In Want of a Wife
By S. Faith, © 2011
Words: 82,705 (in 14 chapters + Epilogue) / This part: 5,580
Rating: T / PG-13 (some chapters a stronger T than others—this would be one of them)
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.: See Chapter 1.
Special Note: In period, a boudoir is a lady's private room, the equivalent of a gentleman's study or library. It is where she would have received friends and spent time alone writing letters. It is not a bedroom as we think of it today.
Chapter 13: In which patience's rewards are bestowed.
Sunday, 28 August
Darcy had had many imaginings of what Bridget would look like beneath her various dresses; lying there in repose dressed in a nightgown of pale rose silk, he realised his mind's eye had done her no justice. He watched the bumps raise on her skin as the cooler air of the room met it, heard and saw her shiver. In response he moved closer to her, put his arms around her, holding her close.
"I shall keep you warm," he murmured, running his hand over the soft skin from her shoulder clear down to her wrist. She sighed, turned her head, and placed her lips on his.
Now that there were no societal reasons keeping them from physical intimacy, the only restraints he faced were his own; he vowed not to be selfish or to do anything that might alarm her. He returned her kiss—as chaste as the first one they had shared—then raised his hand to run his fingers through the length of her hair, which was unbound and free around her shoulders, as golden as any halo could be. He then coaxed her lips apart, which, to his delight, did not need much coaxing; then he was taken off his guard when she initiated a deeper, more passionate kiss, her breath turning ragged as she leaned into him. Her hand clasped on his shoulder not to push him away but to pull herself to him.
Darcy had rein over some of his actions, but not of others; thus the inevitable physical reaction to the kiss, the feel of her skin under his fingers, the warmth of her against him, began to build.
"May I touch you?" he breathed, breaking from their kiss, trailing his hand up her arm to her shoulder.
"But you are already touching—" she began; when his hand continued down, when the backs of his fingers brushed along her breast, she stopped short. "Oh," she said, her lids fluttering. "You may certainly, yes."
He turned his hand to cup her generous bosom in his hand as he kissed her again. As his thumb ran over her hardened nipple he heard her make a little whimper.
"Not too much?" he asked, and prayed dearly it was not.
She placed her hand atop his; there was a moment where he feared she might tear it away, but she only stroked the skin. "Not at all," she whispered, then kissed him again.
He put an arm around her waist, splayed a hand on her back as his free hand went to her leg. He felt her stiffen a little before relaxing under the caresses his fingertips worked.
With his encouragement she laid back onto the copious pillows; he brought his lips to her cheek, chin, jaw then throat, taking the lower lobe of her ear between his teeth, eliciting a shudder from her.
"Darling," he said, breath hot on her neck as his fingers reached for the lower hem of her silken nightgown, already ridden up by virtue of their shifting on the bed. He then slid a hand up along her thigh and when he did, she made an unbelievably sensual sound low in her throat.
He would not be able to wait much longer to have her.
"Darling," he said again, lifting the edge up until he saw her bare hip.
"Mark," she said tremulously, halting his hand with her own.
"What is it?" he asked, plying her with tender kisses to her lips.
"I am afraid."
"I will not lie to you and say with certainty this will not hurt," he said tenderly. "If you would prefer to… wait… we do not need to—"
"We do," she said. "It is my duty as your wife."
He met her eyes, then leaned in again. "I would hope," he said, kissing one corner of her mouth, "it will be more"—he paused to kiss the other corner—"than just a duty."
He felt her nails in his hair. "I trust you and love you."
With that said he lifted the gown from her and off of her, revealing her soft, curvy, alabaster body, nearly overwhelming his sensibility. He wished to ensure she was ready for the act itself. "May I touch you again?" he asked in a throaty tone, running his fingers over her hip, admiring the slight curve of her belly.
"Before when you asked and I agreed," she said in a shaky whisper, "I enjoyed it, so you should take further consent as read."
Explicit permission granted, he ran his fingers down over her abdomen and further below still. She cried out, not in pain but in a mixture of surprise and pleasure at the pressure there. He was glad to hear such encouragement, and equally glad to have confirmation that he did not need to wait further.
He sat up enough to push the dressing gown off of himself, and as he did he realised he had perhaps deprived her of her own exploration, if her curious look was anything by which to judge.
