I will not apologize for the delay this time because I am certain you are all used to it by this point. I should perhaps apologize for the chapter itself. It still needs some work, yet I am posting it away because if I do not it may drive me mad and it is at least humorous (possibly even when it does not intend to be) and we could all use a laugh right now I think.
I am praying you all are staying healthy and safe and that the worst of your problems is toilet paper rationing.
As always thank you for reading.
23rd December 1811
Dinner
"Are you even listening to me, Elizabeth?" asked Mrs. Vane.
I was not. Mrs. Vane had been going on and on about the same topic since mid-afternoon so I think it excusable that I had stopped listening to her. Around three o'clock.
My attention was fully occupied by the man seated across from me who was distractedly handsome and nearly perfect if one ignored the arrogance and conceit (but he was working on those) and the fact that he did not like sunshine.
"You actually don't like sunshine? I mean, really, sunshine? Who doesn't like sunshine?" I asked rather suddenly. I had certainly just interrupted Mrs. Vane (she had paused her lecture to draw breath) but if I did not on occasion interrupt one of Darcy's aunts in the middle of a monologue I would never speak to him.
Darcy, who was by now accustomed to my outbursts and tendency towards non sequitur, was the only one at the table not to appear confounded. "I do not dislike sunshine, I simply do not relish it," he replied.
His lack of beLizzyment could also possibly be attributed to the fact my questioning was a continuation of the conversation we had been having several hours earlier. After Belinda came bursting into the library (sending Darcy and I toppling off the ottoman onto the floor . . . fortunately no ripped bodices this time) to announce the end to our internment, we decided we should probably have a proper conversation. We remained there for the rest of the morning discussing books, and music and our childhoods and all manner of trivialities until we were interrupted by the arrival of Lady Catherine.
During this pleasant interlude I had discovered the answers to several of my previous questions about Darcy (Eton, Boodles just in case you wanted to know) but she had interrupted just as we got to my question about sunshine.
"How is that possible?"
"I do not feel it has any advantage over gloomy skies. As long as there is an absence of rain one can engage in all the same activities without the discomfort of the glare of the sun in one's eyes," replied Darcy.
I was right all along he is mad. Utterly mad.
"What about kittens?"
"What?" Ah, there is the beLizzyment.
"Elizabeth, can you please stop being absurd?" this question was posed by Mrs. Vane who had overcome her confusion and was attempting to take charge once more.
"Kittens—your opinions—now—tell me," I said, not taking my eyes off Darcy.
"When I was a child I did a bit of study into the mammalian species. I never discovered much to interest me about felines and other Eutheria, but I must admit Metatheria are fascinating if one is interested in that sort of thing," Dora said with a haughty sniff as if to indicate the love of mammalians should be left firmly in childhood.
"And Darcy what is your opinion on the matter?" I asked.
"I do not see how this is relevant," interjected Mrs. Vane.
"I like kittens," was Darcy's much awaited answer.
"To cuddle or to eat?"
"Elizabeth, really," chided Mrs. Vane.
"It is a necessary distinction to make. The man doesn't like sunshine, that is odd and a touch sinister frankly. Who knows what other strange proclivities he might be concealing."
"I have no objection to sunshine and I like kittens. To cuddle," said Darcy with a grin.
"We must discuss Lady Whisperton," cried Mrs. Vane.
Yes, Lady Whisperton again.
Lady Catherine interrupted our afternoon to bring us the latest copy of Lady Whisperton's Society Pages. She thought Darcy and I would want to know that we once again were featured in the gossip rag (we did not). She also wanted to give me an opportunity to apologize for all I put her through by . . . I don't know . . . existing, I suppose (I did not). During her seemingly endless tirade she threatened several times to return for dinner (blessedly, she did not).
"I do not wish to discuss it anymore. It really doesn't matter," I said breezily.
Mrs. Vane would not be put off, she said, "Of course it matters. Someone in this house is a spy."
"We do not know that it must be anyone in this house," I said with more conviction than I felt.
The Lady Whisperton column contained the sort of dross one might expect: a replay of Darcy and I's very public disagreement at Mrs. Hamilton's ball. What was unexpected was Lady Whisperton's familiarity with the particulars of the dispute, that it was about Jane and Mr. Bingley not Sir Sebastian Seymour as everyone could have easily assumed, and not only had the tiff occurred in the ballroom but it had continued at home resulting in an estrangement of some duration. These were things only someone in the household should know.
"Of course it is someone in the house! Oh for heaven's sake, could someone please pass me the potatoes. This is chaos" added Mrs. Vane as she surveyed the table with a flustered expression.
