistence he found deeply inconvenient.
He had done nothing to earn such regard.
A single evening’s diversion, a whim born partly of impulse and partly, if he were honest, of curiosity about their elder sister, and the child had bestowed a sister’s affection upon him as though it were the easiest gift in the world.
He folded the letter with measured care and set it aside, though the sense of unease did not leave him.
Children were inconvenient creatures, too earnest and too willing to trust, yet he could still see Sarah’s delight.
The way her eyes had shone. That unguarded happiness had cost him very little to provide.
The recollection discomfited him far more than it ought.
A knock sounded, the door opened, and his butler entered to announce that his man of affairs, Mr. Williams, had called. A short time later, the man was shown into Sebastian’s study, and Sebastian noted the gravity of his expression at once.
“Have you found Peabody?” Sebastian asked without preamble.
“Not as yet,” Williams replied, taking the seat indicated by Sebastian’s silent gesture. “However, I have uncovered sufficient evidence in the papers left behind at his place of business to confirm that your father made a generous provision.”
Something tightened beneath Sebastian’s ribs. “You are quite certain?”
Mr. Williams adjusted his spectacles. “Quite certain, my lord. Your late father made provision of ten thousand pounds for each of the younger daughters.”
“And the eldest?” Sebastian asked.
Williams hesitated, which in itself was answer enough.