"I have tended to male infants, but…" she began, drifting off.
At this his own modesty caused him to flush with heat; he was not used to being observed with such scrutiny and intensity while wearing nothing at all. He was grateful for the concealment of his blush offered him by the dimness of the room. "Trust me, darling," he said softly.
He bent down over her, resting on his elbow. She raised her hand to stroke his face with the backs of her fingers. He then leaned in to kiss her, no hesitation now in reclaiming his fervour. She brought her arms up and around his neck and met his kiss with equal ardour; he was pleased enough, aroused enough, simply in pleasing her. He raked his blunted fingernails up the back of her thigh to encourage her to raise her knee, which she did.
Slowly, patiently, with his gentle encouragement, they achieved the connexion desired, and though she shed tears at the loss of her maidenhood, she did offer enough vocalisations to suggest she did not merely tolerate the activity. Though he moderated the force of his thrust somewhat so not to hurt her unduly, the entire endeavour was beyond satisfactory to him; his pent up desire for her was enough for him to reach culmination quickly, moaning aloud as he did. Upon conclusion, he fell to his side on the bed, then gathered her up into his arms to hold her tight and pulled the linens over them to keep them warm.
There was no sound for many minutes except for his panting in counterpoint to her own breathing. He cupped her face in his hand, wiping her tears away, then kissed her.
"You are all right, I hope?" he asked.
She nodded. To him, she seemed a little stunned. "Did I do well?"
"More than well," he said, then held her close, her bare chest pressed to his, their limbs entwined. He fought the call of slumber.
"I must say I am perplexed."
He lifted his lids, looking to her; it was not at all what he would have expected to hear. "Why do you say that?"
"I was only told to trust you," she said, "and do my duty."
He waited for more, remembering what she had said earlier.
"When I think of duty," she continued, "I think of something dreadful and dull and unpleasant that one is compelled to do." She looked pensive. "But I never understood why, if it were so unpleasant, so many ladies were willing to throw themselves at the likes of Byron."
He chuckled—he could not help himself—then tightened his embrace. "I should hope that means you do not find it dreadful, dull or unpleasant."
She sighed, placing a kiss upon his shoulder. "I confess I do not."
"So you are perplexed by what, then?"
"Why it would be made to sound so like a chore," she said.
At this he laughed. "Perhaps for those who marry for convenience it is, but not for those who marry for love." He paused, stroking her shoulder. "Byron did not know the half of love," he said, "if love is what you and I have, and I have no reason to believe we do not." As he said this, she snuggled against his throat, he kissed the crown of her head, combing through her hair with his fingers. "'Can I forget—canst thou forget,'" he murmured, quoting that poet, "'When playing with thy golden hair, / How quick thy fluttering heart did move?'"
He heard her laugh lightly and sigh once more. "Oh, but he comes close."
He agreed quietly, though qualified it with a, "Not close enough."
With that she sighed yet again and settled against him, their breathing practically in unison; he thought she might have drifted to sleep and was tempted to do so himself when she spoke again.
"I do not suppose…" She trailed off. "Never mind. You could not know."
His interest was piqued. "Ask me."
She pushed herself up to look into his eyes. "It cannot be that it will hurt every time, unless this is the aspect of duty to which my mother referred. Oh," she said sadly. "That must be it."
He took her face in his hand. "As I understand it," he said, "it will never hurt again as much, and maybe only once more or twice."
She seemed somewhat consoled, though asked, "As much?"
"Yes," he said, wondering how to put it delicately. "There was some… resistance. That should not occur again; therefore, less pain."
She appeared to be considering his words. "That does not happen every time?"
"If it did, you would have extremely unique healing capabilities."
Blinking thoughtfully, she then asked, "May we try it again?"
He chuckled again. "It may still hurt a little so soon after the first time," he explained. "It is probably best that we wait."
She seemed relieved yet at the same time equally disappointed. It was very like her to show enthusiasm for an activity once initial trepidation had worn off. "All right," she said, resting her head down upon his shoulder again, her hand on his chest. With her settled in and comfortable, she soon was truly sleeping, and then he allowed himself to succumb to slumber too, satiated in body and spirit, happier beyond his wildest dreams.