I had finally altered the way dinner was served. I had requested the meal to be all laid out at once, no more of this carrying in each course nonsense. It was much less trouble for the servants and created a cozier, private family atmosphere for the five of us. Jane was dining with the Bingleys this evening. I suspect Darcy's visit to Mr. Bingley this afternoon had prompted the invitation.
"I thought you would appreciate not having servants lurking during our private conversation," I said, hoping to stifle any further critical remarks from Mrs. Vane.
"That is true," she conceded with ill grace. "But it is so unrefined, and without proper courses one does not know when to transition between topics of conversation."
I must have appeared as confused as I felt by her statement because Darcy explained, "Traditionally we adhere to a conversational schedule of sorts at dinner."
Well, that was not at all enlightening.
"First, we would discuss art. Then music—" Georgiana began but she was quickly interrupted by her aunt.
"After that we would talk about significant events—not gossip of course, and not politics—conversation must be kept polite."
"Even when you are just among family?"
"Of course," replied Mrs. Vane seeming shocked I had even asked such a question, "Who deserves your courtesy more than family?"
I studied her face for a hint of irony but detected none. I must either deduce she does not consider me family or her definition of courtesy is very different than mine.
"And you were only allowed to discuss the assigned topic without deviation?" I asked. I was still shocked at the idea of such careful management though I should not have been. The stories Darcy had told me this morning revealed he'd had a rather structured childhood. A happy childhood to be sure, but it bore no resemblance to the untutored wildness of my upbringing.
"Allowed? You make it sound grim when you word it thusly. I think conversation is so much pleasanter when all the participants know how to proceed. It keeps everything so organized. The way a Darcy household ought to be," said Mrs. Vane.
"I must agree. Very sensible, indeed. There are things that can be said over the fish that would be positively unseemly over the cheese course," I said, endeavoring to hold back laughter. One must be courteous to family after all.
Sensing my struggle, Darcy said, "Do try not to laugh, my dear. Laughing is strictly for dessert."
"I have a terrible feeling you are not jesting," I said.
"I would not dare."
"Because jokes are for pudding?"
Georgiana interjected, "And riddles. Papa always came up with the best riddles."
"So your father carried on this tradition in your house as well?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, he was as enamored with order and propriety as any Darcy before him," Darcy replied, "And after him. I am not certain if such correctitude is a failing or a virtue."
"A virtue in most cases I should think. And when it is a failing it is the sort of virtuous failing people are apt to excuse."
"Excuse, perhaps, but not like," said Darcy.
"Does propriety need approval? I thought the practice of it was a reward in itself. Those who exercise it are not spoiled on levity, it must give one a greater appreciation for dessert," I teased.
"Indeed," Darcy said in a manner which made me think he was implying something beyond mere agreement of my assertion. Also he was looking at me in a way that was decidedly indecent.
Mrs. Vane must have agreed for she cleared her throat noisily and said, "I see you two have decided to like each other. I suppose that is sensible, though it would be preferable if you were less obvious about it."
"I do not mind their obviousness. I am glad to see my brother so happy," chimed Georgiana.
"As am I. But the way you are looking at her is improper, Fitzwilliam, do stop it. And will someone pass me the potatoes sometime before I wither away of starvation?"
Evening
I am going to visit him.
I have come to the conclusion that after enough preface I might find bayoneting a perfectly acceptable culmination to an otherwise delightful interlude.
So I am going to visit him. Darcy, that is. In his bed chamber. Tonight.
Just as soon as I find my courage.
Not that I am frightened. Not exactly. It is just a rather decisive step. Once we take that step we can never again claim to be indifferent acquaintances. Then again perhaps the marriage thing already put paid to that.
His chambers have gone silent. If I am going to go through with this I must do it now before he falls asleep.
I approached the door and considered my options. Should I knock? Yes, of course I should knock. He could be doing anything. He could be undressed! I tapped tentatively at the adjoining door. It was the meekest knock in the history of knocks but if I had hoped Darcy would not hear me I was sadly disappointed for not a moment after I had ceased tapping I heard, "Enter."
I entered. Standing in the door way I squinted into the shadows, my candle provided just enough light to discern the outline of the four-poster and nothing else.
"Good evening," I said to the darkness.
"Good evening," the darkness, presumably Darcy, spoke back.
I took one step into the room, then halted.
"Have you come to smother me?" he asked his voice rich with amusement.
"No," I replied, taking another step, "I've decided I can forgive the sunshine thing."
"Very tolerant of you."
Another forward step and I was close enough to see him. I felt my face flame as I observed him. I do not know why I should react with such bashfulness. It is nothing I have not seen before. I glanced away with a nonchalant air. I could certainly be in the presence of Darcy's bare-chested glory without ogling.
Certainly.
I drew a fortifying breath. If the exhale sounded very much like a longing sigh it was not my fault. "Good evening," I repeated, because why say something only once when you can make yourself look like a fool by saying it twice?