Monday, 29 August
It came as no surprise that Darcy slept particularly soundly that night; in fact, he slept so soundly that he went well beyond his usual time of awakening (in part because he asked that he and his new bride not be disturbed until they requested). When he did finally rouse it was to a most curious sight: propped up on a pillow beside him was Bridget, looking at him with great interest, wisps of hair framing her face.
He regarded her regarding him for just a moment before he said, "What are you doing?"
"Watching you whilst you sleep. Oh! Did my watching cause you to wake?"
He chuckled, turning over to face her. "Nothing would surprise me." He saw that she wore a nightgown, different than the one of her marriage bed and made of soft cotton. She smelled pleasantly of lavender soap, and her hair was braided and rested on her shoulder. "Have you been awake for long?"
"Not very long," she said. "My maid came at my request and filled a bath for me; I put on something clean, had a little breakfast, and spent a little time in my boudoir with my daybook."
He raised a brow, thinking back to that time just after he had met her, the rough start to their own acquaintance due to that very daybook, how it had been, according to her, a repository for her thoughts and private amusements.
"Do not worry," she said. "I have not been indiscreet. A lady's wedding day, however, deserves a little commemoration."
He smiled drowsily. "I trust you slept well?"
She nodded. "The bed is very comfortable," she said. As an afterthought, it seemed, she added, "It was very strange to have another's breathing just next to me."
He was overcome with guilt at the thought that perhaps he had snored or had otherwise kept her from sleeping, and he pushed himself up onto his own elbow. "I am most dreadfully sorry if it bother—"
She placed a finger over his lips, silencing him. "Do not apologise," she said. "It is an adjustment I am pleased to make." She had a playful look in her eye, and the longer their gazes met, the more delightful her smile became. "Among others, I mean."
He leaned towards her just as she leaned too, and he kissed her; that this might be how every morning was spent for the remainder of his years filled his heart with love.
"Do you think it might…" She paused, blushing. "That it might still hurt?"
She did not need to spell out her meaning to him. "How are you this morning?"
"A little sore, but the bath helped greatly."
He gave her another brief kiss. "If you are willing, I would not object in the least." He then gave her a more passionate one.
This morning after their wedding night, he was less impatient and more deliberate in his ministrations, not only treating her to a wealth of caresses, but encouraging her to reciprocate when she was moved to do so. Before too long, he reasoned, they would be so attuned to one another's wants and desires that engaging with one another this way would be as automatic as breathing. It would be like second nature.
When they joined again, she having been divested of her cotton garment by hands eager to touch her bare skin, her utterances spoke more of pleasure than pain. He reached satisfaction and once again collected her to him to hold her, kiss her, caress her. He asked with loving whispers if she was all right, and she affirmed that as he predicted, though it did hurt, the pain was much reduced. She seemed philosophical when she said in a breathy tone, "What we share in this bedroom will never be mere duty." She ran her fingers over the mat of hair on his chest. "It is already as far from a duty as I can conceive."
He buried his nose into her hair, then kissed her there. "I am glad you feel that way."
"I can assure you, I do as well," she said. "Being consigned to a life of mere duty would be an unimaginable torture." Darcy recalled the words spoken by her father so long ago; how right he had been, and how well he had known his daughter, to want her to wed for love, to wish only for her happiness. She sighed, and it was a joyous sound to hear. "To think I might have missed this all but for the foolish impulse of infatuation."
Bridget must have been referring to her ill-fated elopement; he too was grateful for intervening. The mere mention of the event made him think of Cleaver, though, which made him wonder what liberties he might have taken. She had not been coerced into the ultimate act of intimacy, that much had been apparent to him in the tears she had shed and the pain she had expressed in their bed the night before, but had Cleaver kissed her the way he himself had?
"Mark?" she asked. "What is the matter?"
He had tensed up at the mere thought. "It is nothing at all," he said. "Just foolishness on my part."
"I wish to hear, whatever it is."
"I do not think you wish to hear this."
"Why ever not?"
"Because it is about—" It was too late. He had to finish the sentence. "It is about you."
"Me?" she asked, impishness in her voice. "Well, now I must insist you tell me."
"Your… infatuation," he said.
"My…" Her tone became instantly solemn. "You believe you were not the first—"
"Of course I was," he said gently. "Every evidence tells me that was so and I do not doubt it for a moment." He sighed, hastening to console this wound to her honour by caressing her face. "Perhaps I was feeling jealous that I… was not the first to kiss you with true passion."
She flushed red from head to toe. "I am embarrassed to admit that a kiss was stolen here and there, but we were not granted the enormous amount of freedom that you and I had at Grafton Manor, and Mr Cleaver… well, he lacked the reverence that you have shown me."
"Was there passion?"
His asking this was, he realised, a mistake.
"You cannot fault me for wanting a kiss from a man I believed I loved," she said, some of her old fire surfacing. "You do not hear me asking how you knew what to do last night. I know it is different for men…" She did not finish. Instead she sat up, drawing the linens to her, facing away from him.
"Bridget," he said tenderly, brushing his fingertips along her bare back before pushing himself up on an elbow. "Please come back to me. I told you it was foolishness. I have you now and I am wholly grateful for it."
She turned her head enough that he saw her in profile. Quietly, so quietly he almost did not hear her, she asked, "Who was she?"
He thought about telling his wife that she, the courtesan who had ushered him into manhood, was no one of significance, but then he thought she might wonder if there was some lost love he yet harboured for another. He had to lay to rest any doubt. "She… was a Cyprian," he began, feeling the flush over his skin at this admission, "a woman whom I consider to have helped to prepare me in the event I met someone I loved and wished to marry, so that I might please her to the best of my ability. That is all there ever was." She turned to look over her shoulder at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth, an expression of uncertainty. He went on. "I have kept no clandestine lovers, have had no affairs of the heart. I did not find that love until I found you."
He saw a tear spill over her lower lid and onto her cheek, heard her sob. "Now I am being foolish," she said.
"No, you were not," he said. "I should not have even given it a thought. Your reaction was justified."
With rapidity she turned to face him again, then lurched forward to embrace him with such force that he fell backwards, she atop him, her queue dangling down and tickling him. She smiled; he did, too. "It was foolish," she said, her spirits quite restored.
"I will declare that I do not mind being anything, even foolish," he said, "as long as it is with you."
With another sweet smile she lowered her head and kissed him, sustaining it as it grew in ardour; he ran his hands over her bare back and down over her bottom, pressing gently, causing her to make a soft sound into his mouth.
He broke away then pushed himself to sit up, guiding her to sit on his lap, her legs around his waist, the linens tangled up around them.
She seemed a little bewildered. "What is this?" she asked.
He ran his hands from her bottom to her hips, then up to the points on her breasts; he had learned quickly that she liked that very well. "Another way to love one another," he said gently. "You might like controlling your own fate in this realm."
"My own fate?"
Instead of trying to explain, he wrapped his arms about her waist and pulled her flush to him, then took her bottom in hand and lifted her up. She took the hint promptly enough and moved so that her knees were supporting her. They kissed again, she from a vantage point slightly over him, and in a very short time it appeared she liked controlling her own fate very much indeed. In fact, with the right amount of digital persuasion and a judicious application of lips, teeth and tongue, he was able to bring her a satisfaction that only he had achieved up until that point in their unions.
"Whoever she was," Bridget whispered after they had settled back into each other's arms, "perhaps I should write her a note of thanks." When she spoke again, he expected more pensive contemplations, not an irreverence that caused him to laugh: "Which reminds me, I owe you a note for the horse-riding lessons."
…
It being a honeymoon, they were forgiven for their very late appearance to luncheon at a time when folks in the country were preparing their supper. Their parting was a reluctant one but inevitable. After tidying up and dressing separately they met downstairs in the drawing room. She was already there, her hair pinned tidily, clothed in a pale blue dress, and she was reading from a book she must have carried along with her from Grafton Underwood. Upon his entrance, she closed it, set it down and looked to him with a radiant smile.
"Have something to eat," she beckoned. "You must be very hungry."
Despite having called earlier for a maid to bring some coffee and fruit, he was indeed hungry, though he had not noticed it before that moment. He took some cold roast and cheese supplemented with a glass of wine. "Have you eaten?"