"I certainly hope it will be."
Devilish rogue. What reply could I possibly make to such a statement?
Before I lost my bravery I extinguished my light. I placed the candlestick carefully on the floor then threw off my dressing gown in one quick motion.
All right. Now for the difficult part.
"Mind where you place your knee," warned Darcy as I attempted to join him on the bed.
"Sorry," I squeaked before I lost balance and collapsed atop him. Immediately I scrambled off of him, rolling away to the far edge of the bed.
"You're naked!"
With his usual dry tone he replied, "You will forgive me for noticing, but so are you."
"Yes, but I do not sleep in the nude. I thought you were wearing trousers!" It was merely the bedclothes that guarded his last vestige of modesty. If he could be said to have modesty.
"Why would I wear trousers to bed? I have night shirts. I do not like them. I find they bunch beneath one in bed. And, as I usually do not have company, I see no point in enduring the discomfort. Would you like me to put one on?"
"No, it would be counterproductive."
"A most sensible conclusion."
"Do not mock me, Mr. Darcy."
"Why ever not? I thought that was what you wanted. On our wedding night you said you wanted me to tease you."
I knew perfectly well I was being a ninny. But no one wants their foolishness pointed out to them even if they are aware of it. I held my silence as punishment for his lack of chivalry.
"There is no need for us to do this now if you are frightened," said Darcy cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
"I am not at all frightened," I replied in my best attempt to avoid the matter entirely.
"Then why are you trembling?"
"I'm cold," I said defiantly.
"If that is the case . . . ." he let his words trail off, dripping promise as they lingered in the darkness. "I must keep you warm." Suddenly he seized me, pulling me flush against his glorious body, all heat and masculine hardness. It was a little overwhelming to say the least.
When I could again form words I said, "You, sir, are a scoundrel."
"I am, but you are not at all frightened."
"I am not." I had spoken in a show of bravado, but I realized my words were the truth.
Darcy too must have recognized the veracity of my reply for his lips found mine with all due haste.
I believe I have mentioned the tongue thing. It is really quite remarkable. This morning before we were interrupted I think I had just enough time to master it myself though I had by no means grown tired of practicing.
Whilst I was distracted by his kisses, Darcy shifted our positions in one quick, efficient maneuver. I found myself pinioned beneath him, my wrists held by his strong hands, my legs parted by his thighs, were spread wide and fixed to the mattress. This arrangement was perhaps a little shocking, but I was not at all displeased with it. His weight was not upon me, I could easily draw breath, yet I was panting all the same.
My eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness, the light from the fireplace gave the room that infuriating quality of the gloaming, some features took precedence and everything else became a gloomy blur. I could see Darcy in profile, I could make out that satirical brow, the aristocratic nose, those perfect lips. I could have counted his eyelashes had I wished to, but I could not discern the look in his eyes.
How much of me could he see? Why was he keeping me in suspense?
I wanted him to touch me. I had become intensely aware of my own topography, certain peaks and clefts wanted his attention most acutely.
He shifted slightly and his battle-ready weapon pressed right there. I released a little sigh of pleasure which Darcy mistook for a gasp of fear.
"There will be plenty of preliminaries. Do not be frightened, my dear."
"It is called preface. And I am not frightened," I corrected primly.
"Does anything frighten you?"
"No, nothing at all."
"Might I light a candle, then? To see you properly," I could hear that teasing note in his voice again. He knew I was still too much a coward to accept his challenge.
"That is out of the question."
He put his lips tenderly to mine. Once he broke the kiss he was back to taunting me. He whispered, "So fearless."
Then he dipped his head, grazing his mouth across the column of my neck, finally arriving at his goal he flicked his tongue over the tip of my right breast, circling that sensitive peak once—twice—no more.
This time he could not misinterpret the meaning of my sharp intake of breath. "Do it again," I commanded.
"Do what again?" he asked with mock innocence.
"Do it again or I will be very cross with you."
He chuckled.
"Sorry, I cannot seem to find my way back in the dark," he said, whispering his words against my ear in the most tempting manner.
"Darcy," I begged, I was quite beyond pride.
Now he gave his attentions to my left breast, sucking and gently biting on the tip, driving me to the brink of ecstasy.
But it wasn't enough.
I knew what I needed. I was sorely tempted to give myself over to wantonness and press my yearnful cleft against his hardness, but then he would know my terrible secret.
Releasing my wrists, Darcy shifted to one side.
One of his hands traveled up my thigh and for one hopeful moment I thought he might already know my most intimate desire but no, I was wrong, he had only the vaguest inclination of what my secret might be. His hand continued its journey, fingertips casually passing over where they ought to have stayed.
There was really nothing for it.
Grabbing his hand I led it back to my need, then I did my best to show him what was required of him. Fortunately Darcy caught on quickly.