"I only just arrived before you did and was waiting for you," she said. On his plate he doubled the amount of food, fetched her a glass of lemon water, then sat beside her close enough that their legs touched. He offered her the plate and she took a small piece of meat and cheese, and as she did he could only remark to himself how much more radiant and beautiful she seemed.
As she took a bite she noticed his observation of her and her cheeks turned pink. "I do not know if I will ever get used to this."
"To what?"
"Your attention."
"I pray that you do," he said, "else you will spend the rest of your life blushing in my presence."
She smiled and continued to eat. "You know, I could not help notice that your housekeeper shares a family name with that fellow responsible for unleashing his platitudes and sermons upon the world."
He had never given it thought. "I trust you find her more amenable than the sermons." She seemed reluctant to answer, but he reminded her that they were alone.
"I find her a little intimidating," she admitted. "She does not consider me an interloper into the house she has maintained for so long, does she?"
"Of course not," he responded. "She may need a little time to adjust to the fact that there is a new mistress in the house now, but you will see she is efficient and knowledgeable."
"She is not in charge of me, is she?"
"On the contrary," he said. "She is in charge of many things, but not you. Though for those things for which she is responsible, even I defer to her opinion on most occasions." He grinned. "No, I am the one in charge of you."
She looked up, then with her free hand reached to playfully swat at his knee. In a quiet voice with a small smile, she said, "I feel like I might be the first Bridget in the history to have escaped a nunnery."
Her comment was not one he expected. "What do you mean?"
"Well, there was Saint Brigid, and there was Princess Bridget…"
He chuckled. "I do not think every Bridget there ever was became fated to a nunnery," he said, "not to mention that the Church of England does not employ them."
"Oh. Tiny, insignificant details." She took another bite then after chewing and swallowing she said, "Do we have anything planned for today?"
"Nothing in particular," he replied, though he had expectations of a specific arrival to the house that day. A few moments after they concluded luncheon, one of the maids came to announce that very hoped-for arrival, as if by providence.
Bridget looked to him, shocked. "A delivery cart? Delivery of what?"
He only smiled enigmatically. "I suppose it is not kind of me to ask you where you might like to place it when you have only just arrived here yourself."
She stared at him, rising to her feet as he strode forward to meet the delivery men, who gave Darcy a tip of the hat as he entered the foyer. "Lord Darcy, sir, Mr Ollanton sends his best wishes and congratulations to you on your nuptials," said the lead man. "And, sir, his appreciation. Rarely does he get a second purchase of this nature from the same customer."
"Oh!" He turned to see Bridget standing there, hand over her mouth. Despite the object being draped in cotton and canvas to protect it during transit, there was no mistaking the shape of what had been brought in.
Darcy introduced Bridget as the new Lady Darcy as the men hastily took off their hats and bowed. "Congratulations, Ma'am," said the second one. "You the one what plays?"
"I do, yes," she said with a blush.
"My gift to you on the occasion of our wedding," he said to her. "I did not think carting a harp back and forth between town and country would be very good for the instrument."
The first one spoke again, asking him, "Where would you like this?"
Excitedly she looked to Darcy, who, with a gesture, deferred to her. She said, "The drawing room, I think would be best."
The two men manoeuvred the harp into what she (with consultation of her husband, who was better acquainted with the patterns of sun during the day) thought would be the ideal location; enough light to see the music well by day but indirect so as not to warp the wood with which it was constructed. Once the base was in place and the harp was facing in the correct direction with respect to where she would sit to play it, once the thickly padded seat was placed appropriately, the covering was drawn off of it.
Darcy had not thought it could be possible, but this harp was even more beautiful than the first. He had purchased it sight unseen having charged the shopkeeper with finding it, and he was not disappointed. Also of highly polished walnut, this one had not only fine woodworking but golden inlay decoration vining along the top edge. Bridget approached it and traced her fingers along the top curve, though the height of the harp exceeded her own.
Nine-hundred and ninety eight to go, Darcy mused to himself, thinking back to the promise he had made to himself. Aloud he commended, "Please tell Mr Ollanton he has my thanks for his excellent taste."
Their work complete, the two men withdrew, not that Darcy thought she noticed; she was examining the strings and plucking at them gently to hear them reverberate. "To think I disliked playing once," she said, then turned to him. "I know I am not the greatest of harpists, but it gives me so much pleasure to play knowing it pleases you so well." She strode up to him, got onto her toes, took his face in her hands and gave him a kiss. "Thank you. It is a marvellous gift."
He felt his skin flush with heat. He was not used to such forward displays of affection, even if it were only in his own home. "It benefits us both."
She looked to him with curiosity. "You have turned colour." He explained why. "Oh, I did not mean to embarrass you. I am sorry," she said.
"Please, do not apologise," he said. "You would probably do well to restrain your impulse out on the street, but here, in the privacy of our home, it is I who must apologise for a silly involuntary reaction."
At this she got up on her toes again and kissed him once more. He put his hands on her waist and pulled her close. She broke away with a little giggle, standing down again. "That is not the only involuntary reaction I provoke, I think," she said in a conspiratorial whisper.
He could not protest because she was not wrong. He only chuckled.
She wandered back towards the harp, took a seat on the stool, arranged her skirts around herself and brought her fingers up to sweep across the strings. "'Our home'," she said over the fading notes. "I like the sound of that very much, indeed."
Bridget played; Darcy sat on the sofa content with listening to the dulcet melodies. Before long Mrs Fordyce, in the action of passing through the foyer with some of her friends, appeared tentatively at the threshold; he heard the one called Arabella gasp and whisper, "Perpetua! Who is playing that?" After they listened for a few moments, Darcy could hear his housekeeper offering her version of praise, which pleased him; usually she was a rather gruff woman from whom a compliment rarely or easily came, and even still it was clear that in her choice of words she did not believe Darcy could hear her, a tenor of pride lacing her words: "My master is far too clever to have merely married a beautiful woman who can play an instrument; she is also spirited and pleasantly independently opinionated, and she obviously loves Lord Darcy. She is no silly lapdog, this one." He would happily accept the praise she offered.
Within a few more moments, others from the household staff had gathered at the door to the drawing room, undoubtedly drawn by the sound of the music; Darcy forgave this slight dereliction of duty, chalking it up as a novel fascination with their new mistress. As she finished they applauded respectfully and with sincerity, which surprised Bridget and caused her to flush bright red. She got to her feet and did a curtsey, then as if caught in a gaffe, she stood up straight again, smiled and politely said, "Thank you."
They began to disperse, and Darcy could not help noticing she looked a little overwhelmed. "Do not look so distressed," he said, going to her. "It has only been a day. You are not expected to know everything you need to know already." He gave her a little hug then drew back and said, "How would you like to take a walk, you and I, around our neighbourhood?"
"I find the idea most agreeable," she said, "and upon our return, I should like to engage in a round of billiards."
Indeed, he had married well.
…
Tuesday, 30 August
When they had arrived in London, the tour of the house had indeed been abbreviated; Mrs Fordyce had only showed her the common rooms where she would have had likely occasion to go, and though he had promised her a full tour, he had been too distracted (and understandably so) to give her one. He should have guessed her curiosity about her new home was not fully satisfied, which he discovered the following afternoon. After concluding a small amount of business in his study, during which she said she would write more into her daybook, when he went to find her, she was not present in her boudoir. Curious, he went to her bedroom and to the drawing room; both turned up empty.
Then he realised what else would have drawn her attention: books.
He went to the library and found her not upon a chair with a tome in hand, but instead, standing before the portrait of his father, her expression one of sadness. "He was a very handsome fellow," she murmured, then looked to him. "And a good man." A tear escaped her eye and she quickly reached to brush it away; she clearly was unhappy to have been deprived of a daughter's relationship with his father. He went to her and put his arm around her shoulders.
"He would have loved having you as a daughter," Darcy murmured. "He would have played game after game of billiards with you."
"And probably would have let me won," she said with a sniff and a giggle.
"Probably," he said, "and he would have been glad to do so." After a pause, he added, "In all honesty, I expected you to say that he had played game after game of billiards with you."
She chuckled. "I did not visit Grafton Manor as much when he was still alive," she said, "for which I regret."
"Do not be regretful," he said. "I am sure he is, even now, looking upon us and muttering curses under his breath wishing he could ask you for that game. I am equally sure he is happy beyond measure for me."
For dinner that night he sent instructions to the cook to prepare his father's favourite meal, and over dinner they raised a toast to the man they now could both call 'father'.