"Like this?"
My affirmative reply came out as a moan.
"It is even better than when I do it myself. I thought it might be, it is wonderful to know I was right," I babbled breathlessly. As soon as I had spoken I knew I ought to have kept my mouth shut.
"You do this to yourself?" Darcy asked. He did not halt his ministrations (thank goodness) but there was a hint of amusement in his tone I could not like. It probably wasn't a lady-like thing to give oneself such pleasure, but it caused no harm and I quite enjoyed it and now that the secret was out I refused to be embarrassed by it.
"I am twenty years old, Darcy, you did not think I could have lived so long without exploring my Garden of Delight, did you?"
Now he did stop his attentions. "Pardon, your what?"
"Garden of Delight," I repeated reluctantly, knowing it would only cause him further amusement. "You are laughing," I accused.
"I am not, I have not made a sound."
"You are laughing in your head and I can hear it."
"You read minds now?"
"Just yours."
"Well, that is terrifying," he said.
He returned to his task and for several moments my labored breathing was the only sound in the room.
"When you are exploring your Garden of— " Darcy began, then laughed, "I cannot even say it."
"It is not that amusing," I said with undisguised annoyance. If the man wasn't going to bring me to ecstasy the very least he could do was not amuse himself at my expense.
"Mama calls it a fertile valley," I added just so he would know there were more ridiculous things it could be called.
"Garden of Delight is certainly superior," Darcy agreed, but I could hear the sarcasm. "When you are pleasuring yourself do you think of me?" he asked finally.
I answered, perhaps too vehemently, "Of course not!"
Darcy paused. His silence seemed a bit sullen.
"Do you think of me?" I asked because now I had to say something . . . and I did wish to know. "When you—whet your weapon?"
He chuckled at my wording but did not answer immediately.
This silence was excruciating. What if he doesn't pleasure himself? What if I am some sort of lustful monstrosity?
"Yes, I think of you," he said at long last. "When you arrived at Netherfield to see Jane looking like a woman undone with your hair wild and your eyes bright I knew I had underestimated the power of your beauty. I thought of you that night. I had not spent so quickly since I was a green lad. I have thought of you every night since and I fear my desire for you is the sort that will drive me closer and closer to madness until I can finally be inside of you."
Well, then.
"Oh," I said because that was all I could manage.
"Yes, oh," said Darcy with a self-depreciating laugh. Perhaps he thought he had revealed too much however I was most gratified to hear his words. They left my my throat dry, but other more southerly locations decidedly wet. Wetter.
"Oh," I repeated as he nuzzled my breasts with his mouth. "Ohhh,"as his hand once again found the center of my need.
"If not of me, what—whom do you think of?" he asked, slipping one clever finger inside my sodden passage.
After a long, distracted pause during which another finger joined in the exquisite torture, I answered, "I think only of how very pleasant it feels."
"How delightfully innocent," Darcy replied. And then he did something completely indecent.
Had it occurred to me to stop him I still would not have for as shocking as the idea of it was, I had a strong suspicion it might feel wonderful.
I was right. I usually am.
Darcy kissed his way down my body. Then he did the thing with his tongue. There. He kept at it. He did it with the determined proficiency with which he did everything. I had never admired that quality in him as much as I did in that moment.
After a while his dedication paid off and for about a half a minute I died. It was glorious. Angels sang and everything. Every climax I had ever brought myself to had been polite by comparison. This rapture had left me a panting, shuddering mess.
Whilst I recovered my husband returned to his earlier position, pinning me to the bed. This time he clasped my hands in his own. I felt his breath, warm against my cheek, I was vaguely aware as he positioned himself at my entrance.
"That was—" I began, but I got no further in my praise, instead I shouted, "Bloody hell!"
"Forgive me, I thought it might be less painful if the ingress was completed quickly."
"I hate you. No I don't. No I definitely hate you. No, I don't. It doesn't hurt, but it is a near thing. It just feels like too much," I said as I adjusted to his hasty invasion.
"Should I retreat?"
"No!" I cried. I threw one leg around his hips to stop him. "Oh, that feels quite good actually." I writhed a bit testing the sensation. "Isn't that remarkable? I thought it would be awful."
"Yes, it is all very remarkable," he sounded as though he were under great strain. "May I—could I possibly—proceed?"
He was fortunate my lust outweighed my impish compulsions, instead of torturing him further I said, "Oh yes, do."
I thought it would be dreadful. I thought I would tear in two. But it wasn't and I didn't.
He moved inside of me hesitantly at first, but his vigor increased as I cried out begging for more without really knowing what I was asking for.
Just as I began to feel I could endure no more pleasure, I perished again, dying that lovely impermanent death only overwhelming ecstasy could bring.
